#thinking about him collecting things that make him laugh

[gf2bellamy]

hi lovely,

is there a way you could do one where all the members of the bau are talking about relationships (so like rossi talking about his 3 wives etc.) and the reader talks about how toxic her past relationships were and spencer mumbles something like “i could do so much better” and morgan hears it and exposes him? and it mayyybbeee ends with them kissing somewhere that they think is secluded but actually isn’t and everyone sees and becomes really proud of spence for finally making a move? i feel like it would be really cute :)

thank you so so much you’re awesome !!

- 🐚

offer — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of boyfriends forgetting anniversaries and forgetting to text back , a/n: ELE !! this is so so so so old ohmygod i just found this in my drafts </3

“I’ll have you know that I was not the problem in my marriages,” Rossi declared, his tone defensive as he stood next to Emily’s desk.

It was late—far later than any of them should have still been at the office—but for some reason, the entire team had collectively hit a wall of boredom. What had started as chatter had somehow devolved into what could only be described as a group of high schoolers gossiping in the cafeteria.

Derek, leaning back in his chair with that signature smirk plastered across his face, raised an eyebrow. “Three divorces, and you weren’t the problem?” he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Come on, Rossi.”

You couldn’t help but laugh under your breath, the sound barely audible but enough to draw Rossi’s attention.

His eyes landed on you, and he pointed an accusatory finger in your direction. “You seem to be enjoying this a little too much,” he said, his tone offended. “What about you, huh? You’re telling me you’ve only had flawless relationships your entire life?”

You shrugged, leaning back in your chair with a playful grin. “No, but I didn’t have three divorces either,” you shot back, your tone light but teasing.

“Touché,” Rossi said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Garcia, who had been perched on the edge of Spencer’s desk, immediately leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Ooh, gossip! Nice. Tell us,” she said, clapping her hands together. “We need details. Spill the tea!”

You glanced at her, then around the room, suddenly feeling like you were under a microscope. Spencer, who had been quietly flipping through a book at his desk for most of the conversation, finally looked up, his gaze flickering toward you with mild interest.

You hesitated, feeling a little put on the spot.

“There’s nothing to tell,” you said, shrugging your shoulders in an attempt to downplay it. “Just, you know… the usual. Missing anniversaries. Forgetting Valentine’s Day. Not texting back. That kind of stuff.”

“The usual?!” Garcia exclaimed, her voice rising an octave as she leaned forward, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Honey, no. That’s not ‘the usual.’ That’s just… bad boyfriend behavior.”

You glanced at her, shrugging half-heartedly as you tapped your fingers on the table. “I guess so,” you said, your tone nonchalant but your cheeks warming.

The last thing you wanted was for this to turn into a full-blown interrogation about your love life—or lack thereof.

But before you could steer the conversation elsewhere, Derek suddenly chimed in.

“Reid,” he said, drawing out the name like he’d just stumbled upon the juiciest piece of gossip. A smirk was already spreading across his face, and you didn’t like the look of it one bit.

Your eyes darted between Derek and Spencer.

Spencer froze, his head snapping up like a deer caught in headlights. His face turned an impressive shade of red, and he shot Derek a desperate look that screamed, Don’t you dare.

Derek, of course, ignored him entirely. “Aww, pretty boy over here just mumbled that he could do so much better than your old boyfriends,” he announced, his smirk widening.

The room fell silent for a beat, everyone’s attention shifting to Spencer, who looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

You stared at him, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise, while Garcia let out an audible gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. Even Rossi raised an eyebrow.

Spencer, for his part, looked like he was having an internal crisis. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. “I—” he started, his voice barely above a whisper, before trailing off entirely.

His face was now so red it practically matched the color of Garcia’s latest neon headband.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Spencer,” you said, your tone teasing but gentle, “did you really say that?”

He glanced at you, his eyes wide and panicked, before quickly looking away. “I—I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammered, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his book. “I just meant that… that you deserve someone who… who…” He trailed off again, clearly flustered, and you could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to find a way to dig himself out of this hole.

Derek, of course, wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily. “Oh, he meant it,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “Pretty boy’s got a crush.”

The room erupted into laughter. Spencer, meanwhile, looked like he was seriously considering fleeing the building.

His face was practically glowing at this point, and he was avoiding eye contact with everyone—especially you.

You, on the other hand, were torn between amusement and something else—something warm and fluttery that you weren’t quite ready to examine too closely.

“Well,” you said, your tone light but your cheeks feeling suspiciously warm, “I guess I’ll have to hold you to that, Spencer.”

He glanced at you again. “I—uh—” he started, but before he could say anything else, Rossi clapped his hands together, effectively cutting off the conversation.

“Alright, alright,” Rossi said, his tone amused. “Let’s give the kid a break before he spontaneously combusts. Coffee run, anyone?”

The team agreed, wanting a reason to leave the office, as everyone began gathering their things.

You stayed seated for a moment, your eyes lingering on Spencer, who was still looking thoroughly mortified. But as you watched him, you couldn’t help but smile.

As the rest of the team filed out of the room, chattering and laughing as they headed for the elevators, Spencer remained at his desk, his head down as he shuffled papers and books into his bag.

He was so caught up in his embarrassment that he didn’t seem to notice anything around him—including the fact that you were still sitting there, watching him.

When he finally looked up and saw you, he flinched slightly, as if he hadn’t realized you were still in the room. His eyes widened for a moment before he quickly looked away, his cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of red.

Without a word, he stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and made a beeline for the door, clearly eager to escape.

You stayed seated for a moment longer, your pen clicking absently against the table as you watched him go.

He paused briefly at the door, his hand on the frame, and muttered a small, barely audible “Bye” without meeting your eyes.

That was when you decided to follow him.

Grabbing your bag, you jumped up from your chair, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the now-empty bullpen. “Spence, hold on!” you called out, your voice carrying down the hallway.

Spencer's hand instinctively reached out to stop the elevator doors from closing as they began to slide shut. He held them open, as he waited for you to catch up.

You reached the elevator just as the doors started to ding in protest, and you slipped inside with a breathless “Thanks.” Spencer nodded, his cheeks still tinged with pink, and stepped back to give you space.

“That was nice of you,” you said after a moment, breaking the silence. Your voice was soft, almost tentative, as you glanced at him. “What you said back there.” You paused, your fingers nervously twisting the strap of your bag. “If you meant it,” you added, your tone unsure.

Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared at the elevator buttons, his fingers fidgeting with the strap of his satchel. The silence stretched between you and for a moment, you wondered if you’d made a mistake bringing it up. But then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke.

“I did,” he said, his voice quiet. He turned to look at you, his hazel eyes meeting yours. “I meant it.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “Okay. Good,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

You realized that neither of you had pressed the button for your floor. The elevator hadn’t moved.

Spencer seemed to notice it at the same time you did. He hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward, his arm reaching past you to press the button for his floor. His movement brought him closer—close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, close enough that your breath mingled in the small space between you.

For a moment, he didn’t pull back. Instead, he stayed there, his face inches from yours, his eyes searching yours as if he were trying to find the courage to say something—or do something.

Your heart was racing now, your pulse thundering in your ears, and you couldn’t tear your gaze away from his.

“Well,” you said, your voice barely audible, “I’d like to take you up on that offer.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you felt your cheeks flush.

But you didn’t regret it.

Not when Spencer’s eyes softened, not when his breath hitched ever so slightly, not when he leaned in just a fraction closer.

And then, before you could overthink it, before you could second-guess yourself, his hands dropped from the elevator buttons and came up to cradle your face. His touch was gentle, his thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks as he tilted your head up to meet his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if he were afraid you might pull away. His lips brushed against yours, warm and hesitant, and you felt a shiver run down your spine.

But then, as if he could sense your response—the way your hands instinctively gripped the front of his sweater, the way you leaned into him—he deepened the kiss, his movements growing more confident.

You melted into him, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his sweater as you kissed him back, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

And then, just as Spencer deepened the kiss again, you heard it—a loud ding, followed by a chorus of gasps.

You froze, your eyes snapping open as you leaned back slightly, turning your head toward the sound.

There, standing in the open elevator doorway, was the entire team. Garcia’s hands were clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock and delight. Derek was grinning like he’d just won the lottery. Emily was trying���and failing—to hide a smirk behind her coffee cup, while Rossi simply raised an eyebrow.

Spencer, however, seemed completely oblivious. His hands were still cradling your face, his eyes still closed, and before you could stop him, he leaned in again, pulling you back into another kiss.

“Spencer,” you mumbled against his lips, your hands pushing lightly against his chest. “Spencer, stop.”

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes still dazed. “What?” he murmured, his voice low and breathless.

You gestured weakly toward the doorway, your face burning. “Uh, we have an audience.”

Spencer blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to realization as he finally followed your gaze. His eyes widened, and he immediately dropped his hands from your face, stepping back so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet.

His cheeks turned a deep, unmistakable shade of red.

“Oh,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Oh no.”

The team, meanwhile, was still staring at the two of you. Garcia was the first to break the silence, clapping her hands together with a squeal. “Oh my god,” she exclaimed, her voice high-pitched with excitement. “This is the best day of my life!”

Derek let out a low whistle, his grin widening. “Well, well, well,” he said, his tone teasing. “Looks like someone finally made a move.”

Emily smirked, taking a sip of her coffee. “About time,” she said, her voice affectionate.

Rossi simply shook his head, though there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Kids these days,” he muttered, though there was no real annoyance in his tone.

You, on the other hand, were torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to disappear into the floor. Your face felt like it was on fire, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at Spencer, who was still standing frozen beside you, his hands awkwardly hanging at his sides.

“Uh,” you said, your voice squeaking slightly, “this isn’t what it looks like?”

Garcia let out a delighted laugh, clapping her hands again. “Oh, honey, it’s exactly what it looks like,” she said, her tone gleeful. “And I am here for it.”

Derek stepped forward, slapping Spencer on the shoulder with a grin. “Nice work, pretty boy,” he said, his tone teasing but not unkind. “Took you long enough.”

Spencer, for his part, looked like he was having an internal crisis. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. Finally, he managed to stammer, “I—uh—we—it’s not—”

He closed his mouth instantly, looking even more mortified, and you finally couldn’t help it—you laughed.

“Well,” Garcia said with a grin, “I think this calls for a celebration.”

“Or,” Spencer muttered, voice still hoarse with embarrassment, “a full-scale relocation and change of identity.”

You turned to him, still grinning, and nudged him lightly. “Sorry, genius,” you teased. “No take-backs.”

Spencer ran a hand through his already messy hair. “Wasn’t considering that,” he mumbled, his eyes flickering down to your lips for the briefest of moments before he seemed to remember that you still had an audience.

He quickly looked away, his cheeks flushing red.

The team, of course, didn’t miss a beat. Derek let out a low whistle, his grin widening. “Oh, he’s gone,” he said, his tone teasing. “Look at him. Absolutely smitten.”

Garcia gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “I’m framing this moment in my mind forever.”

You and Spencer exchanged a look, both of you clearly on the same page: it was time to make an exit.

Without a word, you both started walking down the hallway. The team’s laughter and commentary followed you, their voices carrying down the corridor.

“Don’t think this is over!” Garcia called after you, her tone gleeful. “I expect a full debrief tomorrow!”

Just as you thought you were in the clear, Spencer’s hand reached for yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. You glanced at him, surprised but not unhappy, and he gave you a small, sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice low. “I just… wanted to.”

You smiled back, your heart skipping a beat. “I’m not complaining,” you said, your voice soft.

For a moment, it felt like you were in your own little world, the rest of the BAU and their teasing far behind you. But then, just as you were about to relax, you heard Garcia’s voice echo down the hallway.

“I saw that!” she squealed, her tone triumphant. “Hand-holding! This is happening!”

[azsazz]

Growing Pains

Daddy!Azriel x Mommy!Reader

Summary: Anon Req: Will we ever get more info of how Az was during readers pregnancy with each baby(I really want to see his reaction when he found out you were having a girl for the first time),Just asking ;)))))

AKA: Snippets of Azriel's family growing.

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 3117

_________________________________________

Wren:

“Azriel, I’m fine,” you insist, though your back aches as you try to pick up the kitchen towel that had accidentally fallen to the ground. You have no idea how you’re going to pick it up. You can’t bend over like you used to, not with your full, round belly in the way. “I still have an entire month, and then some.”

Rhys has decided to send your mate on a mission. He’d argued vehemently, asking the High Lord to send one of his spies instead, but Rhys had been adamant Azriel was the one to go. Why, you’re not sure. Azriel hasn’t divulged that information, not wanting to worry you.

What he doesn’t know is that it only worries you more.

“Love, you can’t even pick up the towel,” he argues, sliding around the counter to pluck it from the ground. You sigh, setting your hip on the counter, but it does little to ease your muscles. What you really want to do is sit down and not get up until the babe arrives.

“I don’t need to pick it up,” you argue. “I was just doing it to be nice since I know how tidy you like the house.”

Azriel raises a brow. “So you didn’t need it for anything?”

“No.”

“And what would you have done with it if I weren’t here?” he teases. “Left it on the floor?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “I could’ve just gotten a new one from the linen closet.”

“That,” Azriel steps in front of you, swooping down to peck a soft kiss to your lips. You melt into him immediately, falling into his warm embrace. His hands come to the base of your spine to knead at the tight muscles there and you sigh in pleasure. Those shadows must have told him about your tender back. They can be useful, sometimes. “Sounds like it would’ve been a good idea.”

You hum in response, lost to your mate’s touch. He’s a godsend, this one. The cauldron picked perfectly. “I still don’t need a babysitter.”

“I know,” Azriel soothes. “It will make me feel better about leaving you though, love. I don’t want to worry about you while I’m gone.”

You don’t want that, either. Don’t want him distracted while he’s on a mission.

“Okay,” you give in when he kneads against a particularly tight knot in your spine. Gods, those hands…you could take him right to bed, maybe even convince your mate to give you a full body massage instead. Yes, that would be nice. “Cassian can stay.”

You refuse to move to the House of Wind. You’d rather be comfortable in your own home, especially since you’ve just begun nesting. Hence, the towel on the floor. Weirdly enough, you wanted that very piece for part of your nest because of all of the times you’ve seen it in Azriel’s hands, twisting it aimlessly between his fingers while conversing while he cooks, thrown over his shoulder while he slices and dices fruits and vegetables. Strange, but you haven’t stopped thinking about it since you felt the urge to collect objects from around your home to comfort yourself with.

So, if Azriel wants you to have a babysitter while he’s gone, the babysitter can join you here.

“Cassian’s going to have the best time rubbing my feet and making me breakfast,” you smile, thinking of all of the things you know you can get your mates best friend to do for you. You know he’ll do it without compliant, because he’s secretly trying to get you to name your first born after him.

Not happening.

“Give him hell, love.”

Basil:

“He wants cake, the baby wants cake,” you defend, stuffing another bite of cake into your mouth. “The baby wants the cake.”

Azriel huffs a laugh, more than amused at your sweet tooth during your second pregnancy. It’s been difficult to get you to eat anything that isn’t coated in chocolate or pumped full of sugar.

Wren, nearing a year old, giggles in his father’s lap. He reaches his hand across the table to your plate, eager to share in the sugary goodness. You lick the icing from your lips and scoot your plate closer to his grabby hands, more than happy to share your treat with your son.

You’re surprised your mate, who has an insane sweet tooth of his own, isn’t getting in on this cake. It’s delicious, the icing creamy and fluffy. The cake is moist, and the moan you let out when you bit into it was almost one you’d be embarrassed about, if you were paying attention to anything other than the dessert.

He’s been letting you eat your fill before even attempting a bite, more so because only a few weeks ago, he’d eaten the last macron, the one you’d been saving for a midnight snack. This babe did not want you to sleep, kicking and squirming inside of you nonstop, more than eager to meet the world. You’d burst into a fit of tears when you noticed your treat was gone, and couldn’t reign in your emotions until Azriel had come home with more than half of the pastries in the case from your favorite shop. Elain even threw in some of her freshly baked pastries after hearing what happened, and you almost lost yourself to another fit of tears at how nice that was of her.

“We’re supposed to be choosing a cake for Wren’s first birthday,” Azriel reminds you gently. Then, teasingly, he says, “Have you even actually tasted the cake with how quickly you’re eating, love?”

You peg him with a look, swallowing down the bite of cake in your mouth. He’s right, this is about Wren, not the baby inside of you who only seems to wiggle around more with a sugar high.

It’s difficult to place the fork down in front of you, but somehow, you manage. You turn toward your son, who hasn’t seemed to notice the way you’d been sampling all of the cakes in front of you. By sampling, you mean inhaling. You’d been inhaling the cake samples in front of you. All seven flavors.  

“Wrenny,” you ask the boy currently mashing a bite of cake onto a napkin. He’s enthralled in the texture, and doesn’t even notice your grimace at the ruined treat.

Azriel slips his hand into yours in comfort.

“What kind of cake do you want for your birthday, baby?” You ask, grabbing a fresh napkin to help him clean up. He protests with a shout, squirming on his father’s lap. Azriel tries his best to soothe the boy, but you’ve disturbed his playtime, and you’re going to pay.

“Come on, buddy,” Azriel smooths the furrow between Wren’s brows. You sit back in your seat, smoothing your hands across your stomach when your son kicks close to your bladder. It’s only a matter of time before he hits his mark, and then your day out at the Rainbow with your mate and son will be over. “Which one do you like best?”

Wren stares at the cakes. Some more gone than others. He reaches for a red cake that’s almost entirely full. You liked that one, but it wasn’t better than the chocolate slice with chocolate frosting. That one only has a small bite left.

Your son grabs a handful of the cake and flings his arms around in excitement. You plant a hand over your mouth as the cake goes flying, only to land in Azriel’s hair. Your shoulders shake with laugher, tears welling in your eyes at the look on your mates face.

Azriel’s grin is blinding. He laughs freely, something he might not have been comfortable doing in public years ago. This, this is all he’s ever wanted. You. A family. A life.

