#where i spent a lot of time. as if it was my second home

[lemonxlimee]

Yeah so apparently when I was in grade 9 a bunch of my classmates made an entire Instagram account made specifically to make fun of me and it was [school]-disabled and the profile picture was my face with clown makeup and the bio said "live laugh [my full deadname]" and all the posts were of me and the captions were stuff like "what an odd specimen" and "you can just tell it has no friends" and "why hasn't this thing been hit by a bus yet" and I ended up dropping out because of it (I didn't get to see the entire account before it got taken down but apparently posts dated back to the first day I spent at that school (so like. Around this time in 2021) (so they dated back at least two and a half years) and I spent that summer never leaving my house and having my brother accompany me literally everywhere until the second month of the next school year cause the first time I took the bus home from my new school (we had to pass the Other School where everyone else at [old school] goes) they tried taking a picture of me again and my brother ended up fighting them in the 7-11 parking lot near my house while I had a panic attack in the bathroom. That was like a year ago and it hasn't happened since but I've never felt safe outside of my house and I've never trusted anyone again but I still stalk some of their social medias just in case (because of this I also ended up breaking my year streak of not shing and because of dropping out I ended up missing my grade 9 grad party but my parents made it up to me by taking me to the amusement park but I was on guard the entire time so it wasn't too fun but it was better than if I went with my class)

[mintmatcha]

I am so soft for father figure Shinsou, thank you for giving me something I didn’t know I needed. Just doing everyday things with him and him being soft towards you child is giving me life.

Casual. That's the word you used to describe what the meeting should be. Casual.

"He's a good boy, for the most part." Your bag is already stuffed full of toys and towels and other miscellaneous things that Shinso can't imagine you'll need. "His dad spoils him, so he might be a little bratty at first- we're working on it. Well, I'm working on it. His dad is--"

You kneel down and start rummaging through your things.

"Uh, don't let him guilt you into buying him snacks, please. He's got a severe nut and seed allergy and it's just easier if I take care of it all. There's snacks in here, along with two epipens. There's two more in the red cabinet in the kitchen, just in case we ever need them. "

Somehow, you manage to wiggle out the sunscreen for your bag without collapsing the whole pile. You dollop a bit on your fingers.

"Once they get here, we'll go straight to the park and hang out there for just a little bit. The book says the first meeting should be short and we should give him other things to focus out so he doesn't stress out." Your shoulders are bunched by your ears. "It'll be super casual. Easy. No stress."

Shinso kneels down next to you and dips a finger in the sunscreen.

"No stress," Shinso repeats back, dotting the sunscreen on your nose. It's enough to urge a smile out of you.

"Sorry, I know I'm--" You toss your hands in the air, frazzled, but with a smile. "This is a big deal."

"I know it is."

"We've only been dating for eight months," you say/ "What if we're jumping the gun? I don't want to put him through this if-"

"I'm not planning on breaking up with you." Ever. Shinso wouldn't have agreed to this if he wasn't completely sure that you were the one for him. It's not that he doesn't like children, it's that he's never spent time with any. Only child, no cousins: he doesn't know anything about kids other than the fact he used to be one.

You reach other and dot Shinso's nose with sunscreen. Now, you're matching.

"You might break up with me after you see what I'm dealing with."

Shinso takes your hand. "I'm not going to leave because you have a kid."

"I was talking about his father," you heave out a sigh. "They'll probably be late, by the way."

-

They are late.

Significantly.

It's six hours past the allotted time, filled with weak excuses from you. The television has rolled into the second season of some trashy show, but neither of you are really watching.

"He always loses track of time," you repeat for the twentieth time, trying to hide the disappointment in your voice. Shinso is long past disappointed, well into the area of 'pissed'. Mostly at your ex, partially at you, for letting it happen.

"He's still not calling you back?"

"No," you say, just like you've said before. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have let him know about you, he's just-- I dunno. Playing games with me again."

