#when you wake up next to him in the middle of the night

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Christmas Special

Christmas festivities featuring your local kidnappers Yandere! Soldier and Yandere! Sugar Daddy.

Yandere! Soldier who spends all Christmas morning at mass. And when he comes home, snow thick on his uniform, he smells like incense.

"Come see. I've brought you something."

There's a bottle of strong vodka and a frosted fruitcake waiting for you on the counter. You watch him unwrap the cake, your mind wandering to your family, to Christmas mornings when you were still an angsty teen. Did they think you were dead by now? Were they still looking for you?

He cuts a thick slice and holds it to your lips. It's sweet and dense and leaves your mouth sticky.

Yandere! Soldier who tilts your chin towards him and casually runs his thumb across your bottom lip to catch any stray crumbs.

"Let's drink, yeah?"

The vodka is icy cold and bitter. But the taste makes you think of friends and university and late nights when you were too tipsy to stand but oh so warm inside. You throw back more shots than normal, trying to chase the memories.

It's only when he gently pulls the bottle away that you realise you're far past tipsy. You're straight hammered.

You stumble when you stand and he's quick to catch you, one strong arm around your waist.

"You've got no head for drink, моя любовь."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's time for bed."

You swat at him, irritated. "No. The Russian you used. What does it mean?"

He gently steers you toward the bedroom. "It means my love."

You twist around to face him. "Do you really love me?"

He raises a brow. "Alcohol loosens your tongue, doesn't it?"

He's quiet for a moment, studying you. The flush of your cheeks, the curve of your neck... You're everything he's ever wanted.

"Yes. I really love you. Я клянусь, что да."

I swear I do.

You stand on your toes and kiss him. Cradle his face in your palms and feel the heat of him bleed into you. You're so awfully cold, so awfully lonely. You'll regret it in the morning, but for now you press into him and chase the taste of vodka on his lips.

He pulls away and presses sweet, ticklish kisses against your inner wrist. He can feel your pulse racing.

"я полагаю, это мой рождественский подарок."

I suppose this is my Christmas present.

He grabs your thighs and picks you up. You wrap your arms around his neck, terrified of falling. Your breath ghosts across his neck and your nails dig stinging crescents into his muscles.

He doesn't say it out loud, but it's the best gift he's ever gotten.

Yandere! Sugar Daddy has a tree stacked high with gifts. On Christmas morning, he wakes you up with a kiss and a mug of your favourite hot chocolate, complete with whipped cream and cinnamon sticks.

At first, you assume most of the boxes are just for decoration. There's over a dozen boxes waiting for you - they can't all be gifts, right?

But you should know him better by now. You unwrap present after present, gasping at each one.

A set of custom perfumes from a high fashion brand. Ten different pieces of Tiffany jewellery. A genuine fur coat. Your first pair of Louboutin heels.

Keys to a new car.

You sit in the middle of a treasure trove, struggling to wrap your head around it. He rests his chin on your shoulder and pushes his glasses up his nose.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes! Yes, it's incredible." You turn to face him. "But babe, this must have cost a fortune. I can't accept all of this."

He tilts his head. "Of course you can. I got it all for you."

You're about to argue when he cuts you off. "You said you got me something too?"

You nod and hand him two packages. Your dollar store wrapping paper is glaring cheap next to his.

He unwraps his gifts slowly. The first one is a journal you picked up in a thrift store, weeks before your argument left you trapped with him. Back when you still had your freedom.

You got your artist friend to emboss his name in gold leaf on the front cover. He flips it open to the first page.

To my tech genius boyfriend. This is what we normies call paper. You use it to record all the times your girlfriend is just absolutely incredible, got it? -y/n

He smirks and rubs the page between his fingers.

"I've only heard distant legends of this 'paper'... How fascinating."

You groan. "It seemed funny at the time okay?"

His next gift is a pottery vase, with elegant fluted handles. It's a deep cream with flecks of reddish iron bleeding through. He stares at it, his expression blank.

Your heart drops.

The truth is, you spent months looking for that specific vase. And when you finally found someone willing to sell, the price they named made your jaw drop. You haggled like hell for it. Practically begged the seller on your hands and knees to let you pay it off over a few months. Until this morning, it was a gift you were proud to give him.

But his gifts to you took all morning to unwrap, while all you can offer is a shitty notebook and some amateur pottery. You hate not being able to return his generosity in equal measure. You hate feeling like you're always giving him the short end of the stick. Even now, when you have every reason to hate him, it hurts that you can't spoil him like he does you.

He finally looks up at you, dazed. "This is an original Murazaki. How did you know I wanted one?"

"You mentioned it a few months ago. When we were having dinner together in my apartment."

He puts the vase down carefully.

"You remembered?"

It's your turn to be confused. "Of course? You were really upset about it. You said he was your favourite artist but that you could never find any of his stuff for sale."

He stares at you like he's trying to pick you apart. You look down, embarrassed.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't get you more gifts. I feel like an ass. Like the world's worst girl-"

He grabs you before you can finish and pulls you flush against him. He buries his face in your hair. He takes a deep breath, like he needs to control himself.

"You remembered."

He kisses your temple and then presses his forehead against yours. His voice is low and loving and just a little shaky.

"Oh y/n, you're the best gift I could ask for."

Bonus: a yandere who only has one thing on his Christmas wishlist - you.

You wake up under his Christmas tree, cold and confused and still groggy from the sleeping pills he slipped you.

Your hands are tied behind your back and there's a cherry red gag in your mouth. You squirm, trying to pull your hands free. The floor is icy against your naked skin. Wait, naked?

You look down, horror clawing it's slow way up your throat. Most of your clothes are gone. And you're almost completely wrapped in ribbon.

Your thighs are held together with an excruciatingly tight bow. Two green rosettes are pinned to the lace of your bra. You can't see it, but there's a cute red bow stuck on your head too.

The door opens and you hear heavy footsteps on the basement stairs. You squirm, increasingly desperate to get loose.

"Wouldcha look at that? Santa brought me exactly what I asked for."

Your kidnapper squats down next to you, his eyes roaming your body. Taking in all the curves and dips. Mapping it out like it's his to explore. He reaches out and tugs at the ribbon tied around your throat.

"My girl all wrapped up under the Christmas tree."

He grabs your chin and tilts your face up towards his. His eyes are dark - the pupils blown out wide with lust, with hunger.

"Merry Christmas baby. I promise it'll be one you never forget.

[cowboylikefaith]

with great power...

art donaldson spiderman! au x reader

summary: stanford has a masked superhero on the loose, and you're trying to crack down on his identity. little do you know, it's your boyfriend art.

warnings: cursing, injuries, reader highkey gets mugged, art is being mysterious af, reader is incredibly oblivious, sappy at the end sorry, not proofread

author's note: HI so this is actually my first time writing a fic ever... but this au idea has been absolutely rotting in my brain for the past week or so and i need to get it out. enjoy!!!!!!

╰🕸️ ₊✧ ﾟ❤️⚬𓂂➢

"dude!" you say barging into art's dorm (not realizing that your poor boyfriend was in the middle of a nap) "look at the topic the newspaper just assigned me. some shithead on campus is doing parkour in a scuba suit, people are calling him 'spiderman'."

art is pulled out of his trance-like state when he hears the name fall out of your mouth. you feel bad after realizing you woke him up, seeing him wipe his tired eyes with a pout on his lips. "hey pretty" he says with a lopsided smirk on his face "what were you talking about? some spider-idiot?" you hop into bed next to him "yeah it's nothing...sorry for waking you up, just go back to bed, 'kay?"

you don't know what's been up with art recently. he rarely returns your calls, he's always tired, and when he's awake, he's either in a rush or incredibly sluggish. you asked patrick about it and he said that the beginning of a new tennis season is wearing both of them down. seems reasonable, right?

now, it's been a few weeks since you were assigned this story, and jess (your senior editor) wants you to photograph and interview this spiderman guy, because apparently he's some kind of campus superhero (returning stolen laptops, helping drunk sorority girls avoid getting hit by cars, the usual) however you have no leads so far.

until one day, tashi tells you a story about how he saved a freshman from the tennis team from being hazed, and you decide to ask your boyfriend about it.

"you don't know anything about a kid named steven mcdonald, do you?" you ask art as you settle down to watch some gossip girl.

"that freshman who survived a hazing incident? yeah, i know of him" he replies as he pulls you into his arms and kisses your forehead.

you pull away with furrowed eyebrows "well did he...say...anything about that night?"