You help your mate rid the cake form his dark locks as much as you can. Frosting sticks to the strands, pulling them this way and that. You swipe at a glob of icing that made its way above his lip, and he stares at you with simmering eyes. The kind of eyes that got you into this situation in the first place. He’s going to need a shower when he gets home, and, if you can put Wren down for a nap, maybe you can join him, too.

When you’ve successfully cleaned as much of Azriel as you can, he plops your son down into your lap and shoves the pile of napkins closer to you before standing.

“Where are you going?” you ask as Wren reaches out for his father. You snag a napkin and his chubby arm, beginning to clean him up.

“I’m going to tip the staff for the mess we made,” he says easily. His eyes are sparkling with amusement and something more, something you can’t wait to get home to. “And I’m going to buy a chocolate cake to bring home with us, since you liked it so much.” He nods to the nearly gone slice on the table, and your heart swells in your chest. You love him so, so much.

Zuzu:

“It’s a girl?” he whispers, voice raw with emotion. Tears flood your eyes at the utter awe in your mate’s eyes. Of course, she has her father wrapped around her finger already.

Azriel places his hands across your stomach. He’s kneeling in front of you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so vulnerable, not even when he admitted he loved you for the first time, nor when you gave birth to your first and second child. But this little girl growing inside of you, she’s unlocked something special inside of Azriel, and you know that in this moment, that she’s going to have the most loving, protective father there is. And you’re sure her brothers won’t be far behind with that mentality.

She’s the first female born into one of the Inner Circle’s families. Four boys, but not a single girl. And now, everything has changed. You know she is going to be surrounded by so much love, she’s going to be so spoiled. You’ve had conversations with Feyre and Nesta, Elain too, about how cute the female toys and clothing were in the shops lining the Sidra. They all begged you to have a girl when you announced your third pregnancy, placing bets with their mates on whether or not you’d bring a little girl into the family, and their pleading has all paid off.

You can’t wait to tell them.

Azriel kisses across your stomach. You thread your fingers through his hair, allowing him this time with his daughter. It’s sweet, more than, to see him like this. He’s so in love with her already, you can see it in the way his wings wiggle with excitement, the way his thumbs stroke the soft skin where his daughter is growing inside of you.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispers, finally raising his gaze to look at you. He doesn’t move away, instead resting his chin on your stomach. “We’re having a girl.”

You can’t help your smile, a tear escaping your eye. He’s wanted a daughter for just as long as you have, and you promised not to stop having children until you had a girl, but soon, with two boys and one girl, you don’t think you’ll stop until this little one has a sister to play with as well.

You can see the same sentiment in your mates eyes.

“We’re having a girl,” you agree, lifting his chin so you can kiss your mate.

Jax:

“Azriel,” you squeeze your eyes shut through the uncomfortableness of a contraction. Your mate’s hand is strong on your lower back, his other arm gripped tightly in your grasp. “I love you, but are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

“Easy,” Azriel replies gently. His touch is soft but firm as he helps you to your bed. It’s set up with all of the essentials for giving birth, and with this being your fourth child, you’re more than prepared. The little one has been a fairly easy pregnancy, as if each moment spent in your womb was better than the last. He wasn’t eager to meet the world like his older brother, Baz, who kicked you relentlessly for nine months straight. It was almost as if the babe inside of you enjoyed the comfort you provided, but his father and siblings are more than excited to meet the new member of the family.

Your water broke this morning over breakfast with your family. Baz had burst into a fit of giggles over his waffles, pointing and shouting about how you’d peed your pants. Wren, your oldest, perked with excitement, knowing exactly what that meant. He’s slipped from his chair, offering you a tight hug before scampering to his room with his little brother in tow, talking all about how they were going to get to see their cousins while you had another baby.

Zuzu, just one, was covered in whipped cream, giggling and gurgling and making a mess with the sweet cream. You had torn Azriel’s attention from where he bopped a bit of cream onto her nose, and, after a quick once-over, worry lacing his hazel eyes, his face melted into something sweet when he caught your smile, the happy tears in your eyes.

Your son couldn’t choose a more perfect day to enter the world.

“What do you mean?” Azriel asks, pulling back the covers. He’d be latched to your side until the babe entered the world, whenever that may be. Could be nearly an entire day, like Wren, or mere hours, like Baz and Zuzu.

“You’re talking about letting the male who gifted Baz a real blade for Starfall when he was only 3, watch our boys for the night.” You had agreed to the plan at first because you didn’t think Cassian was all that serious about it, but now that it’s really happening, you can’t help but worry.

“Cassian wants this more than anything, love,” Az replies, helping organize the pillows behind your back. When all is to his liking, he sits on the edge of the bed, caressing your face. His hazel eyes are soft, a comfort that you lean into, or as much as you can with your belly in the way. “He’ll be fine. Rhys and Nyx are going to be there too,” he reassures. And well, that doesn’t make you feel that much better. Rhys and Cassian and four children under 6. They’re in for a night. “And Zuz is getting all loved up by her aunties tonight.” Your daughter is spending the night at Feyre’s with her sisters, and you know that if anything, Rhys will have no problem calling in backup for the mischievous little boys.

“You’ll check in on them ever hour?” You ask, trying your best to get comfortable. The babe in your stomach gives a little kick, and you place your hand on your stomach, whispering down to him. “Soon, little guy, soon you’ll meet the world.”

“I’ll check on them every ten minutes if you want me to,” Azriel promises, placing his large hand over yours. Like the babe knows you and your mate are showing him affection, he kicks again. “But I don’t want you to worry. You need to focus on getting little Jax out.” He says the babes name like it’s the best he’s ever heard. He’s done that with all of your children, though. It fills you with warmth, his strong presence eases you into the comfort of your bed.

Malos and Knox:

“A sister!” Zuzu screeches in her uncle’s arms. You wince at the sheer volume of your four-year-old daughter, but you won’t scold her even through one of the hours old newborns in your arms squirms at the sound. She can’t help her excitement at the sight of her little sister, kicking out her tiny legs in demand to be released from Rhys’ clutches. He laughs and tries to situate Zuzu better in his arms. He looks to you for action, and with a soft nod of your head, he lets your daughter down.

Azriel, who has just handed Knox off to Feyre, who has tears in her eyes, quickly catches his oldest daughter around the waist before she can launch herself onto your bed and disturb the snoozing babe.

“Daddy,” Zuzu whines, but clings tightly to his shirt. Azriel immediately smooths her hair back from her face, disheveled from playing with her brothers all morning at her uncle’s house while you gave birth to the two newest members of your family. “I want to see my sissy!”

“Sissy’s sleeping,” he parent’s gently, bringing her closer. He sets Zuzu on the bed but stays close. “You need to be gentle, Zuz. She’s brand new.”

“Brand new,” Zuzu echoes, but you’re not entirely sure she knows what it means. She’s completely distracted by the small bundle in your arms anyway, her dark eyes glowing with delight. She looks up at you, wide-eyed, and you can’t help but smile at your daughter. “She’s mine?”

“She’s your sister,” you laugh softly. You position Malos in your arms so Zuzu can see better.

“Wow,” she whispers, awe in her tone. She softly reaches out and brushes a finger across her sister’s chubby cheeks. The babe makes a noise and Zuzu snatches her hand back to her chest.

“It’s okay, Zuz,” Azriel says gently. “She’s just saying hello.”

Zuzu nods at her father eagerly, then returns her attention to Malos. “Hello, little baby. I’m Zuz. I’m going to be the bestest big sister ever! I’m going to teach you so much, and nothing like our naughty brothers can show you…” She babbles while you share a loving look with your mate.

You were worried how Zuzu might react to a sister. She’s been surrounded by boys for four years, and right now, you can see that this is something special, something pure between the two girls.

“What are their names?” Feyre asks, placing Knox carefully in your arms while your sons join you and the rest of your family on the bed. Jax climbs directly into Azriel’s lap, clinging to him like a monkey. He peers down at the babes in your arms with curiosity.

Wren and Baz settle on your other side, leaning over to see both of the babes. They look just as excited as the rest of your family, and this moment right now, surrounded by your family and the people you love the most, makes everything worthwhile.

You smile at your mate, who gives you a soft nod of encouragement.

“Their names are Malos and Knox.”

[plantmagpie]

Deep inhale

My unfortunate trio mean THE WORLDDD TO ME. IM DOING THEIR ARTFIGHT PROFILES AT THE MOMENT. I have;

-Rust, previously Ryder. He’s a moth guy who received a fatal injury whilst smuggling and had to pupate (a thing they can do. You essentially come out a different person with little/no memory of your previous self) in order to like. Live. He’s INTENSELY stupid, has a cannon three times his size, and drinks basically anything you put in front of him. It’s impossible to make him wear a shirt and he has too much jewellery to EVER be practical

-The Captain. He’s just called that, definitely not because I don’t have a name for him yet. He’s a cactus guy who became a pirate after his previous ship (which he was an engineer on) crashed, destroying most people on board. He has tree-sap burns that make him, unfortunately, easy to recognise. He thinks his boyfriend died on the ship… which he didn’t, but he thinks that the captain left them all for dead and he’s hunting him down. This guy definitely has Issues but he cares a ton about his two idiots. He knew Ryder before he became Rust.

-Rohllin. Fungi engineer raised in one of the only places that dealt with fire, since they keep back a giant inferno in the north from reaching the rest of the trees. He got laughed out of his settlement despite having extremely useful inventions, and swore to return with the equipment to properly fight the fires. They just told him not to bother. He fixes the ship and runs their chemical engine, but he’s also very defensive of his work. He has an affliction from breathing in the sap-infused smoke of the fires, which means that he trails smoke constantly.

And, of course, the gardening ship! It’s a vessel called The Creaking Branch, it’s run by an animate collection of ship pieces (known as Ironbound in the game) called Linn and she helps them smuggle stuff like soil and release animals from other ships occasionally. She’s a friend of the captain.

Okay I’ll stop now but. Hhhhhh I’m not normal about them Bee. I’m not. I’m also thinking about them all the time because of artfight LMAO

(okay no, but put in the tags something youre the unofficial influencer of. Like something youve purchased enough, used enough, bragged about and endorsed enough to others that you should be an influencer for)

[wanderingbue]

Turns out, Wilson thinks he’s gay.

He drops that bomb on a Thursday night, sitting on House’s couch, where they’re splitting a greasy pizza and a large order of onion rings. Wilson’s not nearly drunk enough for it to be a joke, is the thing. His hands and voice are steady when he explains how it’s haunted him since he was a teenager, how he ran from it and into three failed marriages, how he cheated because he liked the thrill of the chase but was always unsatisfied with the outcome. He wants to tell the important people in his life to ask them for support in this new era, and House is the first one to know.

And yeah, it could explain things. A lot of things. Like the haircare routine, the regular mani/pedis, the shoe collection. This wouldn’t surprise many people. But House isn’t sure he believes him.

Still, Wilson is his best friend, so he tries.

He doesn’t interrupt the first time he sees Wilson getting a little too close and smile-y with a male nurse. (He interrupts the second time, because he knows that nurse is a vegetarian, and House can’t have that influencing Wilson’s cooking and takeout habits.)

He doesn’t sabotage Wilson’s first date with another man. (He does steal Wilson’s phone the next morning and delete the guy’s text asking for a second date, because anyone asking so soon is desperate, and Wilson can do better.)

He tells Wilson which shirts, ties, and pants make him look gay, only this time, he means it positively. He starts TiVoing Queer as Folk for them, instead of The L Word. He offers Wilson poppers one weekend, then has to explain what they are, and how he came to find out about them in the first place (he used to rave in the 80’s, so what?).

House is being supportive, really. Even if he still doesn’t totally buy that Wilson is actually gay.

Mostly, he doesn’t think Wilson is gay because nothing changes.

Wilson still comes over most nights to watch trash TV and drink beer. He still dutifully drops his responsibilities at work, albeit briefly, to provide a diagnostics consult, or to assist in some borderline illegal scheme. They still hang out, and argue, and laugh, and bicker, and celebrate wins together, and are there for each other in the quiet aftermath of loss. They’re still the same.

Maybe Wilson is just confused because he expected to have a wife and kids, and to live in the suburbs by now. Maybe he thinks the reason for this heteronormative failure is that he’s been chasing the wrong kind of tail, instead of the fact that he spends half his time at work and the other half with House, leaving no room for anything or anyone else. And maybe House should feel guilty about that, about robbing Wilson of the life he deserves and forcing him into a fake midlife sexuality crisis, but he doesn’t.

He sort of feels bad about that part, though—the fact that he doesn’t feel bad at all.

But he’s forced to acknowledge his faults when Wilson approaches him in his office one night, trembling before he can even get the words out, I can’t hide how I feel anymore, I need to tell you the truth.

House accepts that he’s selfish because he lets Wilson kiss him breathless, knowing Wilson will never be able to kiss anyone else like this again, knowing that when he tells Wilson to take him home, he’ll never be able to leave. Now he gets it all, the early mornings and the late nights, the warm beds and the cold shoulders, the biting words and the gentle apologies, and every jagged edge left will be weathered by time.

He understands that he’s greedy because he drinks up all the praises and pleading, every filthy word Wilson moans into his ear and whispers into his skin. There’s a lifetime of hunger behind it, a cosmic collision of pain and joy and grief and devotion. It’s a wine aged for twenty years between them, bottled want and yearning, poured into an overflowing glass.

He recognizes that he’s possessive, because he knows he’s got him now, and it's for good. There’s no more sharing attention, or waiting his turn, or swallowing the bitter bile of jealousy. Wilson will stray from any map to follow his true north.

So, whatever, maybe Wilson is lying about being gay, but at least House is honest about being worse.

[luvrrszn]

best part

NEIGHBOUR!RAFE CAMERON x FEM READER

summary you'd seen his life through his kitchen window for months. but you'd never thought you'd get to be a part of it.

warnings fluuuuuuuuffff

a/n heh heh heh guys i felt like a little girl writing in her pink diary with a lil fluffy pen when i wrote this...hehhhhhhhhh...pls send requests! not proofread

masterlist || freudian masterlist

"you're the coffee that i need in the morning

you're the sunshine in the rain when it's pouring"

—

you both come from the same tiny patch of the world—outer banks. but somehow, you'd both never really known each other.

sure, you'd heard of the notorious playboy kook-king rafe cameron, and he'd heard of the sweet pogue who smelled like butter and sugar, always baking cookies for everyone.

somehow, you'd never really met, not until now.

until you'd managed to scrounge up enough for a little place off-campus in your sleepy college town. a charming house from an old couple, one that needed just a little fixing up. but you decided it was worth it and took a leap of faith.

and your neighbour was who you'd least expected. rafe cameron, a familiar face from home. he lives next door, in a house too quiet for him, if hometown gossip was ever to be believed. him and his chipped porch swing, with the kind of quiet loneliness that didn't quite live up to his reputation.

—

you soon come to realise the layout of his house is exactly the same as yours, just flipped. so, when you stand at your kitchen sink, you look across the window to find him standing exactly there, at his own kitchen sink.

you'd opened the window a little to let the breeze in, and he'd done the same.

he was shirtless, washing dishes, soft jazz playing on the record player on his kitchen island. you remember this because you'd first thought of what an impractical placement it was.

this version of him seemed to be nothing like the stories you'd heard back home—the ones about parties, fights, arrests, and broken promises.

—

you see him most mornings and nights. sometimes, the both of you crack your kitchen windows just enough to hear each other's music, stolen glances exchanged over the sink.

after that, it becomes your thing.

swapping songs through open windows. sharing little pieces of yourselves one record at a time.

you get to pick the songs on mondays, wednesdays, fridays, and sundays. he gets to pick on tuesdays, thursdays, and saturdays.

it was never meant to be anything, just a familiar face from home and some quiet background noise, but somehow, without meaning to, you've both slipped into a gentle rhythm.

slowly, your off-campus lives both become a little less lonely.

—

slowly, you both start doing your assignments at your own kitchen islands, facing each other and occasionally sneaking glances at each other. when you do make eye contact, he cracks a boyish grin, that makes you forget all the things you've ever heard about him.

how could you think about that version of him when you have this version of him right in front of you?

sometimes he leans against his sink, chatting with you through the open windows as you cook dinner. pasta, presumably, from what he could smell.

you both swap leftovers from dinners in mismatched tupperware containers.

he takes your trash bins from the porch to the driveway on trash collection days. when you send him a thank-you text, he just replies "was no trouble at all, pretty."

on sunday mornings, you bake banana bread and he makes the coffee. you both swap the treats through your kitchen windows.

his laughs bleed into your kitchen—becoming more familiar than any lyrics of any song. even your favourite one.

—

one night, he knocks on your front door with a record in hand. he smiles, "thought you'd like this one better in person."

you step aside to let him in, nervous. he's never been over before. you start to wonder if your living room is too messy, or if the place smells weird. (it doesn't. it smells like vanilla and cinnamon rolls.)

you clear a spot on the coffee table while he fiddles with the record player, familiar hands careful with the vinyl. the music starts—warm, crackly, old jazz—and he settles on the other end of the couch, beer in hand, body angled toward you like he’s not sure how close is too close.

you sit beside him, legs tucked under yourself, pretending to scroll your phone just to give your hands something to do. the song drapes over the room like a blanket, low and warm.

“you always play this one,” you say, half-smiling.

“it’s my favorite,” he shrugs. “makes the place feel less empty.”

you both go quiet.

eventually, he nudges your foot with his. just barely. you nudge back.

at some point, your head finds his shoulder. he doesn’t say anything—just shifts slightly so you’re more comfortable. his arm rests behind you on the couch, fingertips brushing your shoulder, absent-minded and grounding.

you end up curled against him, the music looping gently in the background, your heartbeat slowing to the rhythm of his breathing. he smells like clean laundry and cedar and a hint of cologne that’s been worn in. the warmth of him seeps into your skin.

neither of you say it, but you both know: this wasn’t supposed to happen. but it was always going to.

—

after that night, everything shifts.

he’s different here. calmer. gentler. not at all like everyone back home said he was.

you realise he's more than just background noise. how could he be?

he makes tea when you’re stressed. sits with you through late-night study sessions. you steal his sweatshirt whenever he comes by and he pretends not to notice. he keeps your favourite drink stocked in his fridge—just in case. he replaces the broken bulb in your bathroom.

you watch the same show at the same time, in your separate homes, texting commentary like you’re on the same couch. sometimes you end up at his place by episode three.