It contextualizes a lot of your behaviors, actually. The anxiety about getting home, the days you go radio silent, the dates where you suddenly have to run off and collect your child: he imagines there's a lot of bullshit games that happen between you two.

"You let him treat you like this?"

"He's my baby's father. I can't just..."

[mizusugii]

lace-y 𐙚 (sam winchester x reader)

↳ you were alone in the bunker with sam and having a movie night with him... while wearing a really pretty white, lace-y lingerie set and one of his oversized tees. what could go wrong!

↳ cw: nsfw (MINORS DNI!!), smut, fem/afab!reader, fingering, reader is e@ten out, little bit of praise (and this is my first time writing nsfw so maybe that should be its own warning!)

You pushed the door of the bunker open, letting the cold night air whip through your hair before stepping into the warmth and sighing with relief. Sam followed close behind you, closing and locking the door as you made your way down the stairs. You and him were coming back from a hunt alone, since Dean and Cas were busy with their own side mission. You didn’t mind at all- it gave you more solo time with your favorite person. As you reached the bottom of the stairwell, you tossed your bag and keys to the table, noting how your belongings nearly knocked over one of the beer bottles Dean left out. You made a mental note to clean up… tomorrow. You were too spent to do it tonight. 

The two of you made your way to Sam’s room. You had your own room, of course- the bunker has, like, 84 of them after all- but you had agreed to watch some Netflix together after getting back as a little reward for your efforts. As you got into his room, you smiled. His room always felt so cozy. After he moved in, he slowly made himself at home… a couple books piled on his desk, a few posters from his favorite movies, and a whole lot of flannels on a rack that you liked to occasionally steal from. In all fairness, there’s no way he needs all of them. But there he was- shedding his Carhart jacket off just to reveal yet another flannel, this one a nice burgundy color. He threw the jacket onto a nearby armchair and watched as you did the same with yours, now in a long sleeve shirt and jeans. It wasn’t exactly the cutest outfit, but you couldn’t wear your cute outfits out on hunts where you needed to actually be able to bend over or get dirty. You did note some stains on your outfit, and you wanted nothing more then to change into something cleaner and comfier, but your PJs were all the way in your room…

“Hey Sam, do you have a shirt I could borrow?” You asked as he settled into bed, leaning against the bed frame.

“Uhhh yeah, they’re in the second drawer down, take whatever you want.” He smiled before pulling out his phone. You thanked him and went into his wooden dresser to find a shirt. He had a lot of plain white tees for layering, but when you dug a bit deeper you found some of his older stuff. You grinned when you landed on a gray Stanford shirt, and you pulled it out. Sam was tall enough where any of his shirts fit you like a dress. Without much thinking, you started tugging your own shirt off over your head right in front of him. Sam noticed it and tried not to stare- bless his heart, he really did try- but he couldn’t help but notice the lace white bra you had on. He felt his face heat up and he felt bad for staring, his eyes darting back to his phone as you pulled his oversized shirt over yourself and discarded your pants. After you were all adjusted, you climbed into the bed with him and grabbed the remote off the bedside table. 

“What do you wanna watch?” You asked, already beginning to scroll through movies. You were sitting fairly close, curled up beside him with your thighs just inches away from touching his. 

“Uhhh…” He trailed off, trying to compose himself. 

“You’re never helpful with this, you know.” You rolled your eyes but smiled. You landed on some cheesy horror movie with a god-awful cover and clicked on it. You always found those types of horror movies ironic, given your job as a hunter. Some horribly CGI’d ghost haunting a B-list actress who runs away in heels and trips over herself like every seven seconds… sometimes it felt more like a parody movie.

“Interesting choice.” He quipped as the movie began. You laughed and looked over at him, your head resting against one of the propped up pillows. 

“Hey, if you have a problem with it, then your indecisive ass can change it.” You said. He shook his head silently and leaned back a little bit more.