"uh no. no, not really" he says (a little distantly) "anyway! i seriously don't understand why serena loves dan so much, nate is obviously the better choice for her."

you roll your eyes sarcastically "wow donaldson...really smooth transition! way to change the subject there honey."

"i'm sorry.." he replies as he plays with your hair "it's just that...i don't want you getting mixed up in that kind of stuff. if you got hurt.." he sighs "i don't know what i'd do with myself"

and so you promise art that you'll stop working on the article...until jess says she'll kick you out of the stanford star if you do.

one night, as you're walking back to your dorm after dinner with tashi and patrick (third wheel much?), a man in a black ski mask suddenly approaches you and orders you to put your hands up.

"give me your fucking heels lady...and your purse!" he demands.

"oh god no" you shut your eyes and groan "please sir, these are really expensive and- and these are manolo blahniks!! my mom bought-"

before you can finish your rambling, you can hear a thud, and when open your eyes, you can see that he's been wrapped up in some web-like substance.

"don't worry, he's not dead" a figure says as he walks out from behind the criminal. you feel like you know him, you can't even see his face but something about him is just so familiar, and you can't put your finger on it. until..

oh my god

"oh my god! you're spiderman! thank you so much, seriously. that guy could've killed me" you say excitedly, forgetting about your past opinions about him.

art- i mean spiderman, chuckles and says that it's no problem, and asks if he could take you back to your dorm.

"yeah! i would love that, thank you." you reply "actually, could i take your photo? i'm doing an article about you for the stanford star." oh and art eats it UP. he's doing stupid poses and acting silly and goofy (just to hear you laugh of course).

you get back to your dorm safely, and spiderart bids you farewell. just before he leaps out your window, he pulls a red stanford cap (one that you've never noticed, and one that looks suspiciously like art's) out of his pocket.

"hey, maybe i'll see you around" he says as he puts the cap on...backwards. something that only art would do. lucky enough for him, you're too tired to notice.

"...and those are the differences between meiosis and mitosis." you're trying to study for another biology exam when all of a sudden you hear a tapping noise on your window.

at first you think it's a bird, or some frat boy trying to piss you off by throwing empty beer cans at your window, but the tapping turns into banging and you start to hear sounds of pain through the glass.

you run to the window and see a boy in a familiar red and blue suit sitting on the windowsill. this time with a huge gash in his side.

"spiderman? oh my god, get inside, what happened?" you ask while scrambling for a first aid kit. art falls onto your bed, unknowingly bleeding all over your new floral sheets. he groans and holds his side, mumbling something about...well god knows what.

art protests as you try to patch up the very open wound by his waist. "you're just like my boyfriend art," you say with a grin "he gets all fucked up during his tennis matches and doesn't let me help him out." you can hear him through the mask but you can't tell if it's a laugh or a whimper.

"jesus- how long is this going to take? i have an econ final to study for" he says with a wince. "not very long if you sit still, spiderboy" you retort "why don't you take off your mask? you must be dying with that thing on."

you feel his face, and it feels...familiar. you slowly take off the mask, and reveal art's lips, sculpted nose, blue and brown eyes, and tousled blonde hair.

suddenly you realize. you realize the reasons for the missed calls, hurried kisses, and rain-checked dates. all this time you've been thinking that it was tennis kicking his ass, when really art was kicking other people's.

"hi honey" art mumbles, same lopsided, boyish smile that you fell in love with gracing his face "i'm sorry. i should have told you." before you can say anything, he kisses you and sneaks his hands to the small of your back. you can feel him smiling into the kiss as he pulls you into his lap.

"i missed you" you say, pulling away with a pout. you card your hands through his blonde curls. "i know, i know, i'm sorry pretty girl, it's just that...i don't want you to worry about me." art replies, pushing your hair away from your face.

you flick his forehead. "you dumbass. of course i'm going to worry about you, whether you like it or not...because i like you. a lot. no matter what kind of freaky superpowers you have." art lets out a weak chuckle, then he kisses you like a man stuck in the desert for 40 days. you can feel him drawing small circles along your hips and caressing your thumb.

you pull away one last time. "now tell me spiderboy...how did you go from tennis team captain to stanford superhero?"

[enbyfvcker]

~ Comfort ~

Logan didn't need comfort. He never had. He remembers all the time he spent living in forests when he just needed to isolate himself for a while. Anything worked for him, really.

Wolverines can sleep pretty much about everywhere. So, the first couple months after he moved in with Wade, he'd just crash on the couch. Sometimes, Wade would awake in the morning to see Logan sprawled on the floor and snorting after probably falling off the couch in his sleep.

He tried many times to convince Logan to sleep with him on his bed, but he always refused. Wade got that couch on a goddamn dumpster, and it couldn't possibly be comfortable to spend nights on.

So yeah, maybe he wanted to have a big gruff Wolverine laying next to him on his bed, but he also cared about him being comfortable.

He wanted it to be a home for Logan, even if it was a really small crack apartment.

Wade googled about Wolverines and how they nest, and he realized that Logan didn't really have much. He didn't have anything, really, since he dragged him here from a whole other universe.

So he would buy pillows, blankets, and plushies for Logan. And the grumpy idiot would pretend to hate the little hello kittys fluffy miniatures, but one day Wade's heart almost fully melted when he woke up in the middle of the night for a midnight snack, and catched Logan sleeping with all the gifts he gave him all around him, wrapped in a blanket with red and yellow heart patterns.

Sometimes Wade would awake hearing grunts and screams, rushing to the living room to see what was wrong only to find Logan trashing in his sleep, probably deep in a really bad nightmare, his body sweaty and brows furrowed. He looked in pain, and it broke Wade's heart. He imagined the terrors Logan was probably reliving in his mind.

When the sun hits Logan's eyes and he opens them, he feels slightly lighter. As if his body's relaxed for what felt like forever. He looks around and doesn't see the usual living room, and he realizes that he's in a bed. Wade's bed. Wade isn't here, but all the blankets, pillows, and plushies are still all around him.

"What the fuck..."

"Morning, peanut!" Wade announced with an excited tone as he entered the room wearing an "Kiss the cook" apron and toasts on a plate along with a mug.

Logan gives him a confused and annoyed look. "Did you- Did you carry me over here in my sleep?" He asks, incredulous. His bones are fucking made of adamantium. He weighs like 300 pounds. And how the fuck did he not wake up?

"Yes, princess. Bridal style and everything. Only the best for my baby girl."

"Wade-" Logan warns through gritted teeth.

"Alright, look, I just couldn't take you looking so uncomfortable anymore. Besides, you got so peaceful after I put you here. You can't really complain."

"I can, and I will. I told you not to bother. I don't give a fuck about comfort."

"Well, I do. Now get a break on being all grumpy, I made you breakfast." Wade offers Logan the plate with toasts and the mug with black coffee, the way he likes it.

He just grunts and accepts it.

The next nights, the lumpy couch remained empty. Logan would slip into the covers with Wade, the pillows and plushies all around them, and Mary Puppins layed on their feet. Wade was wearing a Spider-Man themed pajamas, and Logan was in his boxers and one of Wade's silly shirts with an unicorn printed on it.

"We look like such a happy family!" Wade says in a dreamy tone in the middle of the night, the room dark as he lays face to face with Logan.

"Shut up. Go to sleep." He groans gruffly, eyes closed.

"Sweet dreams, peanut. I know mine will be. You're always in them. God, I had one these days where you d-"

"Go. To. Sleep."

Some mornings, they would wake up tangled, arms over chests, legs over legs, so close they could feel each other breathing. Sometimes, Logan would wake up first, and when he opens his eyes to see them tangled like that as Wade was in deep slumber, he just smirks and closes them again, drifting back to sleep.

After that, he noticed that the frequency of his nightmares was getting lower. But whenever he'd have them, eventually, Wade would always be right there next to him to comfort him back to sleep.

[tkwrites]

Split & Healed - A snapshot in 2 parts - Quinn Hughes x ofc

gif from @gabelandeskog

Title: Split & Healed, a Snapshot in 2 parts: Part 2 

Part 1

Author: Tory / @tkwrites 

Relationship: Pre-established: Quinn x Sarah

Warnings: smut (18+ only), oral (f receiving)

Summary: Getting home from a road trip in the middle of the night is par for the course for Quinn, but getting home after finally getting his stitches removed means he can’t wait for morning to get his mouth on Sarah.

Word count: 1,600

Comments: Many thanks for the nonnie who sent in this inspired ask! Hope you enjoy what I came up with! 

If you enjoyed this, please let me know by commenting, reblogging or sending in an ask. Your encouragement and comments truly inspire me to keep writing. 