—

eventually, the lines blur.

you both have the spare keys to each others' homes.

you wake up to the smell of pancakes, and you don't even question it when you come downstairs to see rafe shirtless at your stove.

—

and when you finally get together, it happens on a night like any other.

the record player hums between your homes, windows cracked open to let the spring air in. you’re both cooking—him with something sizzling in a pan, you with a box of pasta boiling over. you’ve been doing this for weeks now: parallel lives, quietly overlapping.

he texts: rafe: forgot basil. trade you a beer for some?

you chuckle and shout through your open window, “door’s open!”

a minute later, he steps into your kitchen barefoot, holding a half-full beer and looking too at home in that old hoodie you always see him in. “smells good in here.”

you shrug. “smells better next door.”

he doesn’t leave right away. instead, he sets his beer down, stirs your pasta like he’s done it a hundred times. “you ever think this is weird?” he asks suddenly, not looking at you.

you pause. “what?”

you know exactly what he means. you're just terrified that he'll say something like "let's stop doing this".

“this. us.” his voice is soft, careful. “we do all the things couples do, but we’re not...”

you stare at him. “you want us to be?”

he finally meets your eyes. “i already feel like i’m yours, every time i open my window and you’re there.”

your breath catches.

“and if i'm being stupid,” he adds, backing off, “just—”

you interrupt him with a kiss. hands still damp from the dishes, heart in your throat, you kiss him like you’ve been waiting for this.

later that night, you both sit on the couch tangled in a blanket, one record looping in the background. his hand finds yours under the fabric.

“so...” you say, trying to be casual. “what do we tell the neighbors?”

he smirks. “let ‘em guess. they already think we’re married. last week, mrs mcclusky said 'living in two houses ain't gonna be good for the kids'."

[cbeargyu]

what if a professor yeonjun, like your tryingnto pass his subject but things took a turn for the worse(?)

TEACHER'S PET

summary: you're halfway through your sixth semester of korean literature when professor yeonjun becomes something you never expected. strict, disciplined, and impossibly attractive, he always keeps his distance — until you start finding ways to get his attention. your chemistry is undeniable, and one night, the tension between you finally breaks. now, you're caught in a dangerous game where his praise and control are all you crave.

pairing: teacher!yeonjun x student!reader

genre: smut, dom/sub, teacher/student, praise, worship, slow burn, dark romance.

warnings: explicit content, power dynamics, age gap, manipulation, consent issues, rough sex, dirty talk, possessiveness, adult themes, dominance, and submission.

wc: 6,4k

notes: i’ll just say one word: HORNY

you’re halfway through your sixth semester of korean literature when professor choi starts becoming something else.

not that he wasn’t already magnetic in his own cold, untouchable way — no one misses his entrance when he steps into the lecture hall. tall, composed, his posture always impossibly straight, sharp jaw clean-shaven, hair perfectly styled. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t stumble, never second-guesses his words. and he’s always in those immaculate suits, dark and crisp, tailored within an inch of their life, like they were cut specifically for his body. the kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

a single glance from him carries more weight than a paragraph of scolding from any other professor. he rarely smiles. never laughs.

his voice is low, deliberate, and terrifyingly calm — the sort of calm that unsettles, that keeps people on edge. everything about him radiates discipline, control, a restrained sort of dominance that makes students sit straighter in their chairs without realizing, makes them go silent before he’s even said a word.

he’s always been that way — precise, unapproachable — but lately, something’s changed. maybe it’s the heat creeping into the city, the way spring’s begun to press against the windows and sneak into the folds of everyday routine. or maybe it’s the way he’s adjusted to it: losing the jacket sometime between office hours and lecture, rolling up the sleeves of his pristine white shirt as if it’s nothing, revealing strong forearms, veins barely visible beneath smooth skin, the subtle flex of muscle as he writes across the board. his watch — black leather band, silver face — rests snugly against his wrist, catching the light.

it’s a small change, but it wrecks the room. girls who used to barely make it to class on time now arrive early, hair done, lip gloss shining, pretending to read while stealing glances every time he turns.

and still, he never gives them anything. he doesn’t flirt. he doesn’t linger. he doesn’t even make eye contact unless he hasto. he finishes his lectures right on time, closes his laptop, gathers his things, and vanishes down the hallway like a shadow that doesn’t belong to this world. some students have joked that he sleeps in the faculty office. others say he doesn’t sleep at all.

but for some reason — you’re different.

you’re not sure when it started, but it’s clear. he knows your name, your handwriting, the way you think. he returns your essays with his signature red annotations, always concise, always insightful — and once, once, he underlined a sentence and wrote just one word beside it: brilliant. and that one word sat in your chest for days. he asks you to help him distribute materials, to collect papers, to make extra copies when needed. he trusts you. you’re always the one he calls to the front when there’s something more technical to handle. nothing inappropriate. never even borderline. but it’s always you.

you’re the top of the class, and he treats you like it — but sometimes, you wonder if it’s more than just academic. sometimes, you want it to be.

that afternoon, the air is unusually heavy, the kind of warm that sticks to your skin and makes everyone slightly irritable, slightly sluggish. the windows are open, but they do nothing. the fans click lazily overhead. you’re wearing one of your usual skirts — neat, within code, but undeniably short — and he’s in his shirtsleeves again, collar open just enough to make your eyes catch there. he’s halfway through a lecture on mid-century poetry, voice smooth as ink over paper, when he gestures for you without breaking his rhythm.

“copies for the next class,” he murmurs, pen still sliding across the attendance sheet, head down.

you nod, standing from your seat with the casual ease of someone used to being called. the rest of the class barely glances up. you walk to his desk, hips swaying slightly, fingers brushing the edge as you reach for the stack of printed pages.

and that’s when it happens.

he looks.

not in passing — not the impersonal sweep of a professor monitoring a student’s approach — but really looks. his gaze drops, and it doesn’t move. it lands just above your knee, where your skirt lifts slightly as you lean forward. you can feel the heat of his stare like sunlight against bare skin. there’s a flicker of something raw and real in that second — not restrained, not filtered through professionalism, but human. male.

you don’t say anything. you don’t have to.

his breath catches, ever so faintly. his adam’s apple moves.

and then, like he’s realized too late that he’s given himself away, his eyes shoot up — fast, sharp — locking with yours.

for a split second, there’s nothing between you but tension. not the kind that can be laughed off or misread. it’s the kind that coils low in your stomach, that makes your fingers twitch and your heart pound and your thighs press together on instinct.

his expression doesn’t change. he doesn’t speak. but something in the set of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes, tells you everything.

you straighten slowly, the papers clutched in your hand, and your fingertips brush the wood of his desk — a silent connection, brief and electric. he doesn’t move. neither do you.

then he clears his throat, a quiet sound, but rough — hoarse in a way you’ve never heard before.

“thank you.”

the words are simple. but the way he says them... you feel them. low in your belly.

and as you return to your seat, every step feels heavier. like something has shifted. like a line has been crossed — not fully, not yet, but enough that it’s there, smoldering just beneath the surface.

and you know — so does he — that it’s only a matter of time.

you leave the lecture hall with the rest of the students, but your steps are slower, deliberate, your mind replaying that single second — the way his gaze lingered, the flicker of tension, the sound of his voice when he said thank you like it wasn’t just about the papers. outside, the air is sticky with spring, warm enough that your thighs cling faintly with each step. you can feel your pulse where it shouldn’t be, in places no professor should ever reach — and he hasn’t, not yet, not even with his hands or his mouth, but his eyes touched you today. and it’s not something you can forget.

you don’t get far before you hear your name behind you. calm. commanding.

“can you stay for a moment?”

your body answers before your mouth does. you turn back around, nodding, eyes wide, heart stammering like you didn’t spend the entire walk out hoping he’d stop you. he holds the door open, just slightly, enough to let you pass back into the lecture hall once the corridor clears.

inside, the room is quieter now. emptier. there’s still heat, clinging to the walls, to the seats, to your skin. he doesn’t say anything at first, just gathers the remaining papers from his desk and gestures toward the back door — the one that leads to the inner corridor, the private hallway professors use to access their offices.

he doesn’t wait for you to follow. he knows you will.

you walk behind him, eyes drawn to the curve of his back, the strong, clean lines of his body even beneath something as simple as a white dress shirt. he moves with a purpose that makes you nervous. when he unlocks his office, the sound of the key turning echoes too loud in your ears.

it’s cooler inside. the light softer. the door closes behind you with a dull, final click, and suddenly it’s just the two of you, the air between you charged and private and wrong in all the ways that make your skin tingle.

he doesn’t sit behind his desk this time. he leans against it, arms crossed, sleeves still rolled, watch still gleaming on his wrist. he watches you. quietly. intently.

“i wanted to talk about your last essay,” he starts, and his voice is back to that measured, even tone you’ve come to crave. “it was... different.”

you stand a few feet from him, bag still slung over your shoulder, fingers curled tight around the strap.

“different?” you echo, your voice softer than you mean it to be.

he nods. “you went beyond the assigned reading. contextualized the text through secondary sources, philosophical frameworks. you didn’t have to.”

you shrug a little, trying to sound casual. “i thought it would... strengthen my argument.”

he looks at you, his gaze steady, unreadable. “did you?”

you hesitate.

and then, you say the thing you’ve been swallowing for weeks. maybe longer.

“i did it so you’d notice.”

his posture doesn’t shift, but something in the air does — a sharp crackle, invisible but unmistakable. you breathe out slowly, your chest tight, like you’ve crossed some threshold you can’t walk back from.

“i do everything right,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper, “i hand in everything early. i study more than i have to. i volunteer. i do the extra work. i — i watch you. i listen so carefully. and you never...” your throat tightens. “you never give anything away.”

he’s quiet for a moment. then he straightens.

walks around his desk slowly.

each step feels deliberate, measured, heavy in a way that makes your spine tingle.

he stops in front of you.

too close.

close enough that you can smell him — the faint scent of something clean and warm, like cedar and laundry soap and static heat.

“you think i haven’t noticed?” he says softly.

you look up at him, your breath caught between your ribs. his eyes burn into yours — not angry, not cold, but sharp with something else. something older. deeper. restrained.

“every essay,” he murmurs. “every time you raise your hand. the way you sit at the front, the way you’re always two steps ahead. you’re not just good. you’re brilliant. and you know what that does to a man who’s used to mediocrity.”

your breath shudders out of you. your knees feel a little weak.

he takes one step closer.

his voice dips lower. more dangerous.

“you crave praise,” he says. “don’t you?”

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“you want more than a grade,” he says, and this time, there’s something else in his voice — reverence, almost. something like awe. “you want to be seen. worshipped.”

you nod before you realize you’ve moved. “yes.”

his eyes darken.

“you don’t just want approval,” he murmurs. “you want to be mine.”

the words hang there, suspended in the space between you, electric and terrifying and perfect.

you feel your thighs press together, your fingers twitch at your sides. your breathing is shallow. it feels like the world has narrowed down to this exact moment — this man, this room, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most dangerous thing he’s ever let get this close.

and then his eyes drop.

slow.

scorching.

they rake down your body — over your lips, your throat, the swell of your chest, the hem of your skirt — until they settle on your legs. bare. still slightly flushed from the heat.

“you wear these,” he says, voice low and tight, “and you act like it’s nothing. like you’re innocent. but you want me to look. you’ve wanted it every time.”

you can’t speak. you’re trembling — not with fear, but with the unbearable ache of being understood.

his fingers move — just slightly — brushing a paper off his desk, his knuckles grazing the edge, so close to your waist you stop breathing.

“you don’t want discipline,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “you want devotion.”

his eyes meet yours again, and this time, the mask is gone.

and what’s beneath it is dangerous. hungry.

but he hasn’t touched you. not yet.

and somehow, that’s worse than if he had.

his gaze doesn’t move from yours — heavy, reverent, consuming — but his hand lifts, slow and sure, brushing the air like it’s just discovered the right to touch.

“look at you,” he murmurs, like a confession. “so fucking perfect.”

your breath catches, and he sees it. sees the way your thighs shift just slightly, your lips part like you’re about to speak but can’t quite find the shape of the words. his hand lowers, lands gently on your hip, firm but not rough. fingers spreading, slow as sin, as if to measure how much of you he can claim with one palm.

“do you even realize,” he whispers, leaning in just enough that his breath grazes your ear, “what you do to me?”

you shiver.

he lets the silence stretch, deliberate, letting the weight of his touch anchor you in the heat building between your skin and his. his hand slides down over the curve of your ass — nothing rushed, just exploring, mapping it like it’s sacred. he squeezes softly, almost experimentally, and hums.

“god,” he mutters. “you feel even better than i imagined.”

you whimper at that — softly, involuntarily — and the sound makes something shift in him.

both hands are on you now, large and warm, kneading your ass in slow, indulgent motions, as if he’s been waiting a lifetime just to touch you like this. he groans under his breath, the sound rough, low in his chest.

“you like this,” he says, not asking. stating. owning it. “you like being touched. praised. adored.”

you nod, breathless. “yes—”

the sound barely escapes before it’s ripped apart by the crack that fills the room.

his palms land hard — both hands slapping the flesh of your ass with a force that makes your body jolt forward, eyes wide, mouth falling open in a sharp gasp that turns into a helpless moan.

“ah—!”

his hands immediately return to you, rougher now, gripping hard, dragging you back into his hold like he dares the air to take you from him.

“that’s it,” he growls, voice tight, burning. “so fucking good for me. i’ve been watching you — every little skirt, every smart little answer, the way you look at me like you know i’d ruin you if i ever touched you.”

his fingers dig into the flesh, thumbs pressing deep, kneading you with a hunger that borders on reverence.

“and you want it, don’t you?” he whispers, voice thick, sinful. “you want to be handled. worshipped. broken the right way.”

your head nods before your mouth even catches up. “yes— please—”

his fingers find the hem of your skirt then — finally — and push it up. not fast. not impatient.

he does it slow, like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s waited too long to open. like your skin is something sacred he’s waited to uncover.

the fabric lifts inch by inch, and you feel the air hit the backs of your thighs, feel the way his breath stutters the moment he sees the curve of your ass fully revealed beneath the soft fabric of your panties.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and reverent. “look at you.”

he palms your ass again, skin to skin now, the heat of him burning into you. he slides his hand between your thighs — not yet touching where you ache, but close enough that your knees threaten to buckle. he pulls you back against him, slow and hard, until you can feel the thick press of him behind his slacks, hot and heavy and so fucking there.

“do you feel that?” he growls into your ear. “that’s what you do to me. every class. every time you walk in like you don’t know how fucking perfect you are.”

his hand glides up your back, smooth, then down again — slower this time, more deliberate. he caresses, explores, worships.

“and you want more,” he murmurs, kissing the words into the space just behind your ear. “don’t you?”

you moan — softly, needily — and nod again.

“say it.”

“i want more,” you breathe, barely able to stand. “i want everything.”

he groans, deep and guttural, and his fingers curl into the waistband of your panties.

but he doesn’t pull them down. not yet.

instead, he presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, slow and firm.

“then beg for it.”

his words are low, steady, edged with something feral — but laced with so much control it makes your knees weak. you’re already trembling, your thighs pressing together, trying to find friction where there is none, but he waits. unmoving. unreadable. his hands rest heavy on your hips, grounding you.

you turn your head slightly, enough to look over your shoulder. your voice comes out breathy, desperate, soft like silk but soaked in need.

“please... please, i need your mouth—”

his grip tightens.

you gasp.

“look at you,” he murmurs, like he’s marveling at something rare, precious. “already begging. already soaking through these little panties.”

his fingers trace along the edge of them, teasing, brushing the damp fabric between your thighs.

“you’re so good for me,” he breathes. “so ready. so perfect.”

then, slowly — achingly slow — he sinks to his knees behind you.

you feel the heat of his breath before you feel his mouth. his hands push your cheeks apart gently, reverently, spreading you open just enough, and he kisses the curve of your ass first, soft, trailing, worshipful kisses that make you moan already. then lower. the tip of his nose brushes against the back of your thigh as he inhales.

“you smell like heaven,” he groans.

and then — finally — his mouth meets the damp cotton of your panties. not even skin yet, and still, your body jolts.

he presses his lips right where you need him most, and kisses, slow and deep, like he’s tasting something sacred through the fabric.

“so sweet,” he murmurs against you. “so good for me, baby.”

you whimper, fingers clutching the edge of his desk, hips rolling back instinctively.

he chuckles low, a dark sound that vibrates straight into you.

“needy little thing,” he purrs. “you want my mouth? you want to come on my tongue?”

“yes— fuck, yes, please—”

“then ask again.”

your breath hitches. “please... use your mouth on me, professor. i want it— i want you.”

there’s a beat of silence.

and then he pulls your panties to the side.

you gasp as cool air hits your wet heat — and then his mouth is there.

no teasing this time.

just tongue, lips, heat.

he licks you slowly — a long, torturous stroke from bottom to top — before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking gently.

you cry out, legs nearly giving in.

“oh my god—”

his grip holds you steady, and he hums in approval, tongue circling, flicking, devouring like he’s starving. he praises you between licks, voice muffled and wrecked.

“so perfect.”

kiss.

“so fucking good.”

lick.

“you taste like a dream, baby.”

you whine, hips rocking, chasing every flick of his tongue, every stroke, every moan he breathes against you. he knows exactly what he’s doing �� keeps it slow, keeps you on the edge, keeps whispering filthy praise between each wet, reverent kiss.

“that’s it,” he groans, “grind on my mouth. take what you need. come for me, smart girl.”

your fingers dig into the wood. your thighs tremble. and when his tongue flicks just right — slow, firm, curling — the pleasure crashes through you like a wave. your cry echoes off the walls, broken and raw.

“professor—!”

he groans, gripping your ass tighter as you fall apart, licking you through it, tongue relentless, hungry, tender. he doesn’t stop until your legs are shaking and your breathing turns to whimpers.

he pulls back slowly, breath warm against your skin. and then, he presses a kiss — soft, reverent — to your soaked, sensitive cunt.