“No, it’s perfect.” He said. You smiled and returned your gaze to the TV as the camera slowly zoomed out on a dilapidated house in the middle of a forest. You both watched in silence, occasionally scoffing at the horrible effects and dialogue. As the movie went on, you both slowly got more comfortable. At some point, you adjusted and ended up with your right thigh touching his leg. He pretended to not notice, but when you lifted your arms to stretch about 20 minutes into the film, your (or rather, his) shirt rode up a bit and the slightest bit of lace peeked through on your inner thigh. Where there were endless comments and critiques from the two of you before, you noticed he started to go silent, and his eyes were glued to the TV like he would be stricken down on the spot if he dared to look away. 

Your little comments went unnoticed, and you couldn’t help but wonder if something was wrong. After another 10 minutes of painful silence, you finally tugged on his arm a bit to get his attention. 

His eyes flicked in your direction before returning back to the TV. “Yeah?”

“Is something up?” You asked, trying to get even a little bit of eye contact. He made a slight frown and shook his head, eyes still watching the shitty flick in front of him. 

“M-m.” He hummed, hands moving to fidget with the hem of his comforter. You furrowed your brows and reached for the remote, pausing the movie.

“I don’t believe you.” You responded. He just kept staring straight, trying to think of something to say. 

“Hey, can you look at me?” You asked, just a bit frustrated as he seemed to have an aversion to turning to face you. 

He took a small breath before turning his head, eyes immediately darting to your bare thighs before dragging up to your face.

Oh. Oh. 

“Oh uhm… Sorry.” You said sheepishly, now embarrassed. You tried to move your hand to pull the shirt down, but his hand caught yours. You looked up to him in confusion.

He held it there wordlessly, and you could see something change in his eyes. Where he was avoidant and cold before, there was a sort of glint in his pupils, and his attention couldn’t be further away from the TV now. You felt your face flush, and you bit the inside of your cheek, attempting to make the tension dissipate. You saw him glance at your cherry glossed lips, and you almost laughed because he obviously wanted to make a move but was stuck like a deer in headlights.

You moved in slowly until your lips connected, feeling him nearly jolt at the contact. You lingered there for a few seconds before pulling back. 

“Is this okay?” You asked quietly, making sure he was comfortable. He nodded slowly, and this time he leaned forward, connecting your lips again. His hand that once had an iron grip on yours now moved to your cheek, holding you gently in place. You couldn’t help but smile into the kiss as his calloused hand moved across your jaw. You’re not sure why you decided to go with the white lace lingerie this morning, but you’re so grateful you did- it saved you from a whole lot more of silent pining. The kiss deepened, and as it got more passionate you slowly moved so that you were straddling his lap, never breaking your connection. His hand dropped from your face and as you pulled away you saw him go still, feeling him harden beneath you. 

It wasn’t that he was ravenous... but there was a sudden sense of desperation as he kissed you again on the lips, and you couldn’t help slowly grinding across his middle. He let out a soft groan before his lips slowly moved to your jaw, then your neck. That shy boy from just seconds ago was gone. You threw your head back a bit, giving him more access. He moved his lips all around your neck, occasionally sucking on your sensitive skin. You felt every sense heighten- his mouth marking your neck, the friction between your thin panties and thick denim, his rough fingers starting to pull at the material of your shirt…

Speaking of which, he lifted the shirt over your head, quickly breaking away from your neck to pull the fabric over your face. As he threw the shirt behind you, his eyes roamed over your body. He could finally see the full set of thin lace white lingerie adorned with small satin bows, the underwear riding up your sides as your legs straddled his. His racing thoughts stilled, and he just sat there looking at you like if he moved, he’d lose his perfect view. When you shifted forward a bit, his trance was broken, and the sensation caused him to immediately attach his lips back on to yours. Your small whimpers fueled his hunger, and he gently pushed forwards, sending you backwards so that your head was hitting the mattress behind you. He was now hovering over you, still kissing you and softly pulling at your glossy lips with his teeth. His lips moved slowly down your face, onto your neck where he kissed a few of his marks from earlier, across your chest between your cupped breasts, down your tummy and ghosting just above where your underwear covered you. You looked down to see his face just above your core, looking into your eyes with caution, silently asking for permission. Your short nod was all he needed, and he gently looped his fingers around the waistband and pulled the panties off and down your legs. You felt your heart race when he gently pushed your soft thighs apart, baring yourself in a way that might have felt embarrassing if he wasn’t practically drooling at the sight.