Anonymous asked: Thinking about Quinn being so excited to give Sarah head when the stitches finally come out of his lip. He would be insatiable 

Split & Healed, a Snapshot in 2 parts: Part 2 

A Quinn & Sarah Snapshot 

When Quinn arrived home in the early hours of the morning on Friday, he had no intention of a waking Sarah.

He missed her, certainly, but he'd missed her before.  He had it all planned out. He’d catch a few hours of restful sleep next to her and then spend the morning worshiping every inch of her he could get his mouth on until she had to leave for class.

After Roman removed the last of the stitches after practice in Utah, he sent Sarah a selfie. 

Does this mean we can finally kiss when you get home? 

Sure does. 

Thank God.  

It had been a cruel twist of fate to have the stitches removed and be cleared to do everything as soon as he was no longer at home. 

The entire drive from the arena, he told himself he could wait until a more reasonable hour. 

The moment he got into bed, however, everything changed. As the heady scent of her surrounded him, all of a sudden, his dick was hard and his mouth was buzzing with a need to kiss and taste her that he just couldn’t shake.

It had been torturous to resist her while the stitches were still in place. He loved putting his mouth on her, and the desire only intensified when he was told he couldn’t.

He’d even begged to go down on her, but she’d refused, point blank, telling him, “I will not be the one responsible for your lip getting infected.”  

Perhaps it was just because everything that had been haunting his dreams since his lip had been busted was in front of him.

Perhaps it was because he was presented with so much of her bare skin he hadn't been able to put his mouth on for the past week and a half.  

Perhaps it was nothing more than the simple relief of being home without seutchers sewn into his skin. 

Whatever it was - likely a combination of all three - he found he just couldn’t wait. 

“Quinn?” Sarah asked sleepily, feeling something whisper over her shoulder again. 

He mumbled into her skin. 

“Q, is that you?” It wasn’t so much that she thought it might be someone else as she wanted to make sure this wasn't just happening in her dream.

His mouth skimmed up her neck to whisper in her ear, “yeah. It’s me.” 

She made a contented little humming noise, and shifted to lean against him more. 

Taking this as an invitation to continue, Quinn kept kissing and kissing, savoring the softness of her skin, the taste of her. 

She made that same noise again, a little louder this time, and the control he’d been skimming along stretched taught, threatening to snap. 

“Can I go down on you?” he murmured, giving up on trying to talk himself out of it.  

“Hu?”  

“Can I eat you out?” There was a desperate whine to his voice when he added on, “please?” 

Though she did want it - she’d missed his mouth on her nearly as much as he had - it was the middle of the night. “Quinn, I'm too tired,” she said, words slurred with sleep. 

He knew he should let it go, but found he couldn't. The idea had gripped too much of his imagination. “I don’t want to wait to taste you now that I can.”

She pulled in a deep, sleepy breath, “I don’t know that I can…” she trailed off, gesturing vaguely, miming jerking him off. 

“You don’t need to do anything,” he rushed to assure. “Getting my mouth on you is enough.”

Murmuring his name as more heat rushed down her spine, Sarah rolled onto her back. 

He scrambled on top of her. “This is okay?”

Her eyes were still closed, lashes fanned over her cheeks, as she nodded. 

Relief and desire chased each other through his body.

Hooking his fingers into the waistband of her little purple shorts, he eased them and her underwear down, tossing them off the side of the bed before he spread her legs to find his home between them.

“Quinn,” she breathed. There was so much quiet desire in the whispered way she said his name, it made another surge of heat rush to his cock. 

He licked his lips, anxious to taste her on them, and finally (finally, finally) put his mouth on her. 

A moaned little grunt escaped her mouth and her hips tipped toward him. 

His hunch wasn't far off. One taste of her sweet nectar, and he was straining against the confines of his boxers and rutting into the mattress to get some relief. If she hadn’t been so tired, he would beg for her to touch him next, but that could wait.

God, she was perfect. She tasted so good. 

Her hand slipped down, her fingers lazily brushing into his hair. Another need raged to life inside him. 

“Pull my hair,” he practically begged. He could hear how much she liked it, but he wanted to feel it too. 

Her fingers traced over his scalp again. 

Maybe she hadn’t heard him. He pulled back so he could talk louder, “Sarah?”

“Hmm?” Her eyes were still closed, voice still sleepy. 

“Sarah, pull my hair,” there was a distinct whine in his voice now that he didn’t even try to bite back. He needed to feel it. “Please.”  

She nudged him down. He didn't need telling twice.

As he licked her perfect, sensitive pearl, her hips jumped to his mouth and her hand tightened in his curls.

“Just like that,” he groaned into her. 

“Oh my god,” Sarah breathed. This was by far the best wakeup call she’d ever received. 

Suddenly, he was insatiable, lapping and sucking at her as if he were eating his final meal. He’d missed this so much, he was never giving up the opportunity again. 

“So good, Quinn,” she moaned. 

Her praise swam straight to his cock. “Again,” he groaned into her.

“So good,” she repeated, tightening her fingers in his hair. Then, swimming with pleasure and the want to drive him over the same cliff he was pushing her toward, she found herself continuing, “such a good boy for me.”

The combination of the tingling pain from her grip on his hair and her praise hurled him over the precipice. 

With one last rock of his hips, he shot off, coating the inside of his boxers.

He grunted into her, feeling his eyes roll back. 

When he came back to himself, she was still spread out under him, her breath coming in steady, even gasps. 

She whined when he pulled back to suck in a few deep breaths. He needed to send her over the edge and needed his lungs full of air to do it. 

Sarah moaned loudly when he dove back in, snaking his tongue inside her as he nosed at her clit. 

“Quinn, oh fuck.” Her hips moved of their own volition, shamelessly grinding herself against the bridge of his nose. 

Feeling her fall apart around his tongue while he couldn't smell and taste anything but her was the fulfillment of every fantasy he’d had over the past eleven days.

Had he not already, he surely would have shot off listening to her pleasured moans and feeling her pulsing around and against his mouth. 

He kept going until she collapsed back against the mattress. 

His top lip still felt a little strange to him – too stiff where the wound was still healing – but licking her essence off of it made it feel a little more normal.

Her breathing was coming in deep gasps, one hand over her heart. “Oh my God.” 

Crunching up a little, she found him still on his stomach, languidly licking his lips as if he wanted to savor every drop. 

“That was…” she trailed off, flopping back onto the mattress. 

She could hear the smile in his voice as he teased, “worth waking up for?”

“Holy shit. Yes. I should stop you from going down on me so often if that’s going to be the result.” 

Quinn scrambled away from her. “What?” 

She opened one eye to find him kneeling between her knees, a wary look on his handsome face. She smirked, savoring his reaction for just a moment before she caved, “I’m just joking. You’re the only guy I’ve dated that actually likes going down on me. I’m not going to stop you.” 

He practically slumped over her left leg in relief. 

“What time is it?” she asked. 

“Quarter to three,” he said, glancing at the digital alarm clock across the room. 

“Can you hand me my shorts?” she asked after a few minutes. As the high of her orgasm ebbed away, fatigue settled back into her bones. 

“Yeah,” he grunted, pushing himself up.

She hummed. 

“Here.” 

Opening her eyes, she found Quinn at the end of the bed, threading her shorts and underwear over her feet so he could ease them up her legs. 

She took over at her knees and he went to the bathroom, grabbing a fresh pair of boxers on the way. 

Feeling him relax into the bed next to her, Sarah roused herself enough to ask, “did you get off?” 

He smiled, loving that even in her early morning, sleepy mind, she was thinking of him. “Yep,” he said before pulling her body flush to his and pressing a kiss to her shoulder. 

“Good,” she said quietly, leaning into him and drifting back to sleep. 

Part 1

Want more Quinn & Sarah? Check out the Snapshots Masterlist 

To read all my fics, check out the Fanfiction Masterlist

[crivalsduo]

holiday spirit

my final fic for @alterdnbweek! i'm so sorry it's a day late, i hope you enjoy.

Techno’s neck was stiff and his back was sore. If he could feel his arm, it would likely be sore as well but his arm had fallen asleep, pinned between Dream’s boney side and the floor. A blanket was haphazardly spread out beneath, all lumps, because neither of them had intended to fall asleep. He didn’t even remember falling asleep. The last thing Techno remembered clearly was laughing as Dream was lying practically on top of him, arguing about who was lamer.

With a yawn, Techno tilted his head left and then right, trying to work out the kink in his neck. Dream was still asleep, turned towards Techno, chest rising and falling steadily. A bit of drool had pooled in the corner of his mouth and his ear flicked occasionally. Techno smiled.

He’s probably gonna have one heck of a headache.