“that’s my good girl.”

you whimper.

still trembling, you turn slowly to face him. he stands again, tall and dark-eyed, lips glistening with your arousal, chest rising and falling beneath his shirt.

your voice comes out hoarse.

“please... don’t stop. keep praising me. keep touching me.”

his gaze deepens.

and then, without a word, he reaches for the leather belt around his waist.

the clink of the buckle sliding open feels like thunder.

his eyes never leave yours.

he pulls it off — slow, practiced — then moves to unbutton his slacks.

you watch, spellbound, as he lowers the zipper and slides them down just enough to free himself.

and when he does — you see it.

long, thick, flushed with need, his cock stands hard and heavy in his hand, the head glistening with precum, veins prominent, and so big it makes your breath stutter.

he strokes it once — slowly — and groans deep.

“you did this,” he growls. “with your voice. with your body. with that perfect, needy little mind of yours.”

he steps closer, tilting your chin up with two fingers.

“now tell me how much you want it.”

“i need it— i need you, professor,” you gasp, body still trembling from your last orgasm, your thighs sticky, weak, mind already unraveling. “please, i want to feel you inside— please—”

he growls, a dark, low sound that rips from his throat as he steps behind you again. you feel the heat of him press against your ass, thick and heavy, his cock sliding slowly between your cheeks, teasing you, smearing precum against your skin.

“fuck, listen to yourself,” he rasps, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around to your front, up your stomach, until it cups your breast over your blouse. “so fucking desperate. begging your professor like a filthy little slut.”

his thumb rolls over your nipple through the fabric, slow and deliberate, and you arch into him, moaning when his mouth finds the side of your neck. he sucks softly, then bites, then soothes with his tongue, all while kneading your breast harder now, fingers gripping the soft flesh like he owns it.

“you wear these little skirts for me, don’t you?” he growls, his cock rutting slowly between your ass cheeks. “sit in the front. raise your hand. act like a good girl, but all you want is this cock in your pussy.”

you whimper, nodding helplessly, eyes fluttering.

“say it.”

“yes, professor,” you cry, breath hitched. “i wear them for you. i want to be your good girl. i want your cock inside— please—”

his hand slides under your blouse now, yanking down your bra with no hesitation. he groans when his palm meets bare skin, fingers pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, the sting sharp and electric.

“fuck, these tits— soft little things made for my hands,” he grunts, massaging both now, his body flush to yours, breath hot against your ear. “you’re made for me, aren’t you? this body... this pussy... all mine.”

you nod again, panting. “yes— yes, all yours, professor—”

“good girl.”

his hand drops suddenly, dragging between your thighs again. two fingers find your soaked folds and slip inside without resistance.

“jesus— you’re dripping,” he groans, pushing deep, curling. “already stretched for me. i haven’t even fucked you yet.”

you cry out, body rocking back on his fingers, chasing the pressure. he scissors you open slowly, fingers fucking you at a steady rhythm, your slick sounds obscene in the quiet room.

schlick, schlick, schlick.

“listen to that,” he whispers, lips brushing your jaw. “you hear how wet you are for your professor? so fucking needy. so ready.”

and then— he pulls out.

you whine at the loss, but he’s already moving— grabbing your waist, spinning you around to face him. his mouth crashes against yours, deep and filthy, tongue claiming yours as his cock presses against your core. you moan into his mouth, grinding against him shamelessly.

he breaks the kiss with a growl, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

“turn around,” he orders, voice sharp. “against the wall. now.”

you scramble to obey, heart racing. the cold surface of the wall meets your palms, your cheek pressed to the plaster, back arched, skirt still hiked over your ass.

he steps in close — impossibly close — and grabs one of your legs, lifting it and bracing it on the edge of the wall ledge, opening you further.

you gasp at the stretch, at the exposure, but then you feel it — the blunt head of his cock, hot and heavy, nudging your entrance.

“this pussy,” he murmurs, dragging the head through your folds. “mine now.”

and then — slowly, so fucking slow — he pushes in.

inch by inch, your body stretches around him. your moan breaks into something wrecked and needy as he fills you, thick and perfect and so deep.

“fuck— professor—”

“that’s it,” he grits, bottoming out with a groan, his forehead resting against the back of your shoulder. “take it. take all of me. just like that, smart girl.”

he doesn’t move yet.

just stays, buried inside, letting your walls flutter around him, letting you feel just how deep he reaches.

his hand slides around your ribs again, back to your breasts, massaging them slowly as he begins to thrust — shallow, grinding strokes that drag against every nerve ending.

“feel that?” he whispers, voice thick. “that’s how much i wanted you. how long i’ve needed this. your tight little cunt wrapped around my cock. moaning my name.”

his pace picks up, fucking you slow and deep, filthy wet sounds echoing with each thrust, your slick coating him with every roll of his hips.

your body melts into the wall, your hands flat against the surface, your cries muffled until you turn your head and gasp, “harder, professor— please—”

his grip tightens.

“you want more?”

“yes— please— ruin me—”

he slams into you, once, hard.

your scream echoes off the walls.

and he starts fucking you.

he slams into you again — rough, deep, precise — and your whole body jolts against the wall, fingers scrambling for something to hold on to as the air punches out of your lungs.

“fuck, professor—!”

“that’s it,” he growls behind you, voice ragged, his cock dragging out and slamming back in, relentless now. “take it. take every fucking inch.”

the sound of skin on skin echoes through the room — wet, brutal, merciless. your cunt is soaked, slick squelching every time he buries himself to the hilt. the position only makes it filthier — one leg raised, your skirt bunched up around your waist, his cock slamming up into you at the perfect angle.

slap, slap, slap.

his hands roam everywhere — gripping your waist, then sliding up to your breasts, squeezing them roughly, thumbs circling your nipples until they ache. you sob, overwhelmed by how full you feel, how worshipped and ruined you are at once.

“you love this, don’t you?” he pants, teeth grazing your ear. “my cock fucking you stupid. your tits bouncing in my hands. you’re so fucking perfect.”

“yes— yes, i love it— please don’t stop—”

“you wanna come again?”

“please, professor, please—!”

he growls, one hand snaking down between your thighs again, finding your clit and rubbing tight circles, fast, cruel, while he fucks you through it.

“then come for me, smart girl,” he hisses. “make a mess all over my cock. now.”

your scream breaks, ragged and desperate, as your orgasm hits — violent and raw, your body clenching down around him so tight he nearly chokes on his next breath.

“oh fuck— yes, that’s it— fuck, look at you,” he groans, hips stuttering as your walls spasm around him, milking him. “cumming so hard, just from my cock, my voice. my praise.”

tears sting your eyes, your body trembling uncontrollably, and you sob against the wall, still pinned by him, your leg burning with the stretch, cunt throbbing from the force of it.

“please— don’t stop— i can take it, i swear— professor—!”

he doesn’t stop.

he grabs your hips harder, slamming into you faster, his thrusts brutal now, chasing his own release. his breath is hot and filthy in your ear.

“you’re fucking perfect,” he groans. “tightest, wettest little pussy i’ve ever felt. my good girl. my fuckin’ favorite.”

you cry out again, overstimulated and shaking, but it only makes you wetter. the filthy sound of your cunt being wrecked echoes louder, and he loves it.

“you were made for this,” he grits. “made for me. you feel that, baby? how deep i am? how your body takes it?”

you whimper, barely able to form words. “yes—yes, professor—”

“open your mouth.”

you obey without question, tongue out, eyes dazed, tears on your cheeks.

he leans forward, thumb dragging across your bottom lip.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “so fucking pretty when you’re ruined.”

then he spits into your mouth.

and you moan — filthy, wrecked, submissive — swallowing without hesitation.

“good girl.”

he fucks you harder now, both hands on your waist, lifting your body slightly to angle you just right. every thrust punches a moan out of you. every drag of his cock has you seeing stars.

then he groans loud, teeth gritted.

“fuck— i’m gonna cum—”

you nod frantically. “inside— please— fill me up— i want it, professor, i want it so bad—”

he slams into you one last time, hips locking, cock throbbing as hot, thick cum spills deep inside you. he holds you there, buried, groaning against your shoulder, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

you’re both panting, soaked in sweat and sex, bodies trembling against each other.

his hands stroke down your sides now — slow again, tender. reverent.

“you’re so fucking good,” he whispers. “the best. my best girl. took me so perfectly.”

you hum softly, still twitching, body limp, held up only by his arms.

you turn your head to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted.

“again,” you whisper.

he smirks.

“on the desk this time.”

after he fucks you against the wall, leaving you trembling and gasping for air, he doesn’t give you a moment to rest. his hands are on you immediately, lifting you effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, and pulling you toward the desk. you’re barely able to catch your breath before he’s bending you over it, your palms flat against the cold wood, your ass raised for him.

you whimper as his hands grip your hips, keeping you in place as he positions himself behind you again. but this time — this time it’s different. he doesn’t immediately dive into you. instead, he’s teasing, pressing his hard cock against your folds, dragging it through your slickness, making you shiver with every slow pass.

“still so fucking wet for me,” he mutters, voice dark, low, full of satisfaction. “can’t get enough, huh? need me to fuck you again?”

“yes,” you whisper, voice broken, body still trembling from the aftermath of your last orgasm. “please… don’t stop, professor… fuck me.”

he chuckles darkly, hands trailing up your spine, then gripping your neck with a firm, possessive hold. “you’re mine now. you’ve always been mine, haven’t you?”

you nod, swallowing hard as his fingers tighten around your neck, just enough to make you dizzy, to make your head spin with the overwhelming dominance he exudes. “yes, professor… only yours.”

he pulls you up, your back against his chest, his breath hot against your ear. then, with a swift motion, he spins you around, making you face him. your legs are still shaky, but he holds you steady, one arm around your waist, the other trailing down to unzip his pants. you can already feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his cock pressing against your stomach.

he grins down at you, eyes dark with lust. “you’re gonna ride me now,” he says, voice commanding. “show me how much you need me.”

you don’t hesitate. your body moves on its own, like it’s been trained to follow his commands. your hands slide down his chest as you straddle him, guiding his cock to your entrance. he watches, eyes locked on you, his grip tightening on your waist as you slowly sink down onto him, inch by inch.

you gasp as he fills you completely, stretching you, your walls clenching around him as you take all of him in. you can’t help but moan, the sensation of being filled so completely, so thoroughly, making your head spin.

“god, professor— you’re so big,” you whisper, voice shaky.

he chuckles, a low, dark sound. “you love it. you love every fucking inch of me inside you.”

he’s right. you do. you love the way he fills you, the way his cock hits the deepest part of you with every slow roll of your hips. but it’s not enough. you need more.

you begin to move, slowly at first, lifting yourself up, then sinking back down, over and over, your body trembling with every thrust. his hands grip your waist, guiding you, his thumb brushing against your clit, making you moan louder.

“that’s it,” he breathes, watching you carefully. “ride me like you mean it.”

you pick up the pace, hips grinding against his, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. you’re so wet, so desperate for him, the pleasure building inside of you, tight and unrelenting.

and then he stops you, his hands gripping your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. his eyes are dark, filled with desire, but there’s something else there too — something possessive, hungry, as he stares into your eyes.

“don’t forget,” he says, his voice low, commanding. “you’re nothing but my toy. my good girl. don’t you forget that.”

you nod quickly, breathless. “yes, professor— I’m your toy. only yours.”

“good girl,” he whispers, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer to him, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s just as desperate as the rest of it. “now, look at me. I want to see your eyes when you come for me.”

you can barely hold onto your composure as you ride him harder, faster, the pressure building inside you until it feels like you’re about to explode. his hands move to your neck again, gripping gently, controlling your every movement, his eyes never leaving yours, locking you in a gaze that feels like ownership.

“come for me,” he commands, his voice rough, the praise dripping from his words. “now.”

the orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over you, your body shaking uncontrollably as you cry out, “professor— fuck— i’m coming—!”

he growls, his hips slamming up into you, taking you through the orgasm, the feeling of him buried deep inside you making everything more intense, more overwhelming.

when you finally come down, he doesn’t let you rest. instead, he spins you around, pushing you up against the chair beside the desk, lifting your leg and guiding you back down onto him, your eyes locked on his the entire time.

he places his hands on your neck, fingers trailing down your spine, pulling you closer, guiding your movements.

“look at me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice thick with lust. “I want you to remember this. you belong to me. now and forever.”

you nod, barely able to breathe, as your body moves in time with his, desperate for more, addicted to the feel of him inside you.

the next day, the classroom feels different — suffocating, heavy with an unspoken promise. the air is thick with the memory of what happened last night, but neither of you speaks a word of it. you sit in your usual spot, your fingers nervously tracing the edge of your notebook, a burning heat in your stomach, your thoughts still spinning.

and then, he walks in. professor choi. tall, composed, his sharp eyes sweeping over the room, but they linger for a split second longer on you. a moment — just a moment — but it’s enough. the intensity in his gaze is unmistakable. he knows, you know he does. and it makes your pulse quicken, your breath catch in your throat.

you lower your gaze, trying to hide the smirk pulling at your lips, the heat rising to your cheeks as you remember every single thing he did to you, the way his hands, his lips, his body controlled you, made you his.

but you can’t escape it. every look, every glance he sends your way, makes you feel exposed, like he’s taking you all over again with just his eyes. his usual stern demeanor cracks every time his gaze slides back to you. it's as if he's savoring the moment, the memory, the power.

“please take out your notes,” he says, his voice cutting through the silence, but there's something different about it. a rasp, a barely contained tension that makes you shiver in your seat.

you do as he says, but you can feel his eyes on you as you reach for your things. his eyes, watching you closely, and when your hand brushes against the edge of your desk, you hear a small, approving hum from his direction. you can almost feelthe weight of his gaze on your skin, the heat crawling over you, making your heart race.

your body is still aching from last night — sore in all the right places, a constant reminder of everything you gave him, everything he made you feel. and now, in front of the class, it’s like a secret, a dangerous game you’re both playing.

the lecture goes on, but you can’t focus. not when every time you glance at him, you see the way his eyes flicker down to your legs, to your chest, to the way your fingers tap against the desk. you wonder if he remembers the exact moment he pushed you against that wall, if he can still taste the sweetness of your mouth on his, the way you felt when you begged for more.

it’s maddening, knowing he’s holding back just as much as you are. but then, as if he can’t resist any longer, he lets his gaze linger just a little too long. you catch it, his pupils dilated, his lips pressed together in a barely contained smirk. he’s remembering too.

and that’s when he says it — softly, just for you to hear, barely above a whisper, but the words sink into you like fire.

“you did well last night. so well.”

your breath hitches, and you glance at him, locking eyes for just a moment. there’s no one else around you, no one who can see what’s happening between you two. but you feel the charge in the air — the silent agreement, the unspoken promise that this isn’t over. that it’s just begun.

you can’t help but smile, just a little. you know he sees it. and you know he’s already thinking of the next time

[shimmering-starsun]

there’s been an insane resurgence of headcannons in the marvel fandom thanks to thunderbolts, so heres my masterlist of headcannons i’ve seen from others that I will continue to add to :)

Yelena

her guinea pig is the group pet—named Nat

insists on doing karaoke every saturday night, she and Ava eat everyone up.

Cooks for EVERYONE. makes sure they all eat enough.

laughs at her own jokes, especially the bad ones. Ava can’t help but laugh with her.

Bucky

leads group therapy seasion every tuesday.

tries* to use brainrot and slang terms, but it catches onto Alexei, so now nobody can convince him otherwise.

helps Bob with his nightmares. Sees pre-serum Steve in Bob so he feels like he needs to protect him

talks about Sam a lot, everyones tired of it.

argues with John constantly, but they always work well together on missions.

It’s a competition to see who can sneak up on and scare bucky. He’s expressionless every time and just says “wow that was so scary”

Insists on silence breaks, everyone starts speaking again after 3 minutes.

says he never cares, but makes sure there’s water and first aid for every mission.

Bob

THE little brother.

has to have some amount of light on when he sleeps. He also loves to sleep in the living room on the couch when other’s are there to listen to the soft of their voices.

May or may not be on Booktok, either way, he reads romance and mystery.

always in the corner drinking tea or a milkshake when the others are fighting.

hates cucumber, any way it’s prepared.

He always beats John in every card or board game. when it’s more than 2 people playing, it doesn’t matter if Bob comes out on top, he always gets a higher score than John. They’re the two brothers who hate eachother.

watches cartoons to heal his inner child, doesn’t let anyone know.

>800 hours on minecraft

hard for him to accept gifts from others, even if it’s a bag of chips, he’ll say he doesn’t deserve it.

Ava

likes to jumpscare people by just appearing out of thin air. Steals everyones snacks because she can.

Ultimate gaslighter, especially towards Bob. shows him those ai videos of sad cat stories and obvious rage bate and he gets pissed about it.

loves halloween and horror movies (a menace on halloween night, especially to John who she would just stand in the hallway and stare menacingly at while in a clown costume or something)

has trouble sleeping. Bucky once found her on the floor of the training room at 3am

once passed out from overworking herself, woke up and found Bob sitting next to her watching over her like a big golden retriever.

Red Guardian

runs a tiktok account where he posts videos of the team (bonus, he puts filters on them and doesn’t tell)

will make the most heinous food combinations and swear they’re good.

hugs a little too tightly.

always gives a big dramatic speech before they go out, even if it’s just for coffee.

tells stories that are 90% lies, but everyone listens anyway.

John

acts as if he doesn’t care for the group, but gets worried if they don’t all text him back.

thinks he has a niche movie collection but it’s not neiche at all. horrible taste in movies (this one is very popular)

resident chef, along with Yelena.

the only one who has an actual schedule.

Gets really quiet after missions, especially if things went bad. Extremely self-critical even if it’s not apparent.

[forestshadow-wolf]

Soap as an expert sniper and demolition technician getting loaned to a different team for 4 months. It's light work, easy as could be. But the CO is an idiot, a moron with no idea what he's doing, and soap doesn't know how he got so far.

Someone makes a crude joke about soap needing to be muzzled about a week and a half into stay away from home when he's angrily objected in a mission briefing. And the CO finds it endlessly hilarious. Soap can laugh it off easy enough, and it is funny at first. Sure it gets old after a while, but again, it's easy enough to brush off.