He ignored his urges and started slowly, kissing up your plush thigh. The sensation of him just inches away from where you needed him most, blended with his hot breath fanning over your sensitive skin was driving you crazy. You needed something, now. 

“Sam..” You whimpered, voice shaking with anticipation. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He looked up with lust-blown eyes, cheek resting on your left thigh.

“Please…” You begged weakly, squirming a bit.

You didn’t have to voice what you wanted. He smiled sweetly at you before moving to your core, gently pushing his tongue past your folds. You gasped and your hands clumsily fumbled around the sheets until they landed on the back of his head, fingers hooking into his soft hair. He lapped at your clit, and you wondered how the hell his brother got all the credit for being a “pussy magnet” when he was eating you out like a damn professional. His breath fanned over your hot, wet core, causing you to grip his chestnut hair tighter. He groaned, causing vibrations that only added to your intense pleasure.

“Fuck…” You hissed, hips slightly rolling. One of the hands that was currently holding your thighs apart slowly moved upward towards your waist in an attempt to keep you (relatively) in place. His tongue, slick with your arousal, was driving you crazy, and your soft moans and whimpers made him work even faster until you were nearing the edge. 

Then you felt one of his hands trail up your thigh, and two long fingers gently prodded at your entrance. You gasped at the feeling as they gathered arousal and slipped effortlessly inside you, his tongue still working at your puffy clit. You were blissed out, softly moaning his name as he worked his impossibly long fingers in and out of you. Your breaths got short and your hips rutted up, and he knew you were close. He pulled his mouth off your core, but kept his fingers at a steady pace, looking up at you for the first time in a while as your hand dropped off the back of his head and onto his shoulder, gripping for dear life.

“That’s it pretty girl, I got you.” He praised, using his free hand to rub gentle circles into your waist. As his pace quickened, you whined his name and felt the pressure in your lower half snap, moaning as you climaxed. Your eyes shut closed, and your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. He slowly pulled his fingers out as you were still coming down, and the hand that wasn’t coated in slick was reaching up to brush your hair out of your face.

“You okay hon?” He asked, climbing up to kiss you on the forehead. Your face was completely flush, and your hair was a bit of a mess from writhing around on the pillow. You looked up into his eyes and smiled at his gentleness, and you nodded slowly. 

“Felt really good..” You mumbled, still somewhat incoherent as you recovered. He smiled back and kissed you gently.

“You look so cute in white, you know…”

↳ a/n: hiii! this is my first time writing nsfw so please be gentle w me :,) i have no idea what i'm doing even though my tumblr history would say otherwise... anyways i have a bit of free time between now and finals- send requests! thank u for reading lovelies <3

[faggotry-enjoyer]

U of M sounds like a nightmare rn. I’m an MSU graduate who wants do my PhD in geophysics and I’ve considered U of M bc they do have a good geology department but I think I’m just gonna uhhh Not Go There. I haven’t really heard what’s up with MSU but I know we had an SJP chapter 🥴 So I suspect it’s not quiet. But U of M’s antisemitism makes HEADLINES, stay safe

It's really more of a mixed bag. The antisemitism here is very real and very scary, you'll never catch me denying that. But it's not the whole story.