There was a headache trying to creep up on Techno. It was dancing around the edges of his vision. The sunlight that was streaming into the room, brightened by the fresh snow outside, didn’t help matters. But he hadn’t been drunk enough last for the headache to take hold and he hadn’t been drunk enough to forget Dream’s earnest response to his teasing. The pillow that they had tossed back and forth was shoved between them now. Techno lifted his free arm, flexed his fingers, and brushed them against Dream’s cheek. His fur-covered nose twitched but he didn’t open his eyes.

“Sorry, man, I really gotta pee,” Techno whispered as he carefully pulled his arm out from under Dream. It didn’t wake him though he curled up into himself further. Techno took a moment to toss the part of the blanket he’d been lying on over Dream before he stood. His knees creaked when he stood and he made a mental note not to sleep on the floor again. He ducked under some of the holiday decorations hanging in the archway between the living room and the kitchen as he headed towards the bathroom.

By the time he was done, hands still wet and smelling of soap, Dream was still asleep on the floor.

“Dream.” Crouching down next to him, Techno put a hand on Dream’s shoulder. The thought crossed his mind that it’d be kinda funny if he splashed some cold water on him but the look on Dream’s face last night when that confession had slipped out stopped him. Techno gently shook him. “Wakey wakey, Dream.”

One green eye opened and then the other.

“Huh…?”

Sleep was making him slow and it took him a moment to assess the situation, pushing himself up and looking around. A piece of his hear had fallen in front of his face and Techno reached out to brush it back. Dream watched him.

“I said, it’s time to wake up. You’re sleepin’ right in the middle of my floor,” said Techno, hand lingering near Dream’s shoulder as he fully sat upright with a yawn.

“Your—” Another yawn. This one was followed by a disgruntled noise. “Your eggnog sucks, Techno. I feel like shit.”

Techno laughed, doing his best to keep his volume low though it still earned him a feigned dirty look from Dream.

“I don’t think it was the eggnog’s fault, man.”

Looking over at the mug he had shoved under the bookshelf last night (it was now knocked over and pushed further back and if they had taken a closer look, they would’ve found fox fur sticking to it), Dream shrugged.

“Whatever,” he said and held out a hand. Techno took it immediately, lacing their fingers together. A bemused smile twitched across Dream’s face. “Help me up.”

Techno’s cheeks were hot and bright red. He should have known that’s what Dream meant. In hindsight it was obvious. He cleared his throat and stood, pulling Dream up with him.

“Right, right. I knew that.”

Dream wobbled a little, leaning into Techno’s side. He was leaning more than Techno thought was needed, even with the cloud of sleep and eggnog induced hangover clinging to him. A curse was muttered under Dream’s breath about the prosthetic leg before he straightened and looked at Techno. It was the perfect chance for Dream to tease him but that would mean coming very close to acknowledging what had happened last night.

“You—You definitely didn’t,” said Dream.

Both of Techno’s eyebrows shot up. He hadn’t been expecting that.

“Y’know what, you’re right, Dream. I did think you wanted to hold my hand.”

Now it was Dream’s turn to blush, pink and splotchy beneath the thin layer of tan fur.

“Oh my god.”

He had nothing else to say to that and Techno grinned. The fire had gone out – Techno hadn’t planned to fall asleep and so hadn’t put a log or two on – and a slight chill crept into the room. Still leaning into him, Dream was warm and Techno smiled.

“How about I make you some tea?” he asked. “It might help with your headache.”

There was a moment of hesitation and Techno knew that he was debating denying the existence of the headache that was obvious in the way Dream was squinting and his ears were pressed flat. But he nodded, loop his arm around Techno’s. It wasn’t far to the kitchen but Dream’s gait was stiff and he stopped to yawn. Techno glanced up then nudged Dream lightly with his shoulder.

“Look, Dream. Mistletoe.”

Dream’s ears shot forward and he looked up.

“What!? Why—You put mistletoe up?”

The mistletoe was hanging down in the middle of the doorway, between garlands of sweetberry branches. A few red and green plaid bows that had Niki’s distinct flair where nestled in the leaves as well. Techno vaguely remembered helping to hang the garland but if had noticed the mistletoe then, he didn’t remember. He also wasn’t that upset about it.

“It’s a tradition,” said Techno.

“It’s stupid,” said Dream. His cheeks were still pink.

Techno lowered his head just a little.

“It’s festive. C’mon, where’s your holiday spirit?”

The way Dream rolled his eyes with a huff was expected. Techno had seen that exact expression on Dream’s face dozens of times and he never got tired of the amused, mischievous glint in Dream’s eyes that came with it. The crooked grin that his scarred mouth was pulled into was also expected and it was another thing that Techno never got tired of, that after everything, he still found reasons to smile. What was unexpected was the kiss.

Dream tilted his chin up, grin still on his face, and pressed his mouth against Techno’s. It took Techno a second. A noise of surprise tried to work its way out of his throat but he pressed a hand against Dream’s side, carefully tugging him closer, and kissed him back. The kiss tasted like morning breath and old eggnog and cinnamon and Techno could have kissed him just like that forever. The slow, hesitant way Dream finally pulled back made Techno think he felt the same way.

“How’s—How’s that for holiday spirit.”

Techno laughed.

“Smooth, Dream,” he said and kissed him again.

[vityaposting]

how to heal a rusted heart - machine herald x gn!reader - part 2

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 to be released

For the next several days, memories of the betrayal taunt you. Your bed is colder than it’s ever been, and as tight as you hold your pillow, it just isn’t the same. Loneliness grips you from all sides. It holds you like a vice, keeping its claws around your heart from the second you wake up in the mornings to the second sleep claims you at night—sometimes even beyond that.

For those days you’re unable to truly rest without picturing Viktor. He’s the answer, you tell yourself. If you can make it through the week, he’ll save you, rid you of the emotions that have ruined your life. You think about the piercing quality of his eyes, the way his accent makes his voice sound even softer, the way he’s promised to help—then, and only then, can you sleep. You think of how warm he must be to the touch, considering how much of him is mechanized. You wonder what it would be like to fall asleep to the sound of his fans whirring. Does he have a heartbeat? Does he breathe when he sleeps? Does he even sleep at all?

The fantasies are ludicrous. Delusional. But you’ve thought worse things of yourself.

Four days in, you feel yourself beginning to calm. You’ve almost made it to the finish line. Soon, you won’t have to worry about heart-pounding fury or nausea-inducing loneliness. Feeling a touch like your old self, you decide to venture to the marketplace. Your pantry needs restocking, not that you’ve been eating that well recently. Fresh air would do you good—at least, as fresh as the air gets down here, anyway.

Shouldering your bag, you decide to head for the dairy stand first. For all the trouble you’ve been through, you figure you may as well bake yourself a cake. A celebratory, no-more-emotions cake. An I’ll-never-be-heartbroken-again cake. Congrats on the cure, you’ll write on the top in icing. You won’t have anyone to share it with, but… by then, you won’t care.

You don’t notice how empty this area of the market is until the rack of milk bottles in front of you darkens. Something looms over you, blotting out what little sunlight makes it into this corner of the Undercity.

You turn a bit tentatively. Someone.

Viktor stares down at you, eyes glinting like lasers through his mask. Behind him, this third arm whirs and pinches at the air as if it has a mind of its own. “Excuse me,” he says. His voice seems deeper, more mechanical. A small bit of fear flutters to life in your chest. “Could you pass me one of those?” He nods to the bottles stacked up on the table behind you. “I’ve been itching to make some sweetmilk lately. A glass or two always gets me through long procedures.”

You take a step backward out of pure shock. The sound of clanging glass makes you wince, but you manage to grab a bottle just in time, steadying the stack before they can all come tumbling down. The fingers of his mechanical hand brush yours when he takes it from you. To say you feel electricity at the contact may be cliche, but considering he’s half-machine, you suppose it’s at least fitting.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. You notice a bit postemptively that he’s parted the crowd around him like a sea. The rest of the marketgoers have slunk away, some forming a wide ring around the two of you. Curious gazes flicker between you and the Herald—some seem awed, some seem contemputious, like they think you an idiot for daring to stand so close to Zaun’s most infamous supervillain. Some of them seem to be waiting in terrified awe for you to get death-rayed. A few are leaning forward like they’re ready to watch a fight.

Not that any altercation between the two of you would be much of a fight. Viktor could crush you in one metal fist if he so desired. You have to admit the thought is a bit thrilling.

“Why are they all so scared of you?” you find yourself whispering. “If you were really so awful, would you be standing in the middle of the market buying milk?” It seems far too mundane an activity for a theatrical, cackling evildoer.