Until he can't brush it off. Until he objects one too many times and this CO tosses an actual fucking muzzle on the table like he's a dog, and he cackles when he makes soap put it on. It's a punishment tactic. The humiliation. Soap's experience it may times. And put the most wild of greenies feel it just the same. But never this far. Never of this severity for days, weeks, months at a time. And the harder he fights it. The more he objects, to anything, the worse it gets. A leash and collar to make him follow the CO around when he's been "bad".

By the time he gets back to home base they still haven't removed the muzzle, and he can't pick the lock with the angle it sits on his head. He offloads onto the tarmac with dull eyes and an overgrown mohawk, collar and leash not on but held tight in his fist.

Ghost's eyes get hard as soon as he sees soap's adornments. What is the meaning of this. The disrespect to himself to adjust his Sergeant. The disrespect to Soap for even the mere thought of what's been done. He wants to take a minute alone to get that tool off his Sergeant's face, but the delay may land a punishment on soap.

Ghost turns when soap gets near enough, and soap knows enough about the man to follow him. As expected he finds himself a meeting room with the remaining two of the 141 and laswell on a video call to assess the success of his deployment. All their eyes snap to the mess of metal and leather on his face

And price's voice has an edge to it when he asks for a report. He's lucky he had the foresight to have it all typed up and he slides his phone over to Gaz for the man to read it aloud. Gaz. He trusted gaz. He's know how to say what he meant, wouldn't omit the words the seemed useless, wouldn't have to stop to control the violence in his voice.

And when Gaz gets finished reading his report Price lets the silence sit for a minute. Dismisses them for half an hour so he can collect himself. Tells Ghost to "get that thing off him"

Gaz leaves almost faster than the words leave the captain's mouth, and soap wants to go after him. But even more than that, his fingernails are starting to itch again with the need to claw the muzzle off his face. And he's at his limit of resisting that urge. So he lets ghost chase him to his room. Follows Ghost's direction to sit down. To stay still. He trembles from his neck to his head and he can't make it stop as Ghost works. The lock isn't a complicated system, but it's tight and it takes more than a little force to get the pins to turn. And soap can't stop bouncing his leg, and it annoys him to no end. And he thinks he may throw up. Or explode. Or scream. Or die, maybe.

And then he feels the mechanism click, and Ghost pries the offending piece of equipment off him. And he breathes. He can actually breathe.

And then he retches. Accidentally. Nothing comes up. He swallows the nausea. Forces it back down.

But ghost is already hovering face infront of his own, bucket placed between his knees. He meets Ghost's wildly concerned eyes but he retches again. Into the bucket he spits thick spittle and nothing else with his eyes clenched, and he's vaguely aware that Ghost is talking to him, but he doesn't know what he's saying.

He lets out a shakey breath, his stomach churns but he doesn't think it'll happen again. He hopes. Ghost cradles his jaw, massaging it gently, and Soap leans into the touch. Ghist has him, he said so, and Soap trusts Ghost. He feels sick. Wrong. But Ghost, he feels right.

Ghost makes him feel right. Makes him feel better. Makes him feel-

Gaz his mind reminds him. He needs to find Gaz

"We have to-" he smacks his lips. The words feel unnatural now, "- Gaz."

"Gaz?" Ghost looks at him like he's lost his damn mind. And he did. He had. But he's all better now. And Gaz isn't. Gaz is his best fucking friend and he's not okay. He saw the horror in his eyes when he bolted fro. The meeting room.

"He's- we have to find him. He's being sick right now."

Realization seems to pass over Ghost's face, and he helps Soap up.

He doesn't know how long they have before they're meant to be back in that meeting room, but it's probably not long. And Soap knows that if Gaz had his way he'd show up exactly on time and he'd say nothing. He likes to suffer alone. And Soap gets it. He really really does. But Gaz never lets him suffer alone, and Soap won't let Gaz do so either.

His first instinct is to bang his fist on Gaz's door until he opens up, but gaz had left the *other* way to the opposite side of base. And the bathrooms were all to easy to be walked in on. And the next obvious direction was... outside. And dread shoots down his spine. Spring had come and with it, spring showers. And the sky wept. And kyle was out there.

Soap doesn't hesitate as he bolts put into the rain. He's out here somewhere. But soap can barely see two feet infront of him, and Gaz could be in about six different places — and that's just off the top of his head. But there's no time like the present, and no way to starts without action. He heads for the closest spot. He's soaked to the bone almost immediately, and Ghost is making it no easier by trying to convince him to go back inside. He's not behind the main building nor in the laundry rooms. There's a vacant spot on the noot between the armory and the motorpool too. The come up empty after the offices and Ghost decides he no longer has a choice, picking him up and carrying him back inside when they have judt enough time to towel off and change before they're called back to the meeting. And Gaz will be there. Without a doubt.

Exactly on time when they arrive is Gaz. Except he looks... fine. He's not.. and soap still feels like a wet cat. But he's too busy wrapping his arms around Gaz to care.

"Tav."

"Kyle. The rain- I-"

"I know, Tav. I didn't. I didn't." Soap sags just a little more into him. Gaz pushes at his shoulder, "let me see you."

Soap allows it. Lets Gaz grab his face. Turn it this way and that., "better like this." Gaz tells him as he lets him go.

Price still looks like murder when they walk in, but now it's closer to first degree than it is manslaughter. Laswell's face is hard set on the screen and there are documents pulled up next to her.

"Soap. Sitrep."

"They used me like a fucking tool, Captain." Soap was angry now. And it felt good. And Price always liked when he was angry. Said it meant his head was in the game, and they didn't always agree, but Price never shut him up.

"You got a bad habit of finding shitty COs, Son."

"Not you though."

Price gave him a thorough once over and nodded. "Laswell."

"John, that CO you got sent to has had a lot of dirt swept under the rug. It's bordering on treason. Lots and lots of complaints, harassment — lots of it — most of it physical, abuse of power, disregard of human life, and 'suspicious activity' — no notes on what that means."

[tacobacoyeet]

Need more dad bod Patrick pls 😔😔

thank you for asking! here is just an entire collection of my thoughts spiraling with zero structure whatsoever. there is smut, mdni!!!!

-----

i definitely think he was jumping for joy when he finally retired and started focusing on eating whatever the hell he wanted. sure, he wasn't perfect even when he was playing (it's not like he could afford a nutritionist), but he kept it together a little. until retirement. once he was free, through... human garbage disposal. in a loving way.

he’s the kind of guy who’ll finish the crusts off his kid’s sandwich while standing over the sink. who polishes off the last quarter of your cold fries without asking. who says “you gonna eat that?” mid-bite and doesn’t wait for an answer.

and he’s proud of it. the kind of proud where he’ll pat his belly and say “that’s a job well done.” the kind of proud where he lets the softness roll over the waistband of his boxers and then drags your hand there like it’s an invitation.

post-retirement patrick doesn’t own a scale. doesn’t check the mirror. he checks you. your reactions. the way you look at him when he stretches in the doorway with his belly out and his shirt rucked up. the way your mouth parts just a little like you weren’t expecting to be thinking about sex before 10am.

so like. he’s shirtless. obviously. and it’s not for you—that’s the worst part—it’s just because he doesn’t feel like putting one on. he’s comfortable. he’s retired. he’s making a toasted peanut butter and banana sandwich at 9:47 a.m. (for some fucking reason) and humming something stupid like hall & oates, and his belly is out. like round, soft, jiggling when he shifts his weight, out.

and you’re standing there, mug in hand, trying to remember how to exist because he’s licking peanut butter off his finger like it’s nothing. leaning one hand on the counter, the other lazily resting on his stomach like he forgot it’s the most distracting thing in the room. like you’re not about to spontaneously combust.

and the thing is, he knows. he knows you're staring. he thrives on it. he just keeps talking like normal, like “we outta syrup?” but his lip quirks just slightly, like he’s already imagining the way you’re gonna fold in five seconds.

and when you don’t say anything, just keep sipping your coffee and blinking at him, he grins and goes, “you want a bite or what?”

and he’s not talking about the sandwich.

and the worst part is you do want a bite. of him. you want to grab him by the love handles, sink your teeth into that spot under his pec that goes soft when he laughs. you want to press into that belly until it knocks the breath out of you, until he’s laughing again, saying shit like “jesus, baby, at least let me finish chewing.”

but then he sets the sandwich down and hooks his finger in your waistband like, “actually. nevermind. i'll make another. come here.”

and now your back’s hitting the counter, your coffee’s on the floor, and he’s got peanut butter on his chin but he’s still licking into your mouth like he’s starving. and his stomach is pressing into your stomach and it’s warm and heavy and everywhere. and that’s it. that’s your life now.

sex with dad bod patrick is like. heavy. in every possible way. the weight of him on top of you, the way his belly drapes over your abdomen when he’s grinding down into you—slow and deep and sweaty and so goddamn close. you feel everything. it’s overwhelming. it’s deliberate.

and he loves using his weight. not in a cocky, performative way—he’s not slamming you into the mattress for show (unless you want him to—in which case, yes please!). he’s just present. there’s no air between your bodies, no space to think, just the heat of his chest hair against your nipples and the scratch of his beard dragging across your throat and the solid thud of his hips when he rocks into you like he’s just settling in for the night.

god, the hair. chest hair matted with sweat, belly hair catching on your fingers as you drag your hand down. it’s soft in places and coarse in others, and you mouth at it like you’re starving. kiss your way down until you’re face-first in it, inhaling, mouthing at the stretch marks on his sides and the little crease above his waistband. the hair is thick here—dense and soft and messy in a way that feels real, like he’s too busy being yours to bother grooming it for anyone else. it trails down from his chest in an unbroken line, narrowing just enough to make your mouth water when it disappears beneath his boxers.

you nuzzle into it shamelessly. run your nose along the trail, fingers curling in the bush like it’s something sacred. it smells like sweat and skin and home. and he’s just watching you. eyes heavy, lips parted, one hand ghosting in your hair like he doesn’t want to interrupt whatever kind of worship this is. eyes heavy, jaw slack, hand buried in your hair like he’s trying not to come from the sight of it alone.

he’s got this stupid, wrecked little voice when he says your name. like he can’t believe you’re doing this to him. like you don’t realize how insane you look—naked and reverent and obsessed, licking into the softest part of his belly like it’s divine.

and the thing is, you are obsessed. because every time you climb into his lap and feel that stomach press into yours and his arms go tight around your waist, everything else just disappears. and you rock against him slow, and the jiggle is real, and he moans when you grind down and his belly pushes up between you like it’s part of the rhythm. and he feels huge. he is huge. but he holds you like you’re the only thing he can’t afford to drop.

you tell him he’s perfect and he laughs like he doesn’t believe it, but he lets you say it again. and again. until you’re both wrecked and ruined and soft, still joined, hair damp, your cheek resting on his chest where it rises and falls like a lullaby.

and maybe you whisper, “you’re mine.” and he kisses your hair and says, “always.”

and then asks if you want a sandwich.

[navydoves]

GAMER GUY? ˚🎮🕹️👾

LADS men as GAMERS!

✎ᝰ a/n: they're all streamers lol, enjoy!

⭐︎ ⭐︎ ⭐︎ ⭐︎ ⭐︎

˚🎮🕹️👾. ˚🎮🕹️👾. ˚🎮🕹️👾.

XAVIER

❥ xavier is the go-to comfort streamer. he only really plays easy rpgs, farming sims, or turn based games. it’s not that he doesn’t or can’t play harder games (like combat or first person shooter) but it’s more like he doesn’t prefer to most days. he thinks of games as a peaceful, winding down hobby so most days he’d rather not break a sweat trying to clear levels or fight bosses. on the rare occasion he does play harder games, he’s always so strangely good at them. he tries to tell his chat that no he didn’t pre-play the game before the stream and no he didn’t watch videos for strategies. he’s just naturally that good!

❥ his most common time to stream is evening to night, but sometimes he’ll fall asleep while the camera is still on because he’s so tired. he wears bunny or cat headphones that light up and has a matching light up controller or keyboard. his set up is pretty simple, just a pc with two screens and his gaming console. there’s no big extravagant show or a special room for him, he’s very casual.

❥ xavier really enjoys talking to his chat. he doesn’t go out of his way to answer every question, but he’ll dedicate a few minutes to just reading people’s comments and giving short responses. he’s a natural charmer with his soft laughs and candid responses, no wonder he gets so much traction.

❥ and speaking of which, xavier truly doesn’t know how well liked he is. the amount of donations and viewers he gets even when he goes missing for months at a time is abnormal. he constantly has to turn down the donation noise down on his streams because it gets annoying. (the noise is the sound of a shooting star btw hehe.)

❥ he’s a bit of a secret gamer nerd. his chat will ask what the posters and figures are in the background of his streams, and xavier will make it a habit to bring out his new collection of merchandise he got. he doesn’t fill his room to the brim with items though, no no. xavier only collects a decent amount of sentimental, cute things that fit well within his room. so if anyone asks about them, be prepared for a shy but intriguing conversation!

“i can barely keep my eyes open… but i really want to explore this new area. will anyone stay awake with me? wow… all of you, huh?”

ZAYNE

❥ zayne’s streams were once few far and in between. he only started streaming because he felt kinda lonely without anyone to play games with. he has friends, yes! but working a full-time day job means that you end up being too tired to find other people to play with, if they even play games in the first place. playing games is his little side hobby and his way of connecting with other people.

❥ zaynes primary games are puzzle based games, story-centered rpgs, and of course… tetris. he loves anything that requires thoughtful thinking and enjoys a good storyline. but when he just needs to turn off his brain and talk to his chat, he’ll opt for his favorite time-passing tetris. it’s become somewhat of an inside joke between him and his viewers that tetris is his lifeline. it’s not even mundane to watch him. contrary to popular belief, zayne is a good conversationalist when he’s comfortable, and playing for his viewers is actually very comforting.

❥ zayne’s set up is pretty simple. nothing too colorful or bright, just hues of blue and white around his monitors and consoles. maybe he’ll have a snowman figure or a snow globe perched up on his desk but he keeps his gaming area relatively declutterred and clean. not only does it bring him mental peace but it’s also very aesthetically pleasing to look at. even his PC background is of like… snowy mountains or something. it’s like his signature!

❥ zayne mostly plays in the evenings or mid-afternoons. evenings after work or midday if he’s off. he didn’t have a schedule at first, but when he started to get into the groove of streaming more regularly, he also started to have more of a rhythm for his streams. weekends had a high probability, thursdays and wednesdays were his next best days. but at the very least, zayne promises to stream at least twice a week just to keep his viewers (and himself) happy.

❥ it’s actually quite obvious that zayne has a bit of a soft spot for his chat, especially his regulars. it’s very easy for him to remember usernames or the life stories of someone, even if he only saw them online once. he has his special of making his fans feel special. he might not say it often but zayne is actually very grateful for his viewers. he’s not a big streamer or anything, but he definitely has a solidified circle of people who like watching him. he’s very well liked for his skills (and his face but he gets shy whenever he’s complimented).

“i can’t be bothered to play god of war today guys, apologies, i’m very tired. let’s switch over to tetris… why’s everyone laughing?”

RAFAYEL

❥ rafayel is a popular streamer and he loves it! due to his charismatic, funny, and playfully personality, rafa ends up drawing in thousands of viewers each livestream. while his intent at the beginning was to just share his love for video games, he doesn’t mind the attention one bit. he revels in it actually. and despite his growing popularity, the best part about rafayel is that he keeps authentic. there’s never any extravagant or clickbait-y videos, it’s just always rafayel being rafayel.

❥ rafayel’s most played games are the games his viewers ask him to play. his favourites would definitely be a mix of dress up/massive multiplayer/adventure video games. he really doesn’t have a strong preference, he’s willing to play anything. the only hiccup here is when his chat asks rafayel to play a really heavy-duty combat game that he really isn’t mentally equipped for. he’ll spend a good forty minutes on a boss before semi-rage quitting and pouting… and then maybe he goes back to it an hour later.

❥ rafayel’s set up is very colorful but not blinding. the lights are somewhat dim but they all shine rainbows across his face and room. it’s really eye catching! his actual set up is quite massive. he has four different monitors but onto really uses two. he switches between different cute headsets but his staples are the unicorn one and the mermaid designed one. his desk set up isn’t just where he plays games, it’s where he thrives. there’s even a wheely cart of snacks so he can eat mid stream if he so wishes. it’s messy, sure, but not overwhelming. it’s the way he works.

❥ rafayel does not have a streaming schedule at all. he tried having a schedule once and then started to feel kinda suffocated by it. he’s a very type B, “i do what i want when i want to” person. it’s a little hectic but it works the best for him because as soon as he feels obligated to stream, he doesn’t wanna do it anymore. but it really doesn’t matter at what time he streams, he’ll still get a good amount of viewers from all over! he is really grateful for the flexibility. apart from his job as an art teacher, streaming really doesn’t matter pay the bills. and to think, he can do it at any time!

❥ with his chat, rafayel is definitely the most interactive. sometimes entire streams will be dedicated to getting to know his viewers better. he gets very attached. but he has no problem reprimanding someone for being aggressive or rude, either to him or others. he takes that kindness shit seriously! the only time he’ll be “mean” is when he’s play fighting with the chat, which he does so often that he starts to have personal beef with certain users. but it’s all in love, of course!

“ah! fuck! i died again! what do you guys have me playing? what if i just turned off stream right now, huh? yeah… yeah, thought so!”

SYLUS

❥ when sylus first considered streaming, he thought maybe he was a little too old for a seemingly “juvenile” hobby. but his young companion, coworkers (luke and kieran) pushed him to at least try! sylus was a bit awkward at first, what with all the mechanics he had to build for a set-up and all the games that were available to him. the first few streams went just as he thought, him tensely pulling up random games and playing them to an audience of two (luke and kieran again). he almost gave up after the fourth or so livestream, but once his viewer count went up to five, he decided to stay a little longer.