On October 7th this year, there may have been an SJP protest at Rackham. But the Diag was like a mini Hostages Square all day long, and there were hundreds of people at the memorial in the evening. Hundreds of people saying a prayer for the state of Israel and mourner's kaddish, hundreds of people singing acheinu and hatikvah. A week or so prior, 500 people gathered on the diag in support of Jewish students and our right to be here. And I can't speak to the latter, as I wasn't there, but on the 7th campus security was by us all day to make sure nothing happened.

If I recall correctly, about 15% of the student body here is Jewish. We have a very active Hillel, as well as a Jewish Resource Center and a Chabad. Even when campus is scary, we've got each other and we've got a lot of each other. There is fear, but there's hope too.

[hella1975]

there's a very specific kind of vibe that comes with living with your friends in final year that it just does not have in first year or even second year. like as a fresher it's usually the first time any of you have lived away from home let alone with SO MANY people your age and it's terrifying and exciting and randomised to boot so it's generally carnage for a whole year in the best and worst ways, and then second year you pick who you're living with and it feels like for the first time you're doing this adult thing PROPERLY. you have a place of your own now. these are the people you've chosen to live with. studying gets serious etc. but it's still fresh. it's still new. you still don't know how to navigate it. but final year? final year is when you actually get it right. you know how to manage your time better. you know what works for you and what doesn't. studying is the main focus and you've been out in the world for three years now and it's not loud and boisterous like it was in first year and you're not exciteable and awkward like you were in second year. you're comfortable. every single one of my flatmates has their own friend group and we mainly keep to our own social circles, but we'll still meet each other back at the house after a night out and sit in the kitchen or my room to do the debrief. sometimes i'll go days not seeing either of them despite sharing a house but every now and then someone will softly call up the stairs that 'the heating's on!' or one of us will sneeze and the other two will yell 'bless you!' through the walls. the lack of interaction isn't interpreted as dislike in ways it would have been even last year, because we're all just old enough to be past that now and settled enough in our friendship not to worry about it. idk. uni is very loud and unsettling a lot of the time so it's been really sweet to see how almost boringly comfortable final year is.

[parfaitblogs]

(totally not based on my day) but a simple request for spencer helping reader out with a bunch of chores bc she's overwhelmed with life and she decides to thank him with like the quote "best head of his life" and he's like "its okay you dont have to do that" and she's responds "but i am anyways"

it will come back ❀ s. reid x reader

in which spencer reid helps you when you're (very) overwhelmed, and you might need to return the favour.  pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: comfort & smut (18+ mdni) tags: oral (m receiving). praise. established relationship. reader's overwhelmed overstimulated overworked... very enthusiastic head giver!reader. use of honey and angel. they love each other a lot. i love them a lot. i don’t think there’s d/s dynamics but if there are it’s soft dom spencer (nobody’s shocked). word count: 3.1k a/n: thank u sooo much for reading my brain ily i need to give spencer reid head asap. new format/layout for requests sort of its the same as my normal post layout... do we like... i sure freaking hope so. as always lmk if u liked this or even if u didn't but preferably if u did!!

You were exhausted. For three weeks straight, you had been working nonstop, with a wondrous total of eight hours in between shifts. You were hardly sleeping, you had hardly had a social life, hell, you never even had time to enjoy the simple pleasures of an everything shower. You felt groggy, and cramped, and everyday felt like an awful repeat of the last. A nightmare that never ended. 

Never mind the fact that you hadn't seen your boyfriend.

Always home too late to be with him in the evenings, and up too early to get coffee with him before your days started. Spencer was so patient with you, regardless. He knew it would end eventually, and he would get his girlfriend back. It was just for the month, was what you would text each other whenever the other began feeling particularly lonely. He didn't even like texting, but the time for a simple phone call wasn't available to you anymore. 

And your apartment. Every time you stepped into it you swore a new dirty dish materialised in your sink, or a new pile of clothes sat themselves in your bedroom floor. Which was odd, because you had rotated between the same two outfits for the last eighteen days — your work uniform, or your pyjamas. 