“It’s the armor,” he says plainly. “It intimidates people.”

“Why do you wear it out if it scares everyone?”

“You must be prepared to meet you enemies under any circumstances.”

It takes you a while to realize he’s not joking. You can’t search for any flicker of expression in his face, and he’s stock-still and silent next you, save for his third arm’s frantic whirring. “You have enemies… in the Undercity?”

He shrugs, the metal of his shoulder pauldron clinking against the side of his mask. “Not usually,” he says. “But it appears you do.”

“Me? I—”

He tilts his chin forward, and you spin around to stare into the crowd. Most of the faces are unfamiliar, but the intense gaze of one pair of eyes—tucked slightly into the second row of onlookers, makes you recoil.

How Viktor knows this is your enemy, you have no idea.

It’s hard to describe the physical sensations that overcome you when you realize exactly who it is that’s looking at you. You recoil like you’ve been struck, and your racing heart burns like someone’s taken lighter fluid and a match to it. Their stare never wavers. A fury you can only describe as animalistic makes your voice catch. Strength rushes to your extremities. You can run forward, snarl and bite, appease your need to attack, or you can listen to the fragile little prey animal in your chest and crawl away before you can get your heart broken again.

The monster and the prey animal are at war within you, and neither is winning. You’re frozen.

Viktor’s cool metal hand comes to rest on your shoulder. “Breathe,” he growls, an ironic command for someone who technically doesn’t need to. “That’s them, isn’t it? They’re why you sought my help. They’re the one who broke you.”

I was wrong about you. Their words come back to you like water rushing through a dam, one that’s been cracking rapidly for the past several days. We weren’t meant for each other. I can’t keep up with you. You’re too much. I can’t keep promising you every ten minutes that I’m not going to leave—

“Yes,” you manage weakly. Every nerve ending in your body tingles. The fire on your insides begins to spiral outward.

Perhaps you’re imagining it, but you almost swear heat begins to radiate from Viktor’s metal limbs. The cool winter air begins to feel like midsummer. His hand disappears from your shoulder. He stalks forward into the crowd.

He towers over your former lover, you realize. He’s so much bigger than they are, the shadows of his broad metal shoulders dwarfing theirs. The claw at the end of his third arm is spinning frantically.

Before they even have a chance to run, the claw flashes forward and grasps your betrayer by the collar of their shirt, hoisting them into the air like they weigh nothing. You see terror flash bright as day in their eyes, and pretend the sight doesn’t fill you with sickening glee.

The small market crowd is growing, but they’re backing away, their fears affirmed. Viktor is not doing a wonderful job at improving his reputation, but you’re not sure that’s what he even wants.

“You recognize me, yes?” Viktor begins. Your ex-lover thrashes, trying to peel the claws away from their neck. Viktor’s not holding them tightly enough to hurt them—you can still see their chest rising and falling heavily. He must only want to give them a scare. The thought relieves you. Pain is unnecessary, but a scare will be beyond satisfying.

“The Machine Herald,” they gasp. “Viktor.”

Viktor’s name sounds wrong coming from their mouth. These two sides of your life were never meant to collide, and a fierce surge of protectiveness crashes over you—protectiveness? Over Viktor? Viktor could level the whole of Zaun if he so desired. Still, the odd feeling doesn’t go away.

“I care deeply for each of my patients,” Viktor snaps. “And they—” his gloved hand points to you— “have come to me asking to repair wounds you inflicted.”

This is not really his information to give away, but in the moment your adrenaline runs too high for you to force yourself to care.

“Nobody comes to me unless they are dealing with ailments they do not believe they will survive. It is only desperation that drives my fellow Zaunites to seek my help, and in this case my patient’s wounds are not without their inflictor. Perhaps I’m just the right person to teach you a lesson about carelessly breaking hearts, hm?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” they bite out. “I was wrong about them. But this whole city was right about you.”

If it weren’t for his mask, you wonder, would his face go dark with hurt? Can he even feel such a thing? Outwardly, of course, he doesn’t respond, but the grip of his third arm seems to tighten. “Reflect. Your actions have caused them to want to rewire their mind entirely. To do that much damage in one blow is borderline despicable.”

These are heady accusations to throw, but Viktor isn’t wrong. You feel betrayed. Slighted. Part of you wonders if you did something to deserve losing the one person who’d promised to love you. If you’re just as bad a person as they are, or if you’re simply unlucky.

“If you hurt them again,” Viktor goes on, “I have a death laser with your name on it.”

With that, he lowers them to the ground—not drops them, just lowers them, and he doesn’t remove his claw until their feet are safely planted on the pavement.

He turns back to you. The whole time, he has not let go of his milk bottle. Had you not been short of breath, you may have had to stifle a laugh.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, and the world shrinks. Suddenly the marketplace is reduced to this single patch of ground, and only grows smaller as Viktor crosses the distance toward you in a couple swift strides. There’s that hand on your shoulder again. “Look at me. Can you breathe?”

The edges of your vision are starting to darken. You don’t even realize you’ve lost the ability to speak until you open your mouth to greet him and no sound comes out. You’re frozen. Your heartbreaking past and desperate present are colliding, and getting caught in the middle of two different lives is shutting you down.

“Come back to the lab with me,” he says gently. “If you feel the same… I believe it may be beneficial to jumpstart the procedure.”

You don’t find your words again until Viktor has you seated comfortably on a ratty velvet lab chair, the softest thing he owns. Your hands are curled around a glass of sweetmilk, but you haven’t worked up the energy to bring it to your lips, delightful as it smells. He sits on a stool opposite you, sipping on his own. The lab is muggy. He’s discarded his mask and most of his armor, leaving him in plain gray clothes that hardly scream horrifying Machine Herald.

“It’s because I’m too much,” you tell him. “I love too much.”

He nods slowly. Patiently. Clears his throat to tell you to go on.

Nobody’s ever listened to you with such lack of judgement. It was always you’re being dramatic or everyone feels this way, just calm down—or, worst of all, this is an illness, and you are not trying hard enough to treat yourself.

You have always tried as hard as you could, but you weren’t always believed.

“That’s what they said,” you continue. “It was a good thing at first. They liked that I was passionate. Dedicated. Loyal. But they didn’t understand that… loving so much meant that I despair twice as hard. When I get mad I feel like I might burn Zaun to the ground if I think hard enough about it and I… I miss them too much. Depend on them. Even now, knowing I’m nothing to them, I… I don’t want to have to love anymore. Someday I’m scared it’ll kill me.”

“It will not kill you,” Viktor says gently. “It never killed me.”

“Do you even understand what I’m talking about?”

“More than you know. But I never turn away a patient. If you still wish to proceed, we will. Today, if you like. Or…” He tilts his head at you. “You let yourself unwind today. A strenuous medical procedure is only made more risky when the body and mind are fragile with intense emotions.”

“I suppose you’re right. I can wait.”

“Do you wish for comfort? What best soothes you?”

Your next inhale rattles in your chest. He’s only saying this for medical purposes, you tell yourself. He has no reason to care about you. Not when you’re laying your broken pieces bare at his feet. “Well, usually I… am calmed by the physical touch of someone I trust. I don’t think that’s in the cards for me anymore, though. Nobody ever really…”

Viktor blinks those piercing eyes at you. They glow like lasers, searing your skin. “Do you trust me?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

You must be dreaming, but your dreams are the one place you never feel quite so much. He’s real, he’s extending his hand to you with a second thought, and when you take it, the metal warms you from the tips of your fingers to the top of your head. His other arm loops around your waist and he pulls you down into his lap, settling his sharp chin on your shoulder. Both glasses of sweetmilk sit abandoned at your feet.

“Breathe,” he reminds you. “You’re tenser than steel. Try to relax your muscles. That will help slow your thoughts.”

You did not expect being nestled up to a literal cyborg to be so comfortable, but you’ve been proven wrong. He rubs comforting circles on your back with one hand and places the other on your waist to keep you steady. Your legs are slung over his lap, your face level with his shoulder. The metal plates on his neck are cool against your cheek.

He shifts a bit, a faint touch brushing the spot above your temple. You don’t dare hope it to be a kiss.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“What for?”

“For… wasting your time.”

“I have a death laser attached to my back and a lab full of hazardous materials. If I did not want you here, you would be long gone.”

You find yourself without an argument at that.

He doesn’t tell you to move, not for a long while, not before your waning despair leaves your mind foggy and your eyes heavy. You drift off to sleep in his arms. And you were right, you realize—he is warm, and he does still breathe. It’s the steady, almost mechanical rise and fall of his chest that finally puts you under.