❥ a good idea, that was. because in just a few months sylus would amass a couple hundred viewers that would tune into his live streams. it also helped that sylus really found his niche in first person shooter/close combat/stealth games. he felt the most confident in these games and would always take suggestions for new games under the same category. just to humor his chat, though, he’d indulge in silly casual games which he always scored high on, but sylus enjoys thrill much more. his set up is simple and sleek, black and red as the main colors and nothing getting in the way of his space except maybe a coaster. and just 1 singular pair of black headphones because they go a long way.

❥ despite being fairly new to games, sylus gets the hang of things very quickly. it’s very impressive. he doesn’t get emotional about losing or being stuck somewhere either, just a bit frustrated. if he gets too frustrated, he’ll decide to take a break and pop open a beer and talk to his chat. he’s very straightforward forward and amused with his viewers. he finds all the comments about his looks and skills very flattering but also kinda funny. like: “wow? that’s about me? haha.”

❥ sylus and his chat is very endearing relationship. there will be rare moments where he will explicitly say how grateful he is, but most of his gratitude comes from his attention. his first donation came as a shock and he almost felt a little uncomfortable to think that someone would give him money just for… gaming? he turned his donations off after that, and no matter how much his chat begged, he never turned them back on. he thinks the best appreciation comes from from dedication, and sylus is definitely dedicated.

❥ also, kinda funny, but the viewers definitely enjoy sylus’s voice. part of his charm is that soothing, raspy voice. it’s mature and deep, very commanding of attention. he never realizes how entranced his viewers are from his mannerisms. his deep voice, the tapping of his fingers, the clicking of his tongue. it’s all very satisfying and so sylus. his mature look and atmosphere draws in just about anybody. it’s very calming in a way… very soothing to the soul.

“how old am i? too old to be playing mortal kombat on stream, that’s for sure. but i do it because i have fun, nothing more to it. hm? i can never be old to enjoy myself? that’s nice of you to say.”

CALEB

❥ caleb has always been an avid video gamer player since he was a kid, and getting into streaming really was one of his goals. he didn’t need to be popular or make money off of it, he just wanted to share his passion with everyone else. but now, he was both! caleb could be considered semi-popular. he garners a few thousand viewers every stream which is a lot more than what the average streamer gets. it’s like an unspoken wish of his come true.

❥ it’s for that reason that caleb tries to stream as frequently as possible. he wants to have every chance to meet his audience and play games with or for them. he’ll host multiplayer games or join other people’s games to be able to experience the fun of co-op. his schedule is set for weekends, but it’s absolutely possible for him to pop in for a few hours on weekdays to continue a story quest from his favorite adventure game. he actually refuses to play certain games unless his audience gets to watch it too.

❥ caleb’s set up is actually very high-tech. he’s saved up a lot to buy his stuff and for that reason, he’s really, really careful with it. he doesn’t rage or put unnecessary drinks around his tech. he tries not to dirty it up but he really likes to eat while streaming so that tends to get a little hard. the main colours there are white, orange, and purple. people remark how those are the colours he wears the most often too. his headset is a pair of white and orange ones, but after encouragement from his chat, he added some dog ears to them. it’s a little embarrassing but whatever makes the fans happy.

❥ there really isn’t a game category out there caleb hasn’t tried. after years of gaming, he’s dipped his toes into practically every genre and knows a lot about gaming companies and developers and even some coding. talk about a true gaming nerd. but still, he’ll replay a lot of games because he really does get immersed in what he does. and any new big game that comes out, he’ll play almost immediately to give his two cents in. and trust, he’ll always have a lot to say.

❥ but just like the love he has for video games, caleb definitely has gotten a love for streaming too. sometimes he gets so sad that he has to cut the stream that he just… decides to bring everyone along. he’ll turn on a small go pro and just take his viewers on a grocery run or out to the park to get away from the screen. sometimes gaming and streaming overlapped, but other times they were lovely in their own right. of course every minute of the way, caleb has his nose stuck at the chat, wondering what his viewers are saying and laughing at their jokes about how weird and goofy he is. caleb lived for that.

“bro, how lore-packed is this game??? let’s check to see how many hours i’ve played… fifty-three?! alright guys, haha, i’m not jobless i swear. how about we go out and enjoy the stars before my retinas burn off?”

⭐︎ ⭐︎ ⭐︎ ⭐︎ ⭐︎

˚🎮🕹️👾. ˚🎮🕹️👾. ˚🎮🕹️👾.

[justwinginglife]

A Messy Arrangement

@fiannee @94biscuits omg guys, I am so sorry I took so long writing another Gojo fic, but this one is finally finished! (More in the works).

Synopsis: Fuck boy Gojo is your roommate and you can't tell what's more frustrating: that he can't keep it in his goddamn pants or that you aren't the one in his pants. Word Count Estimate: 6300 Tags: Mutual Pining, Blow job, Oral sex, P in V, Friends/Enemies/Whatever The Fuck They Are to Lovers Warning: NSFW

“Would you keep your mouth shut next time ya fuck? You sound like a dying seal.” 

It was 9am, the coffee was out, the toaster was fried to shit, you had no caffeine, no toast, and you were feeling particularly murderous this morning because you’d been yanked from sleep to listen to Satoru nearly break his creaky ass bed for the last THREE hours, moaning and groaning like he was a haunted treehouse.

You were seriously considering other living options at the moment.

Satoru grinned as he joined you at the kitchen counter, turning on the tap to collect himself a cup of water after his highly strenuous activities had come to their conclusion. “You’re just jealous, admit it.”

“Jealous? Of her? I’m surprised her eardrums didn’t shatter after she got a personal serenade of nails on a chalkboard.” You shot back.

He smirked. “Not of her. Of me.”

You raised an unamused brow at him. You shouldn’t be humoring him so early in the morning, but at least if he said some more bullshit then you had a decent reason to kill him. “And why would I be jealous of you?”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe cuz I came like twenty times.”

You snorted. “It’s not that hard to make you come; I’m sure a bare ankle would do.” 

He raised his chin to you snootily. “It takes skill to make a man come- something you would know nothing about.”

You crossed your arms. “You think I wouldn’t have you coming down my throat the second my tongue hit your tip?”

He huffed. “That’s not all it takes, you know.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, right. I just pretend I’m gagging on your ‘huge’ dick, cough up a fake moan, add a little suction, and you’re putty in my hands. Or should I say, in my mouth?” His eyes narrowed in challenge. “Oh you talk a big game, but I bet you can’t back it up.”

You let out a short laugh before cracking your neck. “Alright. Drop your pants then, pretty boy.”

Satoru blinked. “What?”

“I said, drop your fucking pants. Underwear too.” 

He eyed you warily, wondering if you were serious or if this was a joke. When he saw the look in your eyes, he slowly slid them down. 

“C’mon grandma, we haven’t got all day.” You impatiently yanked his underwear off and began to stroke his cock. You pumped it in and out of your fist in rough, vigorous spurts. 

He choked on his spit and gripped the kitchen counter for support. 

You’d barely had it in your palm for very long before you wrapped your plush lips around his cock, tongue flicking over his swollen tip incessantly. 

He bit his lip as his precum started trickling out of him, smearing itself all over your lips. When he finally got used to the rhythm of you fucking his cock with your mouth, you changed it up on him. You slammed your head forward and he hit the back of your throat in one violent motion. 

“Shiiiiiiiiiit!” He hissed, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He clenched his thighs around your neck, attempting to stop the flood that was coming, but it was to no avail.

He came down your throat right as last night’s fling walked into the kitchen. 

“How could you, Gojo?!” She yanked off the shirt she’d borrowed from him and whipped it at his face before rushing off to collect her things from his room. 

You smirked as you pulled away, licking your lips clean. “Aw, trouble in paradise.”

He rolled his eyes. “Can’t you be at least a little sympathetic for me? Now I have to go after her.”

“I’m not sympathetic in the slightest.” You gave him a mocking pat on the shoulder. “Have fun, lover boy.”

He glared at you before hiking his pants back up and taking off. 

For several hours, you had peace and quiet. It was almost like having your own apartment. You got your work done, finished your chores, and just overall enjoyed your day. You had been snacking on popcorn, just watching a movie on the couch when he finally burst through the doors again, ruining your perfect day. He was making out so heavily with a girl (a completely different girl than the one he’d chased after this morning), and devouring her so completely that you could barely see her face to tell that she was a different girl at all. Of course he always had to make an entrance. He drove you absolutely insane. 

You cleared your throat loudly.

He gave a dramatic sigh. “Yumiko, meet my roommate.”

She gave a polite nod.

You looked her up and down. “Toru, you’re not going to want this one.”

Her eyes narrowed at your words.

He didn’t notice. He waved you away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about; we’re gonna have such a good time, aren’t we, baby?” He slung his arm around her and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Later, roomie!” He shot you a peace sign before disappearing into his room with her. 

You face-palmed. He’d be back out here soon. That girl was 50 shades of crazy and you could smell it on her. As much game as Satoru had, sometimes he acted like such a virgin. He wasn’t going to be able to handle her. 

Unlike last night’s three hours, he was back out in five minutes.

You raised your head. 

“Help me.” He mouthed.

You crossed your arms, amused, as you shook your head “No” at him. This was his mess; he could clean it up himself. 

“Oh, Gojooooo!” She called to him, her voice getting louder as she made her way over to the living room.

“Please, I’m begging you.” He whispered.

You sighed, feeling somewhat bad for him. “Fine. Kiss me.” 

His eyes widened with horror. “No, god no, she’ll kill me!” He hissed.

“Toru. Do you trust me?”

He sighed. “Fine, fine. Just get me out of this.”

He followed your instruction, quickly seating himself on the couch. You straddled him and pinned both of his wrists against the back of the couch. He knew you had to make it look like you’d taken advantage of him (rather than him running to you for protection), but he still couldn’t help the way his throat went dry when he felt you settle yourself on top of him, clothed core parking itself on top of his swollen erection (god, was it growing even more now??). Then you started to make out with him hungrily and he lost himself in you. His lips chased after yours, as though desperate for a taste of you. You couldn’t remember the last time a man kissed you so passionately. If he didn’t drive you batshit crazy and if you weren’t literally in the middle of doing him a favor, you might’ve actually enjoyed kissing him.

“What the HELL is going on?” A voice suddenly demanded from beside you. Oh yeah. She was crazy all right. You could hear the fight in her voice. 

You continued to make out with him, pretending not to notice that she was there. When she repeated herself, this time louder, you only bothered to open one eye to peek over at her, making sure she knew you had better things to be doing than to pay attention to her. “Can I help you with something?” You murmured innocently as you tilted his chin up and licked a rough stripe up his neck. He shivered.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing with my man?” Her tone was low and seething. 

“Oh honey. Does this look like your man to you?” You took his lower lip between your teeth, biting down so hard that he whined. Then you lapped the blood from his mouth, licking both his lips and yours, as she watched bitterly. 

“We were in the middle of something.” She said through clenched teeth. 

“And we’re in the middle of something now, bitch.” You spat back before grinding down on his cock. He let out a strangled groan.

She moved to pull you back by the hair but you caught her wrist. 

“Did I say you could fucking interrupt?” You turned to glare hellfire at her. 

She yanked her arm back, rubbing her wrist where your nails had broken skin. “You’re a fucking psycho.” She hissed.

“And you’re not welcome here. Get your shit and go. If I ever see you touching what’s mine ever again, I’ll make you wish you were dead.” You snarled.

She stared you down for a moment, then her gaze flitted over to him, trying to gauge if he was worth the fight. She decided against it, raising her hands in surrender as she backed up. In a few minutes, she’d grabbed her things and disappeared out the door.

Satoru exhaled a sigh of relief and leaned against your shoulder. “Damn, she was insane.” Then he sat up straight. “Wait, you knew she was insane, didn’t you? That’s why you said I wouldn’t like her. How could you tell?”

You shrugged, pulling yourself off of him (he tried not to whine as you withdrew). “Crazy recognizes crazy.”

He let out a whistle. “Shit, remind me not to mess with you.”

You let out a laugh as you plopped back down beside him. “Popcorn?” You offered him your bowl, pressing play on your movie once again.

He blinked at you. “You can’t be serious.”

“What?” You asked, popping a kernel into your mouth.

He gestured to the tent in his pants. “Still horny here.”

“And? You have a hand.” 

He gave you an unamused look. “Oh, come on. Half of this is your fault. Help a guy out. You know…” He swallowed. “Like…like earlier.” You paused the movie and turned to examine him, amused. “Are you begging me to suck your dick, Toru?”

He gave a sheepish laugh. “Not begging…just…wondering?”

“What’ll you do if I agree?”

“What do you mean, what’ll I do? You can’t just get a guy off out of the goodness of your heart?”

You raised a brow.

“Yeah, okay, fine. I’ll do dishes for the next week.”

“Two weeks.”

“Fine, fine, two weeks.”

You dropped to your knees and slid down his pants. He’d already made a proper mess of himself, precum oozing out of him, after you’d done a number on him earlier. You smirked at the sight. “Aww, I dry hump you once and you get all worked up for me. How cute.” 

His cheeks darkened. “Shut up and suck me off.”

“Ask nicely, Toru.”

He bit his lip. “Please… god, I need you to suck me off.”

“Good boy.” 

He imagined you’d deep throat him again so he sucked in a breath, bracing himself. He never could’ve imagined you’d take the time to tease him, coaxing out every last drop of precum he had to offer with every slow, agonizing drag of your tongue. You traced the rim of his tip, applying pressure when he least expected it, and denying pressure when he most wanted it. Then you began to trail your tongue down his rigid length, acquainting yourself intimately with every bulging vein, until he was twitching and moaning beneath you. He thought he might die if you kept going with this torturous pace. He needed to fuck your throat and he needed it now. 

As if sensing his desire, you looked up to meet his lustful gaze as you licked a slow stripe up his cock before latching around his plush tip and starting to suck. He was barely an inch into your mouth and already he wanted to come from the way you were looking at him. He was so hooked on the feeling of your saliva coating his cock like a balm to his aching need, so entranced by the way you commanded his gaze as you swallowed him down that, in the heat of the moment, if asked, he could swear he might be in love with you. You choked back a couple more inches until he was properly buried in your clenching throat and it wasn’t long after that he was soaking your walls with his milky cum. 

Like you were simply clocking out of work, you pulled away from him once he’d finished squirming in your mouth, and pressed play on your movie again. 

Unbelievable. Here he was, still blinking away stars and gasping for breath and you were munching on popcorn like you hadn’t just swallowed down his seed only seconds before. But he guessed that was the most intimacy he could hope for and, for now, it was enough.

He made the decision to join you in your movie-watching endeavors. “So, what’re we watching?” He cozied up beside you and scooped up a handful of popcorn.

“Horror.”

He froze. You wanted to watch a horror movie. Right before bed. Bold choice. Then he shrugged. “Can’t be half as bad as that psycho chick.” 

As the two of you watched your movie together, for a moment, you actually didn’t seem to mind him. It was times like these that he wasn’t half bad. When he wasn’t banging every living creature, he was actually half decent. He’d noticed the goosebumps on your arms and yanked a blanket off the arm rest to pass to you. You gratefully accepted. When you realized he was cold too, you scooted closer to share the blanket. He was surprised but he allowed it. 

“You know what would make this even better?” He held up the popcorn bowl.

“More butter?” “More butter.” You said in unison.

You both burst into laughter. 

“I’ll grab some more,” He took off for the kitchen before you could even ask.

You smiled and then caught yourself. What the fuck were you doing? Cozying up to him, finishing his sentences, sharing food with him? Did you…like him? Your nose crinkled at the thought. He was immature, reckless, unbelievably horny. Not your type. No, you were simply being a good roommate and that was all. But since when were you good roommates? You were always at each other’s throats. After a moment’s ponderance, you realized that it wasn’t until he started bringing women over that you actually started bitching at each other. You’d been perfectly kind to each other before. You swallowed. No. Could it be…were you…jealous? 

He settled himself beside you on the couch again. “Extra order of butter, as requested.” 

You had a split second of hesitation before you smiled again and plucked some popcorn out of the bowl. You immediately turned back to the screen as though nothing had happened.

He watched you curiously. “Something wrong?”

“Just…throat dry. Too much popcorn.” You still weren’t looking at him.

He set the bowl down and instantly went to grab you some water. 

You mentally face-palmed. He couldn’t keep doing stuff like this. You were going to lose your mind. You gave him another pinched smile when he quickly returned with your drink. “Thanks.” You took a sip from the cup.

He stared at you as you drank, taking note that your expression still hadn’t changed even after he’d fetched a drink for you. “Alright, spill. It’s not your throat that’s wrong. What’s up?”

“Watch the movie, Toru.”

He snatched the remote from you and hit pause. “I’ll ask again. What’s going on?”

You sighed. “Maybe I just don’t like having to clean up after all of your little flings, okay? I’m getting tired of it.” It was a half truth. It would do.

His gaze softened and he even looked…apologetic? “Alright, so I won’t bring them over anymore then. You saved me big time today. I really do appreciate it.”

You were quiet for a moment, but then your curiosity got the better of you. “So what did she do to you anyway?”

He instantly shuddered. “You don’t wanna know.”

You cocked a grin at him. “But I do, that’s why I asked.”

He fidgeted with his fingers before finally leaning over to whisper in your ear, “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

You held out your pinky and he took it with his trembling hand before quietly admitting, “She whipped my dick and then said she’d ‘kiss it all better’ and then bit it. She literally bit it.” The color drained from his face as he described it and it took everything in you not to laugh. “I won’t even discuss with you what she wanted to do to my… to my ass.”

“Poor baby Satoru is traumatized.” You teased.

“It’s not even funny; I literally am traumatized. I think I may be celibate going forward.” He shuddered again.

Now you had to laugh. “Satoru Gojo, celibate? Are pigs flying?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I’m a man whore, I know, I know. I hear all the rumors. But I’m serious; I think I really will take a break. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable anyway.”

“Well I appreciate that. Maybe I won’t have to murder you after all.”

He snorted. “As if you could.”

You traced your thumb over where you’d drawn blood from his lip just an hour ago. “Maybe you’re not as untouchable as you think you are.”

He caught your wrist in a firm grip, and his gaze locked onto your eyes. “Or maybe I don’t mind letting you touch me.”

Your breath hitched.