You wonder if, once the procedure is done, you’ll miss feelings like this.

[auxmodi]

sandor clegane wholesome hc's :)

my masterlist

.───────── ౨ৎ ─────────.

silent bodyguard energy, he’s always positioned himself just slightly between you and the nearest danger, whether that’s a busy crowd, a shady-looking merchant, or someone getting too bold at the tavern. doesn’t say a word about it, but the death glare he gives anyone who looks at you wrong speaks volumes.

someone giving you trouble? sandor’s at your side before you even realize it, towering over them with that infamous scowl. "move along," he growls, and nine times out of ten, they do. the one time they don’t, they learn why he’s called the Hound.

he’s the type to fix your broken stuff without being asked. you’ll mention your belt buckle is loose, and the next day it’s mysteriously good as new. don’t bother asking him about it, though, he’ll just wave it off with a muttered, "didn’t take much."

if he’s insulting you just a little less harshly than usual, congrats, he’s flirting. calls you "idiot" or "fool" with a weird kind of fondness, like you’re the best idiot he’s ever met. but if you ever genuinely get upset, he’ll stop immediately, awkwardly fumbling for words. "didn’t mean it like that."

drunk sandor has no problem standing right behind you, so close that you can feel his breath on the back of your neck. if you turn to look at him, he’ll smirk and say, “thought you might need someone to watch your back,” but you know it’s more than just an excuse to be close.

sandor insists on taking the first watch every time you camp. he says it’s because he can’t trust you not to fall asleep, but really, it’s because he wants to make sure you’re safe while you rest. if you wake up in the middle of the night, you might find him sitting nearby, his eyes scanning the dark, his presence steady.

after a long day, if you’re too tired to keep up, sandor’s the first to slow his pace and stay by your side. he might not offer to carry your things, but he’ll make sure no one bothers you as you catch your breath.

he’s not out here giving you flowers and poetry, but if you’re shivering, you’ll suddenly find his (too big, kind of smelly) cloak draped over your shoulders with zero explanation. if you thank him, he’ll just grunt, "didn’t want to hear your teeth chatterin’ all night."

sometimes, during sparring, sandor gets distracted. his gaze will catch yours, and for a moment, his hand will linger on your hand a little longer than usual. "you’re still holding it wrong, girl," he’ll grumble, but there’s a softness in his voice, a quiet approval that he’ll never outright admit.

the first time you go into battle together, sandor stays close. he doesn’t hover, but he’s there when you need him. if you get too far ahead, he’ll pull you back with a sharp tug on your arm, growling, “stick close.” he’ll never admit it, but he’s terrified of losing you in the chaos.

[yexthiccxa]

Secrets of the Second Shift - (Part 5)

summary: Choso wakes up and sees that you've left his place in the middle of the night (part 4). He gives you the cold shoulder but when you sort out a misunderstanding, the week goes from tough ...to rough ;)

wordcount: 4.4k words

full fic c/w: choso smut, choso/fem!reader, choso/oc, modern!au, some plot, plot what plot, porn with plot, gentleman!choso, soft!choso, praise kink, blindfold sex, oral, fingering, vaginal sex, fingering, oral, multiple orgasms

a/n: let me know if you want to be added to the tag list for this!

Tumblr Master List | Read this chapter on AO3!

✦✧✸✧✦ 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ✦✧✸✧✦

FIVE HOURS EARLIER

The sky is still dark. You wake up in a room that is illuminated by the glow of the moonlight coming from the floor-to-ceiling windows, a room that isn’t yours. Right. Turning your head, you see Choso lying next to you in a deep sleep. Even in the dead of night, he’s still the most handsome man you’ve ever laid your eyes on. 

The clock on the bedside table reads 1:03 a.m. “Fuck,” you mutter.

You shift carefully, mindful not to disturb him, and glance around the room. The chaos of earlier is gone. Your clothes have been folded neatly on a nearby chair, and the abandoned dishes from dinner are nowhere in sight. Did he really make the extra effort to clean all this up? How sweet. You think.

The thought sends a warm but unsettling jolt through you. Part of you wants to lay back down, bury yourself in the comfort of the bed, and settle into the arms of the beautiful man sleeping next to you.

But then there’s that other part of you—the louder, nagging voice that reminds you staying means more than just a night. It’s not just sharing a bed; it’s sharing something more, something you’re not ready for.

Your decision feels bittersweet, but it’s for the best. Carefully, you slip out from under the sheets, get dressed, and find the rest of your belongings. You slip out the front door quietly in hopes of not waking him. When you make it out, you head to the lobby and call yourself an Uber.

Your ride arrives faster than you expect, and within minutes you’re home. The familiarity of your space doesn’t bring the comfort you thought it would. Instead, your mind is restless. You pace for a few minutes before sitting on the edge of your bed, phone in hand.

You can’t just leave without saying anything, you tell yourself.

Your internal panic causes you to scroll through your recent calls. When you press the contact on your phone, you bring it straight to your ear and hope to the heavens he’s a deep enough sleeper to have the call go to voicemail. As it rings, you find yourself resting your head in the palm of your hand.

“The person you are trying to dial is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”

Thank god.

“Hey. I figured it would be easier to call you instead," you start, words catching in your throat for a second. "Today was honestly so great and I’m so thankful for everything you did today. You’re so sweet and I love that about you.”

You pause, unsure of what else to say, but finally gather up the courage to let it out. “But if I’m being real, I’m just not used to this… yet. It’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone like that. I hate to admit it, I guess I’m just scared of things becoming complicated.”

Your chest tightens, like you’ve stuck a dagger through your own heart. “Anyways, it’s late and I think we should probably just talk about this more in person. But I just wanted to call and let you know that I’m home safe and to say…. thanks, I guess.”

You let out one last breath. “I’ll see you at work.”

The silence hangs heavy before you end the call abruptly. You set the phone down and lay back on your own bed just to stare at the ceiling. You can’t stop your mind from wondering what he’ll think when he hears it.

✦✧✸✧✦

“I’m only saying this because I love you, but you look like shit” Yuki begins as she settles into her desk, unpacking her laptop. She studies you critically. “...and you never look like shit.”

You blink, trying to ground yourself after a night of tossing and turning. “Huh? Oh—yeah, I just… didn’t sleep well last night.”

Yuki’s eyes narrow, sharp with suspicion. “Damn. Late night?” She leans in closer to you, lowering her voice. “Wait… with Choso?”

“No, no, no—” Lie. You scramble for something convincing. “I don’t think I’m gonna go for him.” Another lie. “I’ve just been thinking about it more…” Not a lie. “...and I think it’s probably best to just keep things professional.” Half-lie.

“Fine.” She sighs dramatically, sitting back in her chair. “Just know, I’m still rooting for you two.” Her grin returns as she looks past you. “Oh, speak of the devil…”

You glance up and instinctively call out to him. “Hey, Choso!”

Choso meets your eyes briefly, but his gaze flicks away almost instantly as he strides toward the break room without a word. The abruptness stings, even if it’s what you expected.

Yuki whistles low under her breath. “Oof. Ice cold.”

You get up to follow him, but before you can catch him, Naoya cuts in front of you. He has a stack of papers in hand and an unsettling smugness radiating from him. “Good morning. Here are the notes from last week’s focus group. I’ll need you to analyze these and add your findings to the kickoff presentation that’s happening later this month.”

You frown, flipping through the papers. “What presentation?”

“I sent an email yesterday,” he says with exaggerated patience. “We’re meeting with stakeholders from a potential lead to discuss the feasibility of our new product. Try to finish early so Choso has time to review the deck before he presents.”

Your jaw tightens. “Excuse me? Choso? Is there a reason he’s doing the presentation for my research?”

Naoya’s smirk deepens. “Let’s just say he knows what the audience is looking for.”

“What the fu—” You stop short, forcing yourself to take a deep breath before HR gets involved. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Naoya says slowly, “analyze your findings, finish the presentation, and send it to Choso. You’re lucky I’m giving you a head start.”

He spins on his heel and walks off, leaving your irritation simmering.

You don’t waste time. Marching to the break room, you find Choso by the coffee machine. “Choso,” you say, voice firm.

He glances up, expression unreadable. “Morning.”

“Can we talk?” you ask, trying to get his attention.

His focus is still glued to the coffee machine. “If you’d like to schedule some time later,” he says flatly, “feel free to book any available slot on my calendar.”

Your jaw drops. The audacity.

He lifts his gaze slightly, just enough to meet yours. For a fleeting moment, there’s something almost soft in his expression—a tiny flicker of warmth that you might’ve imagined.

“By the way, did Naoya tell you about the presentation?” he asks, voice even.

And just like that, the warmth vanishes, replaced by the same guarded professionalism you didn’t know you could hate.

“Yes,” you answer, matching his curt tone.

“Great.” He nods, grabbing his mug. As he moves past you, he adds, “Looking forward to seeing your findings,” the words clipped and distant as he steps out of the room.

Well he certainly put the pro in professional. You can’t fault him for staying true to the boundaries, but what the hell was that? 

The rest of the week is no better. Choso avoids you when he can, and when he can’t, his interactions are painfully brief and impersonal. You hoped that every new day would be a fresh start, but every interaction was filled with short hellos, no goodbyes, or ten second comments about the weather. It was like Choso was a shell of the man—not the man who once held you so gently. 

You have no reason to be mad. After all, you’re the one who set the playing field. He’s just following the rules. You try not to think too much of it, but the distance gnaws at you with each passing day. The romantic part of you (or what’s left of it) feels like this is torture, while the logical part reassures you this is for the best. Unfortunately, neither side has any idea how to make it through the week.

By the time Friday rolls around, you’re surprised you’re still sane. Every day has been an exhausting blend of tension, awkward exchanges, and overthinking. You hope that today is the day you can finally settle things with Choso, but it’s 3pm and you haven’t seen him all day.

You’re at your desk working on the deck for the kickoff presentation, when you see one of the guys from Choso’s team.

“Hey, Yuji,” you call, swiveling your chair toward him. “Have you seen Choso today?”

Yuji pauses, scratching the back of his head. “Saw him this morning, but I think he’s out for the rest of the day. Something about schmoozing a potential lead.”

Is this the same lead for the presentation this month? You try not to let your frustration show, but your tone gets the better of you. “Got it. Thanks.”

Yuji pauses, trying to redirect the conversation to lighten the mood. “Are you coming to Happy Hour tonight?” he asks, grinning.

“Not this time,” you say with a polite shake of your head. “Maybe the next one.”

“It’ll be fun!” He leans in. “I told Choso to go. If he shows up, maybe you two can talk there!”

“It’s okay,” you reply, forcing a smile. “Thanks for letting me know, though. I’ll just catch up with him next week.”

Yuji shrugs and walks away, leaving you alone with the sinking realization that you won’t even get to see Choso for the second shift. You find yourself crushed under disappointment, but you try not to let it show.

When the clock finally hits five, you grab your things and head to Blinded Bliss. When you walk through the platinum doors, you make a beeline for the bar, ignoring everything—including Satoru’s smug grin as waves at you.

“Two tequilas,” you tell the bartender, tapping your nails impatiently on the counter. “Heavy pour.”

“Whoa there, love,” Satoru’s voice cuts in from behind, startling you. “Tough week?”

“You could say that,” you reply flatly. “But it’s really no one’s fault except my own. I made my bed, now I have to lay in it.”

Satoru doesn’t pry, but instead tries to make light of the situation. “Well, hopefully that bed makes you some big bucks. A few high rollers are back tonight, you know what that means.”

“Great,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “Look how well that worked out for me last time.”

Satoru chuckles, leaning against the bar. “Stop being a Debbie Downer. I’ve got a good feeling about tonight.”

“Whatever, Satoru,” you say, waving him off.

“Oh, by the way,” he says casually, placing his hand on your shoulder. “Sorry I never called you back earlier this week. It was late, and I had an early morning. Totally slipped my mind.”

You pick your head up, confused. “Huh?” You blink, the words not quite landing. “What call?”

“Monday or Tuesday maybe?” he replies, pulling out his phone. “You left me a voicemail. Didn’t actually get to listen to it though. You know me—busy bee.”

Your stomach tightens. “Satoru. What voicemail?”

He shrugs, tapping a few times on his phone before holding it out. A recording plays, and your own voice filters through the bar’s noise like a ghost from the past:

“Hey. I figured it would be easier to call you instead… Today was honestly so great, and I’m so thankful…”

Your heart pounds as you frantically grab your phone, scrolling to your recent calls. You hold your breath, dreading what you’re about to see.

Monday’s call didn’t go to Choso.

It went to Satoru Gojo.

Your stomach plummets. “Oh fuck,” you whisper, the realization dawning like a storm cloud.

✦✧✸✧✦

“It’s not even that bad,” Satoru says, leaning back against the wall with an easy shrug, his tone too nonchalant for your spiraling thoughts.

“Satoru, he probably thinks I’m an asshole!” you hiss. “What kind of decent person leaves without any context?”

“Well,” he says, smirking, “you did say you were trying to keep it casual.”

“I meant friends with benefits casual, not one-night stand casual!” you snap, running a hand through your hair in frustration.

Satoru raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Splitting hairs now, aren’t we?”

You groan, pressing your palms against your temples. The memory of Choso—his soft touch, the tenderness in his eyes, the careful way he’d folded your clothes—flashes through your mind. Guilt claws at your chest. You’re trapped in the endless loop of replaying that moment you slipped out the door, convincing yourself you made the right call while feeling the crushing weight of regret.

Satoru snaps to bring you back to reality. “Hey! Listen, I am happy to let you vent all night if that’s what you need, but right now? I need you to snap out of it.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Fine.”

“Good. Trust me, by the end of the night, you’ll forget all about what happened.” He gives you a self assured wink. “Have you ever had a bad time in this room?”

You sigh, reluctantly admitting, “...No.”

“Exactly,” he says, grabbing the black fabric blindfold from the bed. “Now, let’s get this on you so we can begin.”

The soft material brushes against your skin as he ties it securely over your eyes. The darkness heightens every sound—the creak of the door, the muffled voices, the footsteps of those entering. The bids start like any other night, with Satoru rejecting men one after the other. Their polished words fall flat, their presence failing to meet his standards.

After what feels like an eternity (and far more candidates than usual) your shoulders begin to sag. Your mind is filled with frustration and mingling with hopelessness. You’ve lost count of how many people you’ve gone through, but each rejection stings more than the last.

Just as you’re about to resign yourself to disappointment, the door opens again. This time, a heaviness fills the room. No words are spoken, but the weight of the silence speaks volumes.

You can hear Satoru’s measured footsteps as he circles the room, assessing. “Hmm…I was beginning to think the well would run dry,” he muses, his tone intrigued.

The silence stretches. You hold your breath, waiting for him to continue, wondering why this time feels different.

“Ready to give him a taste, love?” he finally asks.

The question catches you off guard. What is going on? Satoru never moves to the second phase without a single word exchanged, so you’re left to wonder what’s different this time around. Before you can dwell on it, a familiar voice cuts through the quiet.

“With all due respect, Satoru—I have been waiting all week for this. I’d rather taste her all by myself.”

Your heart stutters, the blood rushing to your ears. You know that voice.

“Very well,” Satoru replies smoothly, you can sense the amusement in his tone. “Enjoy, Choso.”

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone with the man who’s haunted your thoughts all week.

Choso’s footsteps approach, deliberate and slow. He reaches out, his fingers grazing the edge of the blindfold before slipping it off. The dim light floods your vision, but it’s nothing compared to the intensity of his gaze.

“You’re here,” you murmur, your voice barely audible. “...But aren’t you supposed to be with everyone else right now?”

He closes the distance between you, his palm cupping your cheek with a tenderness that stops your words. His touch is warm, grounding you, but his eyes burn with something unspoken.

“The only person I have any interest in being with right now is you,” he says, his voice soft but unwavering.

“Choso, I’m so sorry. I tried calling, but—”

He doesn’t let you finish. His hands frame your face, pulling you closer. The proximity is electrifying. “If you want things clean, we can keep it clean,” he says, his tone low and deliberate. “If you want no pressure, no attachments, no strings, you’ve got it.”

Your breath catches as his words sink in, leaving you speechless.

“All I know,” he continues, his voice thick with restrained longing, “is that I’ve spent this entire week fighting every urge to put my hands all over you every time I see you. I want you… badly. So if this is what I need to do to have you, I’ll do it all.”

You try to find the words to explain everything, but the words can’t seem to form. Instead, you let out a faint whisper to repeat yourself. “I—I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” he says, a hint of a smile ghosting across his lips before he kisses you.

Whenever Choso has his lips on you, it feels like he can never get enough, but this time it feels controlled. His rhythm is sensual and slow, like every kiss is meant to savor every last bit he’s missed throughout the week.

Before you get lost in his touch, he manages to pull back. He looks at you with sincerity before his gaze darkens into lustful desire. “But if you still want to make it up to me…” he starts. “...Be a good girl and open up for me.”