His thumb gently caressed your wrist. 

Before he could think too much about it, he began to slowly lean forward.

“I’m really tired!” You blurted out suddenly, standing up straight. You even yawned and stretched for the full effect. Then you dashed to your room and locked the door. And then pulled your bookcase in front of the door as if it would stop the one and only Satoru Gojo. 

Back in the living room, Satoru was still in shock. Did you just…? Could you tell what he was...? Or were you actually tired? You didn’t seem tired when you were laughing at the movie. A smile tugged at his lips. Laughing. You were actually laughing at a horror movie. He shook his head thinking about it. You were something. You’d always been something. 

He still remembered the day he’d first moved in with you. He arrived later than he said he would and you were half asleep on the couch by the time he got there. When you heard him sneak in, your instincts kicked in and you instantly sat upright, nearly scaring the life out of him. 

“If you’re a burglar, I’m a broke college student; if you find any money, it’s news to me. If you’re my new roommate, you took too long so I took the bigger room. Either way, I’m sure you can deal with whatever you came for like a big boy.”

He burst into a fit of laughter. And he was never late again. In fact, he’d never looked forward to coming home so much in his entire life. When he lived with his clan, he was the center of attention. The legendary Satoru Gojo. The prodigy. The miracle. When he was with you, he was just some sheltered kid who’d never cooked a day in his life, never ridden the train, never even tied his own shoelaces. When he was with you, he was just Toru. 

Lately, Toru was nothing more than a fuck up. Nothing more than someone who couldn’t keep bringing his mistakes home. Someone who’d rather drown himself in shallow affairs and forced intimacy than admit he felt something for the girl in the room over. 

He wasn’t the only one. 

You’d conveniently forgotten the time that you slept on the floor for two days straight because your bed frame had snapped in half, and when you left the door ajar the next day, and he walked by and saw your blanket and pillows on the floor, he fixed the bedframe for you before you even came home. You’d forgotten the times when he’d steal your favorite box of cereal, convinced he’d never eaten anything so amazing in his entire life (to which you’d reply, “It’s just cereal, haven’t you ever eaten cereal before?” and the answer was no, he hadn’t), but he’d always replace it before you ran out as thanks for letting him share. And you’d forgotten the way he’d draw smiley faces on the window with his finger when you’d complain under your breath that the rain was making you depressed. You’d somehow completely forgotten he wasn’t a terrible person before he started bringing all these bimbos home. 

You were going to have to face your feelings sooner or later. You just didn’t want to face them now. It was already bad enough that the taste of his lips from your earlier makeout session was still seared into your brain, without you having to worry about if that kiss meant something to you or to him. It was even worse that he was a good kisser. You never doubted he was, but something about him kissing you made all the difference. And it was fake, it was an act, yada yada, but still, you couldn’t force yourself to stop thinking about it. To stop lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, reliving it in a loop. To stop wondering if he was lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and reliving it too.

After another hour or two of this, you finally sighed and got out of bed. You needed a cup of warm milk, some Benadryl, a ten mile jog, a hammer to the head, whatever would knock you out. You weren’t gonna face him looking like a zombie in the morning. If your constant clashing with him didn’t kill the mood, that certainly would.

So you marched over to the kitchen in search of literally anything useful, and found that he was already there, raiding the fridge. He had half a cookie sticking out of his mouth and was trying to juggle the milk carton and a cup in one arm while he continued to file through the fridge with the other. 

“Mmmf, you…here for a…midnight snack too?” He mumbled in between chewing. 

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Finish your food before you talk, geez, Toru. That’s like the first rule they teach you in elementary school.”

“Cookie’s too…big for me…” He mumbled again.

He was going to choke at this rate. You reached over and snapped a portion of the cookie off, popping it into your mouth. “There. Not as big anymore.”

“You do realize that was just in my mouth.”

“It was sticking out of your mouth.”

“Yeah, but I figure it counts as indirect kissing, right?” He grinned.

You rolled your eyes, but turned away so he couldn’t see the hint of a blush creeping into your cheeks. “You just say whatever ridiculous shit pops into your brain, don’t you?”

He set his things down on the counter before cupping your face with one hand and turning you towards him. “Can I… say some more ridiculous shit?”

You grabbed another cookie and shoved it into his mouth.

He raised a brow at you as if to say “Really?”

He was right; you were being dumb. If he wanted to have it out now, you may as well have it out now. Maybe he wouldn’t remember it in the morning. Maybe you wouldn’t remember it in the morning. Oh, who were you kidding? There was no way you’d forget the way your heart was racing like it was in the Indy 500. But if it was going to be awkward now, it was still going to be awkward even if you waited a day, a week, or even a month to have this conversation. So you had to have it.

He finished chewing. “Can I talk now?”

You gestured for him to continue like it was no big deal, but your eyes trailed down to the floor.

“Nuh-uh. You know when someone talks, the other person usually looks at them. That’s, like,” He grinned, remembering your earlier words, “The second rule they teach you in elementary school.” He tucked a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“Alright, alright- I’m looking. Spit it out, Toru.” Your rapid fire words matched the rapid fire pace of your heartbeat and you just hoped he couldn’t tell.

“Would’ve said it sooner if someone didn’t shove a cookie into my mouth, so really, who’s fault is it for the delay?” He teased.

You rolled your eyes but your flushing cheeks betrayed your show of annoyance. “Well you’re still delaying. If you don’t get on with it, I’m going to bed.” You made a point of turning to leave, but he caught your wrist. 

“I was going to tell you I’m not bringing anyone over anymore.”

“Yeah- you said that already, Toru.” 

“But I mean it. There’s no point. The only person I’m interested in already lives with me. And…I wonder if she’s interested in me too.”

You bit your lip.

“And…I wonder if she knows how cute she is when she bites her lip.” He ran a thumb over your lower lip tenderly. “And how much she consumes my every thought, waking or dreaming.” His eyes flicked back up to yours, waiting for your answer.

You exhaled and then cracked a smile. “You saying you get wet dreams about me, Toru?”

He shook his head, amused at how that was the one thing you’d fixated on. “On more than one occasion. You saying you don’t mind?”

“I’m saying I mind a lot of things you do. I mind the way you leave the toilet seat up to remind me you were in there, even if you were just shitting on it so it should’ve been down. I mind the way you leave all the lights in the entire apartment on even if you’re not using that room. I mind the way you spritz me with your cologne when I just told you it was too strong. But that, your… feelings for me…I don’t mind. And I’m starting not to mind how I think about you too. How I can’t stop thinking about you. Is that an answer?”

“Oh, you know, it was long and drawn out and dramatic. But very like you. So I guess I’ll take it.” He grinned. “Only on one condition, though.”

You raised a brow. “What’s that?”

“You let me kiss you. For real, this time.”

“You don’t have to ask, you can just-”

His lips were on yours in an instant. But for someone who was infamously impatient, the way he kissed you was slow, gentle. He cradled your face in his hands, thumbs caressing your cheeks tenderly. He held onto this one, simple moment for as long as he could before he needed air. And then he regretted needing air because the moment he pulled away, he missed you already. His eyes found yours, gauging your reaction to his kiss.

“Was that all I get?” You murmured, love drunk. “Where’s the insatiable Satoru who begged me to choke him down?”

He gave a sheepish chuckle. “He was kind of a selfish bastard, he knows that now. I won’t make the same mistake as him. I want to take it slow.” As if to prove his point, he trailed his hands gently down your arms. He just wanted to relish the feeling of your skin beneath his fingertips. When he got to your hands, he gave them a little squeeze, before pressing a tender kiss to each one.  

Then, he let go of your hands, finding your hips instead, and pulling you towards him until you were close enough to exchange air. You thought he might kiss you again, but he just gazed into your eyes as his fingers caressed your hips. “You’re so beautiful,” He whispered, words coated in genuine sweetness. If he could look at you forever, he would. He’d memorize every freckle, every scar, every detail that made you you, until you were all that he pictured when he drifted into the land of dreams every night. 

“You just going to keep staring?” You teased, half flustered and half impatient. 

“Well, what should I be doing right now? Please, enlighten me, my dear.” He grinned, leaning down to press a kiss on your forehead. “Tell me what you want.” 

“Kiss me like you mean it.”

You heard him inhale sharply before taking a nosedive towards your lips. When his lips met yours, it was everything passionate and pure. His hunger was still evident in the way he pressed himself into you like he’d become one with your very being if he just closed enough distance, but it wasn’t any hunger like you’d seen before. It wasn’t primal or instinct or out of necessity, it was yearning, it was devotion, it was beautiful. He didn’t kiss you because he couldn’t help himself or because you were just satisfying some urge of his; he kissed you because he loved you, because he was all yours and he needed you to know that. And he didn’t do anything but kiss you. He didn’t try to touch you anymore than just steading himself against you, he didn’t try to force himself on you. He just simply wanted to be with you. And you’d only asked for a kiss so that would be enough for him.

Of course, you didn’t want just a kiss.

“Toruuu…” You moaned against his lips as he chased yours, over and over again. “Need you…”

The desperation and desire in your tone was clear but the raging fire in his pants could wait until he’d had explicit consent. “What do you need, baby?” He murmured as he trailed his kisses up and down your jawline. 

“Need you to take me… need you… to fuck me.”

He let out a low groan, as heat seared through his veins. God, the way you spoke drove him insane. He scooped you up in his arms and began to carry you to your bedroom. He didn’t dare take you to his. If this was going to be his first time with you, he didn’t want it to be anywhere near where he’d spent long nights tangled up with other women. This was something new, something precious. He wouldn’t make the mistake of treating you the way he did anyone else. 

You, however, had no clue what he was thinking, not being privy to his personal inner monologue, so when he didn’t just take you right on the kitchen counter, or in his bedroom (which was closer to the kitchen than yours), you gave him a puzzled look. “Where are you going, baby? What are we doing?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted me to take you? I’m making good on that request.”

“But why are we going all the way to my room? We could’ve just done it on the kitchen counter, I wouldn’t have minded. Or even your room.” 

He shook his head. “I know you asked me to fuck you, love, but I’m not going to do that. You’re not some quickie for me. You’re not just some random girl. You’re the love of my life and I want to make love to you. I thought your bed would be more comfortable for you anyway, seeing as how you’re already used to it. That okay with you?” He gazed down at you lovingly, eyes bright and earnest and impossible to refuse. 

“Of course that’s okay with me, Toru. More than okay. I want to make love to you too.” You blushed as your reply left your lips quieter than you would’ve liked. How could you so suddenly become shy when you’d just asked him to fuck you not two minutes ago? But when he put it so sincerely like that, you couldn’t help but melt inside. 

And when he practically beamed at your response, you felt your insides softening even further. What was he doing to you? You were turning into a big puddle of mush and it was all because of him. 

He laid you down on your bed gently and slipped your clothes off of you, with all care and no speed, like he was just enjoying the process of stripping you bare. It was almost too slow for your liking, but you didn’t dare tell him that- not when he was looking at you like he’d found gold with every inch of skin revealed to him.

“God- look at you. You’re gorgeous.” He murmured, reveling in the sight of your naked form once he’d had you fully stripped. Then he bent down to trail reverent kisses down your neck, down your chest, down your stomach.

Your eyes fluttered shut as he explored your body with his lips. Whenever you’d let a satisfied sigh slip as he’d skim over a particularly sensitive spot, he made sure to lavish proper attention to it, sucking and biting, until he’d left the evidence of his love for you blooming on your skin. He hadn’t even touched you where you’d wanted him to yet, still leaving marks along your hips and your thighs, and you were already a mess beneath him. His lips left you feeling heated, gasping for breath, and when he ran his cool tongue over the bruises, you felt your mind cloud over with a dizzying desire. 

You were about to beg him for even just the tip of his finger, just the tip of his cock, for something, for anything, for some semblance of satisfaction, when he finally dipped his head down and began running that devious tongue of his over your clit until you were to the point of delicious delirium. 

“So good, you taste so good, my love.” He began to suck harder on the aching bud. 

Your head arched back as whimpers tumbled past your lips. “Please, Toru-” You were utterly undone, all tense and trembling beneath him. 

“Please what?” He murmured as his tongue trailed up and down the length of your slit.

“Please let me come. Make me come.” You pleaded, hips rocking forward until his tongue was inside of you, flicking against your pulsing walls. Each stroke of his tongue was slow, intentional, exploratory, like he wouldn’t stop until he’d tasted every inch of you. Your gentle, beating pulse turned erratic, fluttering on the edge of ecstasy. A few deliberate motions later and your release was flooding his mouth, all sticky and sweet and seraphic, as the euphoria overcame you. 

You whined as he withdrew (licking his lips as he did), but you were quickly rewarded by him sheathing his cock within your wet heat shortly after. Your eyes rolled back as you adjusted to the feeling of his erection making a home between your still-trembling walls.

He sunk into your depths slowly, strangled moans rising up his throat as your greedy cunt swallowed inch by inch of his cock. Though he’d just consumed every drop of your arousal only moments ago, he could feel it growing within you again, completely slathering his length with your slick. You took him so well, fit him so perfectly, spread yourself so wide for him, that he had to brace himself against the mattress, pausing his motions so that he could breathe in and out, get himself together enough so that he wouldn’t immediately come inside of you. 

He almost felt like a virgin again, the way your clenching around him sent his soul flying out of his body. Had he not done this a million times before? But god, it was so different when it was with you. When it was you crying out his name, when it was you bumbling beneath him, when it was you begging him to go harder, to go deeper, to go faster, until he lost all sense of himself, until all he felt was you in his veins, you in his lungs, you in his soul.

He rocked into you with a growing intensity, hands burying themselves into the mattress for fear of crushing you if he perched them on your hips. He attempted to distract himself from the building tension in his groin by scattering kisses across your chest, but it only served to increase his overflowing attraction towards you as your breasts swayed with every thrust of his hips. You tasted so sweet, even if his lips had only grazed your skin for a mere second. And you smelled so enticing, even when your sweat had begun to intermingle with your natural scent. Every inch of you was perfect and every inch of you was his and it was all starting to become too much for him to handle. Too hot, too heavy, too heavenly. 

And then your breath hitched and your fingers pierced the sheets and your orgasm followed, and suddenly he was right there beside you, pumping every ounce of his desire into your welcoming depths, heaving and groaning and still thrusting for everything he was worth. Even when he had nothing left to spill inside you, he kept grinding his hips forward, just to feel that intoxicating squeeze around his cock, so gratifying, so glorious, and all for him. 

And when his exhaustion finally crashed into him, he collapsed beside you, still buried within you, and pulled you close to him, eager to feel your warmth, to hear your stuttering heartbeat. 

He wanted to tell you that you were the best he’d ever had. That he’d never felt this way for anyone. That you had seeped into the very fabric of his being and that he’d never be the same again, that he’d never be anything but yours. But as you panted against his chest, smiling sleepily at him when you’d finally recovered, his heart skipped a thousand beats and his words suddenly fell short. He settled for a simple, “I love you. So so much.”

And when you beamed at him, he knew it was enough for now. It was enough to just hold you and love you. He could spend the rest of his life telling you everything else he wanted to say.

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @ouiouimochi @minasfwoopyponytail

[markkiatocafe]

hii angel!!! I want to request tiktak by illit and my pookie jisung for your writing event hehehehe ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

ticktack

a short story with jisung of nct dream

⌗ warnings: very mild cursing (“bullshit”), they kiss (it’s a literal peck tho), reader is implied to have hair (my apologies bald readers), ermmm…. i think thats it :3

⌗ synop: a bet over mario kart may just have changed you and jisung’s whole relationship.

⌗ pairing: gn!reader x nonidol!jisung

⌗ w.c: 548

⌗ a/n: this was supposed to be a silly fun one but i lowk kinda hate this….. i hope it meets your standards decently either way gem :( i feel like this is written so awkwardly… oof ૮๑ˊᯅˋ๑ა can we take this horrible drabble as an excuse to appreciate cherrysung tho???? dare i say it’s my fave color on him… hes so pretty </3

since you were best friends, you obviously played games with jisung a lot. well, today your usual game sesh went a little too far. you were playing mario kart, and ever the competitive one you were, jisung threw a banana peel at you and got a little… mad.

“BRO???” you yelled, jaw dropping as you watched your car spin off the map, jisung sitting next to you and just laughing. you reached over the coffee table, putting your hair up and sighing, mentally collecting yourself. “this is bullshit,” you mumbled, taking your controller back into your hands as it came up on the screen that jisung had won the last round.

jisung rolled his eyes, reaching over and delicately pushing your hair behind your ear before pressing the play button again. “you’re such a sore loser, yn,” he teased, raising an eyebrow as you glared at him, your eyes narrowing. “zip it.” you warned, hitting him in the side with your elbow, not enough to actually hurt him, although he let out a small “ow.” 

as the next round started, jisung hummed thoughtfully, an idea coming to his head. “what if,” he started, glancing over at you and then quickly back to the screen. “if you win this round, i’ll pay for your meals for a week.” you kept your eyes glued on the screen, but your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. there had to be a catch to this. “and if you win?” you asked suspiciously.

you could see out of the corner of your eye, he bit down his bottom lip, almost like he was unsure if he should say what he really wanted to. “if i win… you have to give me a kiss,” his voice curved at the end, almost like it was a question more than a statement. you raised an eyebrow, almost falling off the map again in the game but quickly regaining your steadiness. “like… on the lips?” he nodded sheepishly, and you swear you could feel your cheeks get a little warmer, but you agreed.

long story short, he won, after practically bumping you off the map, and you gave in. it was a little weird, no? best friends don’t usually kiss. at least, not that you know of. still, the little voice in your head was egging you on, along with the fact that you couldn’t say no to jisung without feeling bad, so… it happened.

it was quick, you were a little stiff, but that didn’t stop the moment itself from making your heart practically stop. one thing you noticed was that he didn’t pull away, he didn’t push you off. you pulled away, actually, mainly because of anxiousness. you quickly looked away, eyes glued to the ground in an attempt to not make accidental eye contact, since that would probably make this all the more awkward.

“um… i can still do the meal thing if you want,” he spoke up, which, you noticed his voice was a little shaky. “i’m hungry.”

were you gonna talk about the kiss? probably, maybe over dinner. but for now, you were just going to mentally tell yourself that you were still platonic. just to not get your hopes up. even if, deep down, you both knew this was going to change everything.

[salmsilly]

Van der Linde Gang 🍃 Headcanons

This is with modern era in mind btw

Arthur

Did it when he was younger but grew to prefer alcohol and only really does that.

John

Either the plug or leeches off of other people.

Like he just never has his own stuff, he's only smoking if someone will invite him.

He's cool enough that people don't mind but sometimes if no one has invited him he will "very stubly" try to suggest a session.

That's the only time people will get annoyed, they know damn well he's not bringing shit

He's always watching some show high too. Smiling Friends, Midnight Gospel, or Gumball

Javier

The plug, 100%

Super generous with his stuff, it's his way of bonding

Gets so excited to find out someone wants to smoke for the first time

"Oh, I got you! I'm off this weekend, you gotta smoke with me."

Has a bong collection too, it's pretty cool and he loves it.

Charles

He'll do it occasionally, like once in a blue moon really.

Does it more with Arthur if anything.

Great for a chill smoke, or if someone's freaking out and they need someone just there, they're always with Charles.

Charles will let it happen, even if they're a little noisy because he's been there unfortunately.

Mary-Beth

Did edibles once but she took wayyy more than she should've and greened out the fuck out

Figured, a bit later, a bong might be better and easier to measure so she asked to hit one of Javier's bongs.

Greened out after one hit. (This is me projecting) Decided that was wraps and she's never done anything since.

Swanson

God, everyone just wants him to switch to weed like everyone but it's been unsuccessful

It's because his tolerance is very high and they don't know why

Dutch tried to get him shrooms after reading about them but it ended in a very very heavy hospital bill and trouble with the police

Lenny

His guilty pleasures are reading a fuck ton of stories and experiences about DMT and other kinds of drugs, he's so deep into subreddits and forums.

He never actually takes them too seriously though nor has been tempted to try them.

He doesn't smoke weed too often either, maybe to focus on something.

Sean

God, when is he not stoned.

His car smells so bad.

It's gotten to the point where he'll forget full interactions with people because he was so far gone but has had enough practice to look sober.

So when they bring something up, he'll look at them all funny asking "When was that??"

Dutch wondered if it was amnesia or something until he found the drawer of empty carts. Like, it was a graveyard.

People struggle to tell if he's high or not at times but eventually they figured always.

Tilly

Never does it, has not done it, and with absolutely no interest.

John's offered a couple of times when they were younger but it was always an immediate and stern no.

It isn't that she minds it really, she just doesn't want to.

She has no problem hanging out with the others if they're smoking.

But for the love of God, please do not bring that stench into the house, it will creep up to her room and she won't be able to sleep.

Uncle

He'll try to peer pressure people to do it but, he's so corny about it

He sounds like he belongs in an 80's infomercial against drugs.

"C'monnn, everyone here does it!" and Tilly responds with the nastiest side eye.

He's so much more funnier high though? He gets genuine chuckles and laughs out of people, it might be because they're stoned too.

Goes to his ego a bit though and he tries to be funny again sober but it falls flat so badly it's a bit embarrassing.

But it's Uncle so he's not embarrassed.

Karen

Obviously prefers alcohol way more, its effects last way longer.

She hates having to do constant hits.

She does have her own cart though where she's hitting blinkers that cannot be good for her at out.

Her PR is 30 seconds while making a bet with Sean once. (Yes she threw up.)

Sean is also always asking for a hit of her cart.

Dutch

Opposite of Lenny. Hears stories about trips and thinks it's the most profound, eye opening thing of all time.

If he catches the kids smoking, he'll start babbling on about them and the deeper meaning behind these trips or whatever. Not a single soul cares at all expect for Bill.

Molly will try to listen but she really doesn't gaf.

His big secret though is he tried shrooms himself too but it was a horrendous experience.

He was too far deep into his pro-shroom trips that could never be wrong to take it back and admit not everything was right that he gaslit himself into believing it never happened and it worked.

Hosea is the only one that knows this, he lets Dutch live his delusions.

Hosea

Also, a great person to be with for a first time.

He obviously cannot be smoking anymore so he mainly watches over everyone else and observe whatever they do because they're always doing something

Though, if anyone pisses him off he will make them believe there's things that aren't actually there. Sean is the biggest victim of this.

"Hey, was that your friend you were with just now?" "What friend?" "The one behind you earlier. Tall feller, you must've not seen them."

Abigail

After having Jack, she stopped but she was starting to hate the smell and taste anyways. Blunts are the word offenders in her opinion.

If John tries to kiss her after any sesh she immediately slaps him and tells him to brush his teeth.

She'll take an edible with the girls though, after a lot of convincing and Jack put to sleep for the night.

Pearson

The best cook only when fried, it's a little jarring seeing the difference between his sober dishes.

He's like that "so booommmm tiktok" guy

Always so creative with his stuff and it comes out really good.

Everyone cheers when he decides to smoke a bit

Made edibles as gifts before, more than likely to Sean or Javier.

Sadie

Everyone thinks it'll calm her down from being so aggressive. It does not.

She might be worse actually.

But she's so incredible fun to be around, like every activity the gang decides to do was her idea.

Hosea doesn't do his tricks on her but she never pisses him off anyways.

Kieran

The only one actually doing it medically.

He'll smoke with the rest of the gang too, one of the few times he's comfortable chilling around them. He's just really quiet and never talks.

Anyone else not mentioned I js didn't have anything for them sorry </3

[padawan-snack-packer]

Hullo my fren 👀🔔 Loving your clone trooper rants! Do you have anything about the Delta Squad, maybe some headcanons of a scenario where the reader is being bullied? Thanks! 💛

💥 Delta Squad x Reader — When You’re Being Bullied (and They Find Out)

OH MY GOSH!!!🧡 absolutely @orangez3st !! I adore Delta Squad, and this idea was SO fun and cathartic to write — thank you for sending it in!!💥💛 Our favorite murder commandos would absolutely ride or die for you, no questions asked, and now you’ve unlocked the feral protectiveness I’ve been keeping in my brain. Hope you enjoy the chaos and comfort, fren!! 👀🔧🧡

Hope you like it!!!😇

🟠 Boss (RC-1138)

You don’t even have to tell him. He sees it once — the way your shoulders curl in, the too-quiet “it’s fine” — and that’s it. His tone goes flat.

“Who did it?”

You say it’s not worth it. Boss says that’s not your call.

If you're with him during the moment? He steps in with zero hesitation. Calm, commanding, terrifyingly collected.

“You’ve got three seconds to walk away. I only need one.”

The bully runs. You shake a little. Boss just gently sets a hand on your back and murmurs, “Don’t let anyone talk to you like that again. Not when I’m here.”

He stays with you afterward, silently watching you breathe until the tension leaves your shoulders.

…Also might send an anonymous military complaint to their superior if they’re Republic-affiliated. No one traces it back.

💚 Fixer (RC-1140)

Fixer has a detailed file on this person within 20 minutes. He doesn’t even look at you when he gets up from the console.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

He’s the quiet, vindictive kind. Files misconduct reports. Has screenshots. Logs audio. Turns the bully’s security clearance into vapor. They’ll be lucky if they can access their own email next cycle.

Then he comes back and sits by you and — awkwardly — hands you a stimcaf.

“Here. Sugar’s set the way you like.”

He stares ahead.

“Don’t let them get in your head. You matter more than they ever will.”

You cry a little. He pretends not to notice, but one of his hands stays lightly touching your sleeve the whole time.

🔴 Sev (RC-1207)

”Who hurt you?”

You try to joke. You should not have joked.

Sev disappears for three hours. When he comes back, he’s got blood on his boots and a smile that makes Fixer actually look up.

“It wasn’t their blood,” Sev adds dryly. “Probably.”

You: “...WHAT did you do?”

“Don’t worry. They’ll live.” He leans in, voice lower. “But they’ll think twice before opening their mouth again.”

Then this chaotic horror show just sits beside you like some sort of a good therapy dog, crosses his arms, and grumbles, “You’re one of us. No one gets to treat you like you’re not.”

…It’s the most heartfelt thing he’s said all month.

💛 Scorch (RC-1262)

“WHO—WHAT—WHO AM I YELLING AT?”

He’s immediately at full chaos mode. He wants names. Spelling. Descriptions. Their whole astrological chart.

“I will EXPLODE something in protest! Not THEM, obviously! Because that’s illegal! I will explode… THEIR TRASH BIN. Yes.”

He brings you your favorite snack, a blanket, and five bad jokes in a row.

“Hey, did it hurt?”

“When what?”

“When they made fun of you? BECAUSE I’M ABOUT TO MAKE THEM CRY LIKE A WET SOCK IN A VENTILATION SHAFT.”

But real talk: Scorch is the one who stays up with you later. Makes you laugh when you feel gross.

“I know I joke a lot, but... you matter to me. A lot. And if anyone ever makes you forget that again, they’re gonna find out what I keep in this satchel.”

You do not ask what’s in the satchel. You do not want to know.

[angelickks]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 ۶ৎ bf!francisco "frankie" morales x controversially young gf!reader (𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝟏𝟖+)

CONTROVERSIALLY YOUNG GF!READER is all lip gloss and sass, curled up in frankie's passenger seat humming to songs he doesn’t know, laughing at things that make him feel ancient yet when you look at him, it’s like he’s the only man in the world. your the line frankie morales knows he shouldn’t cross but already has, over and over, with shaking hands and a prayer caught between his teeth. and god he prays he deserves you. he knows he doesn’t. youʻre his second chance. his worst decision. his salvation. and if loving you makes him a fool, a hypocrite, or a selfishly sick bastard? then so be it.

you mix soft, sweet looks with just enough edge to keep people guessing. think baby tees with cherries on them, short pleated skirts, kitten heels or a perfectly heeled boot, oversized cardigans and tiny gold jewelry that says your name in cursive. you look like you just walked out of a trap set for older men with guilt complexes. (mission: successful.) vintage juicy couture. you have a collection of glittery handbags or tote bags that carry lip gloss, gum, travel size perfumes and absolutely nothing practical.

your perfume smells like sugar and summer fruit. you wear lip gloss that leaves a perfect print on his cheek, his neck, the rim of his coffee mug. “you leavin’ your mark on me again, baby?” damn right, you are.

you're always wearing that ultra shiny, sticky sweet lip gloss—the kind that tastes like something fruity. you reapply it while straddling his lap, eyes locked on his, and ask, “wanna taste?” he always does.

your aesthetic screams “messy,” but you're sharp as hell. frankie learns the hard way: just because you wear tiny tops and chew bubblegum doesn’t mean you won’t psychoanalyze him mid-argument and walk away with his soul in your purse.

your room is all soft bedding, a plethora of pillows, fairy lights, fluffy rugs, and discarded clothes. perfume bottles line the dresser next to your vibrator and a polaroid of you kissing frankie’s cheek. it smells like vanilla, and he swears he can’t think straight when he’s in there.

"you’re too young for me"—as he unzips your dress. frankie tries to keep things appropriate. he really does. but the way you look at him? the way you bite your lip when he’s talking? he knows he’s screwed. his resolve cracks like glass. "this is a bad idea," he whispers right before kissing you like a man starved.

friends give him shit—the guys call him a cradle-robber. he shrugs it off, but there's a flash in his eyes that dares anyone to take it further. because yeah, you're young, but you’re not stupid. you keep up. you challenge him. and no one knows how deeply you two get each other behind closed doors.

you test the boundaries, and he lets you—you wear his old t-shirts to bed. too long on you, slipping off one shoulder. you straddle his lap in private, call him "old man" with a smirk, and he growls, "careful, baby. you don’t know what you’re askin’ for." but you do. and he gives it to you.

protective with a capital P—he’s lowkey obsessed with keeping you safe. double-checks locks, watches you cross the street, walks you to class or work when he can. “text me when you get there. i mean it.” he’s not controlling, just always watching out.

quiet jealousy—he hates seeing guys your age flirt with you. he doesn’t say a word but his jaw clenches, his hands fist in his pockets, and later that night, he fucks the doubt out of you. slow, intense, lips at your ear whispering, “mine. say it.”

the age gap gets weaponized—you call him sir when you’re feeling bratty. or wear little skirts just to hear him say “you tryin’ to kill me, baby girl?” there’s power in how easily you can bring him to his knees.

It’s never just about getting off. even when it’s rough. hands pinning you, voice wrecked in your ear. there’s this reverence in the way he touches you. frankie loves like a man who knows what it’s like to lose. and now that he has you, he’s not letting go.

frankie nearly crashes his truck every time you show up wearing a crop top and little athletic shorts with his hoodie hanging off your shoulders. you always play innocent“what? it’s hot out.” while twirling the drawstrings like a threat.

phone full of sins—selfies. videos. voice notes. you send him pictures in the mirror, back arched, lip bit, captioned “wish u were here” he tells you to stop. you never do.

you act like a spoiled pillow princess. pink nails in the sheets, soft moans, all “please, frankie…”but you're a tease under that pout. pulls away when he gets close. giggles when he groans. until he flips you over and ruins you.

bedroom mirror chaos—you love watching. you'll ride him in front of a mirror, looking over your shoulder, pouting like a porn star. frankie’s losing his damn mind under you, hands bruising your hips, gritting, “you like seein’ how fucked out you are, huh?”

he watches your favorite shows even if he doesn’t get them. listens to your spotify playlists, reads your texts with emojis he doesn’t fully understand. he teases you for them, but he’s the one saving memes to send you later.

you make him laugh. really laugh. you pull him out of his darkness. when his ptsd creeps in, your presence is grounding. sometimes you just curl into him and run your fingers through his curls while he breathes you in like oxygen.

text mesages consist of—

"sweetheart, why did my entire truck smell like strawberries? there's also glitter littering the dashboard."

"how do u spell the sound u make when u nut"—"you're blocked."

"go put on pants before i drive over there"—"make me"

you guys have a bond that’s impossible to break, no matter how much either of you fight it. your arguments are heated, your attraction is magnetic, but when it comes down to it, you can’t resist each other. when you say, “you love me,” he grunts, too proud to admit it. until the next time you kiss him breathless, and he knows without a doubt: he does—you bring the fun, the chaos, the fire. he brings the calm, the steadiness, the grounding force. together, you balance out the extremes, creating a strange, beautiful harmony in a relationship built on trust, desire, and the perfect blend of opposites.

pedro pascal mlist!

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐒: next up on the poll, one of my fav pedro characters. ugh ive been wanting to write for frankie for sooooo long. so naturally had to write him with an early 20s controversially young gf! with a nice 10-15 yr age gap, duh. lowk might make a couple of these typa headcanons for diff pedro characters

[effietrinket1619]

Some headcanons for you…

Jess, Simon, Kyle, and Keli have all been carried to bed by Hal at least once. Keli more than once. Guy, John, and Jo can figure out who Hal carried to bed the night before based on how much he complains about his back hurting.

The movie that gets watched the most by the group is Treasure Planet.

There’s a video on Jess’ TikTok where they’re having an actual water gun fight. Half the comments are about a moment where Guy gets ambushed by everybody, and the other half is people thirsting after Hal and a few people saying that Kyle has a sleeper build

Kyle once managed to cut his face badly. No one else actually knows how it happened, and even he doesn’t actually know at what point it happened. He’d been home alone and the others all got home to find him sitting at the dining room table eating leftovers and practically covered in blood. This was the day that they all learned that Kyle has an unusually high pain tolerance.

THRILLED people are giving me material for my own au because i run out of ideas so fast

YES hal carries these people to bed. guy and john literally tell him that he doesn't have to as he hoists jess up for the umpteenth time that month and complains about it, but hal literally ignores them flat out or throws a pillow at them before trotting off to do his duty. he cannot be stopped. also it's so dear to me that keli gets that childhood experience of falling asleep on the couch and waking up in your own bed. jo is a little concerned for the old man's back. hal is mad about it (she's right to be worried)

i've never watched treasure planet but after skimming the summary fuck yeah i agree. i think lilo and stitch would also be a favourite based purely on vibes. guy did have to do a purge of their dvd collection because certain movies are just not kid friendly enough.

also lantern movie nights? kinda chaotic when jess and kyle can wrangle the lot of them that night. given their shitty sleep schedules and the unending whims of the guardians, it's so difficult. but they go all out with snacks and fighting over the movie selection and everyone takes turns throwing popcorn at the others (guy and kyle are the usual targets but at least guy can catch the popcorn in his mouth). the movie is torn to shreds if it's an action flick because if there are planes or cars of any kind, simon and hal are fucking on it immediately. 'that's not how it works--' 'SHUT THE FUCK UP JORDAN'

the water fight video? jess thought it'd be a fun and innocent video where they all gang up on guy and laugh about it afterwards. instead, now she's dealing with the thirst comments. after all of them (because when you live with people long enough, everything other people see as new and interesting becomes background noise to you and jess could not have predicted the fallout here in a billion years). hal is the obvious highlight and it's the first time anyone sees him even semi shirtless which might as well break the internet but everyone else? kyle's sleeper build is great and all but they're all superheroes and they're all hot. simon, john and guy get their fair share of attention too and jo and jess? yeah she cannot show anyone these comments for fear of inflating certain people's egos and making other people uncomfortable.

the lanterns' pain tolerance i fear is legendary. they've all been tortured enough to not blink at most things and no one can tell if that's a good thing or not. that instance of kyle getting cut isn't even an isolated one. it still scares the shit out of them all because concussions and brain injuries (god forbid anyone else get severely brain damaged in this family) and kyle insists he straight up didn't know he looks like a murder scene come to life until guy dropped his glass upon seeing him.

of course, then there's the fussing and the ribbing and the mild yelling because what do you mean you didn't know you're bleeding out. it doesn't help that head wounds bleed a stupid amount so it looks a lot worse than it probably is. and honestly? kyle mostly likely got it from standing up and slamming face first into the sharp edge of a cabinet door. something ridiculous like that which he brushed off.

anyway, kyle rayner, as it turns out, might be the ongoing cause of hal's new grey hairs. kyle denies any and all blame. hal needs a new box of dye.