The drop in Choso’s voice has your insides trembling with arousal. You notice how his demeanor has completely shifted. This is different from any other version of him that’s been between your legs. It’s dark, rough, and the type of Choso that commands your presence without even lifting a finger. You don't know what’s coming next, but you’re more than willing to step into the storm he’s offering.

 “Yes, sir.”

Your words trigger Choso’s desire to be close to you. Within seconds, you feel the weight of his body pinning you to the bed.

When you look into his eyes, the soft flames turn into a deep fiery abyss. His lips find yours with a possessive force that electrifies your core. Choso doesn’t just want you, he needs to have you and nothing will stop him.

As you kiss, you feel him slide your wrists above your head. “You know, in thinking about this a bit more, maybe a few creative consequences might be a bit more fun.” His words come out as a smoldering whisper as he motions to the restraints attached to the headboard. “You up for it?”

The thought of Choso strapping you down and having his way with you does more to your filthy mind than expected. “Mhmm,” you hum, the rush from your core begins to drip out of you.

He pauses. “Excuse me?” he teases as he locks his eyes onto yours. This is a man who is ready to dominate you from the inside out.

You give him a playfully challenging look. “Sorry—yes, sir,” you reply.

His mouth curls into a devilish grin. “Better.” Choso wraps the cuffs around your wrists, leaving yourself vulnerable to anything he could possibly do to you. “If you want to get out of these, you’ll have to earn it. How ‘bout it beautiful, ready to play?”

You watch him undress, paying attention to every muscle that’s revealed. When he finally slips on a condom, you spread your legs wide open and purr,  “Always ready for you.”

Choso sets his bare body against yours and brings his hand to your folds. He inserts his fingers into you like it’s second nature.

The motion causes you to take in a sharp inhale. God, you’ve missed how full his fingers feel inside you. “Oh yes Cho—”

“Look how wet you’re getting for me, I can’t wait to be inside that tight fucking pussy.”

The way he speaks to you fills your mind with sinful thoughts. You want him to not only fuck your tight pussy, but absolutely destroy it.

Maybe Choso is a mind reader because your wish is his command.

Without taking his hand off your clit, Choso moves himself between your thighs and directs his length into your entrance. He presses into you in one solid motion and your mind gets an instant hit of bliss.

“Fuck—” you cry, soaking all of him in.

“You’ve got it, babe.” He praises as he continues to thrust into you. “Show me how well you can take this dick.”

You want to wrap your arms around him, but the restraints serve their purpose and keep you in place. You’d think your inability to take control would frustrate you, but instead it unleashes a part of you that drives you to the brink of sensual madness. Your attraction to Choso and the way he takes charge is through the roof. You could come right here and now if you wanted to, but you know he has a lot more in store for you.

When you’ve properly adjusted to him and your wetness coats his entire shaft, his pace begins to pick up. He takes his hands and grips the outside of your thighs, the pads of his fingers burn into your skin as he raises your legs to your shoulders.

When he dips down deep inside of you, all you can hear are your needy moans filling the room.

“Good job, babe. No one’s ever taken my cock as good as you,” Choso growls. His voice is rough and labored, but unmistakably laced with passion and desire.

As he pounds himself inside of you, you can feel how much he craves the connection between you two. Being the sole source of his pleasure makes you crazy and you know that you both want the same thing: more.

“Fuck yes, Choso—harder” you plead.

To your dismay, he actually slows down—but the look on his face tells you he’s nowhere near stopping. “I’ll give you harder, princess. Flip over for me.”

“Yes, sir,” you purr. The restraints give you just enough slack to cross them over so you can set yourself on all fours. You rest your head into your elbows and arch your back to angle your ass upwards for Choso.

He palms your ass and gives it a firm slap before drilling himself back in. The thunderous sound of his hand against your skin echoes throughout the room.

The delicious stinging sensation on your flesh causes you to throw your head back with pleasure. But before you can return back to your position, you feel Choso grab a handful of your hair. He firmly tugs you back until he can whisper in your ear. “How’s that for harder, beautiful?”

He continues to drive into you, each thrust more irresistible than the last. Tears begin to fall down your cheek, but you can’t help but get drunk off of the intoxicating pain. “So…f—fucking…good,” you try to say between each breath.

Being manhandled by Choso is downright addictive. He commands you in a way that doesn’t need to be spoken. Everytime he grabs your waist, his grip says you’re mine. When he spanks your ass, his touch says you’re mine. Even when he pulls you closer to kiss your neck, his lips say you’re mine. You don't fight back because you happily oblige.

The sound of skin slapping against each other paired with a melody of grunts and moans tears through the whole room. There’s no signs of stopping until you feel the tightness in your center dance on the edge, ready to burst.

Time seems to slow when Choso is inside you, but that doesn’t stop how quickly your orgasm creeps up. You try to speak but your words come out as incoherent moans. “Choso, I’m so close—”

Choso quickly replies, “Nope—consequences, remember?” He may be god’s gift to earth, but right now he’s playing the devil. “You’re going to have to hold it in until I say you can come.” You can hear the menacing grin through his voice.

Somehow that demand turns you on even more. “Cho—” you whine.

“If you want it so badly, beg for it.” His voice is rough as he penetrates deeper into you.

You can’t help the moans that come out when he slams into your cervix. “Please Choso, let me come on your cock.”

“Good girl,” he muses. “Just like that.”

You try to hold back but you’re almost at your peak. “Please Cho—I can’t…” you pant.

“Just a little more, baby.” His pace remains unrelenting. “Breathe. You can take it.”

You try to hold yourself back as much as you can, but every second gets harder than the last. All you want to do is have your pussy throb around his dick. The way he’s making you feel is too good.

Finally, he pulls your hair to bring you up one last time and it’s like you’ve reached salvation. Choso moves his hand to cup the edges of your neck and whispers, “Come with me.”

Immediately, you shatter. And Choso is right there with you.

The gentle grip of his hands around your neck intensifies your orgasm. It makes you feel so light you could practically ascend to heaven. Your only hope right now is that Choso feels the same way too.

You can hear the groans of him coming undone, it’s like music to your ears. When he lightens his hold, his chest falls to your back. It’s soothing how well he fits around you, part of you wants to stay like this forever.

But alas, all good things come to an end. Fortunately for you, something even better waits for you at the end of the tunnel. Choso untangles you from the restraints and releases the cuffs around your wrist. When you’re on your back, he brings himself closer and wraps his arms securely around you.

Choso plants a kiss onto your lips before giving you an admiring look. “You’ve earned your way out this time, but let’s see how well you fare next Friday.”

Your smirk is paired with a playful tone. "Remind me to have Satoru update the schedule so we can do this every day."

He chuckles. "Sure, but that’ll have to wait.” His gaze turns into something deep and darker. “...I’m not even finished with you yet."

You lean in closer, your voice breathless but daring. "Give me everything you’ve got…I can take it."

Once again, he’s on top of you in the blink of an eye. "That’s my girl."

--

taglist: @jud3thedude @makingtimemine @chosslut @liiiacke @trishiepo0 @celestialforce

[capricornsims]

Jenny and Lyla are best friends no matter what kind of feud is happening between their husbands. Either way, they get together and plan to raise their babies to be best friends like they are. Lyla spends most of her time at the Smith house, and PT9 is more than happy to cook for all of them.

Also, this is part 2 of my last post.

[queermccoy]

imagine you are a lesbian. imagine you are a lesbian and you love your gf. imagine you are a lesbian and your now ex gf is seeing a man with traditional values. imagine you are a lesbian and your ex gf is a tradwife.

you are max from black sails

[paintinganangel]

Chappell Roan performing Good Luck Babe at Bonnaroo Festival

[iamplutotheplanet]

[aiodenhunt]

Hc that the only reason Cassandra isn’t in the Isle of the lost is because of Rapunzel, they did take her there for a day or two. But Raps noticed and technically begged King Beast to send Cass back to Auradon. Rapunzel took full responsibility of Cassandra, saying that if Cass ever caused chaos in Corona or the world again then both Rapunzel and Cassandra would be sent to the Isle.

Both of them are currently in Auradon, and Cassandra cannot thank Rapunzel more to this day.

And if Rapunzel and Cassandra knew about Ginny’s existence Raps would probably take Ginny to Auradon too.

[pennyschool]

Alexa, play Good Luck Babe by Chappell Roan

(also hi I’m the Pam blog mod)

I have never heard of that artist (mod// GIRLIE IS LYING) Ill check her out!

[dailytraingirl]

haley loves chappell roan because i love her but im too scared to date a girl so im getting married to sam

[graysonsmullet]