You were overwhelmed with it all. Even as your hectic work life came to an end, and you were waking up to the sunlight pouring into your room, instead of an alarm clock while the moon was still up. You were acutely aware of the mess of your apartment, and just the thought of it all left you lying motionless in your bed, staring up at the ceiling. 

Tears stung your vision as you felt the seconds tick into minutes, and nothing happened. Attempting to will yourself to get up, and yet you simply couldn't. Exhausted beyond belief, with limbs sinking into the mattress and melding to the sheets. 

You faintly heard the click of your front door lock, and if you had any more motivation in you, you'd probably get up to double check it was the only other person who had a key to your apartment, and not a burglar. Thankfully, you didn't have to, for Spencer was calling out your name, gently.

Too exhausted to even reply and alert him of where you were, you lay still until he had found you in your bedroom, his bad dropping by the doorway, feet shuffling against the rug. 

"Good afternoon," he said, finding a seat on the edge of your bed, hand resting atop your thigh, gentle circles being rubbed into the skin. 

"Is it already afternoon?" you asked him, voice quiet. 

"Yeah. How long have you been awake in bed?" 

"I don't know," you answered, voice awfully small as you felt the thick weight of frustration with yourself blanket over you. "I need to get up. The apartment's a mess."

"It's allowed to be," he said. "You've been doing sixteen hour days."

"Yeah, but I'm not today. I have the day off."

"Your first day off in weeks. I'd be concerned if you'd spent it productively."

You stared at him, unsure if the irritation that settled in your bones was because of his insistence that you not doing a thing was okay, or your exhaustion. Logically, it would be the latter. You did know that, deep down. 

Upon seeing your eyes delve into something a little more desperate, he sighed, hand sliding up to your own, gently tugging you up into a seated position. His eyebrows knitted together at your exhausted look, and you could see his brain ticking behind his eyes.

"Do you want to split the tasks?" he finally asked.

"You don't have to," you shrugged your shoulders. "It's my mess."

"Honey, you're already overwhelmed, and all you've done is wake up," he answered, thumb drawing circles on the top of your hand that he still seemed to have clasped within his own. "Let me help."

"It's really gross."

"I've seen mutilated dead bodies."

"I'd argue my kitchen sink is worse."

"Oh would you?" his eyebrows shot up, lips twitching in amusement, that you found solace in, distracting you slightly from your overstimulated mind. "Do you want to have a shower?"

"Yes," you nodded your head, brain ticking over all the personal hygiene tasks you had been neglecting over the past few weeks. 

"How about you go shower, I'll start cleaning up, and you come join me when you're feeling better?"

Despite your aversion to anybody but yourself tackling the mess of your apartment, you knew better than to deny Spencer any further — he had set his mind on helping you. 

Sighing, you nodded your head in defeat. He had coaxed you up off the bed, gotten you to the bathroom, even found you a fresh set of clothes to wear, and waited with you for the water to warm up. It was really only once he was absolutely sure you had gotten into the shower, did he leave you be, and disappeared from the bathroom. 

Eventually, the apartment had been cleaned, with efforts from the both of you getting it to where it now was. 

You were a lot less exhausted, and your brain was a lot less fried now that you didn't have a million tasks catalogued within it to get done. 

You were lying in your freshly made bed — courtesy of Spencer. Your head on his chest, fidgeting with one of his hands as he used the other to wave around as he rambled about something you were no longer following. It had started as a simple explanation for why you had been so overwhelmed in the first place. Which you had asked as a rhetoric, but didn't have the heart to stop him when he began explaining. 

"You're not listening, are you?" he asked, free hand poking your side and emitting an involuntary laugh from you at the feeling. 

"I am, I am! I'm just not following anymore."

"Sorry."

"It's okay," you replied, turning and poking your head up to be level with his. "I like hearing you speak, anyways. Doesn't matter if I don't understand."

He only hummed as a response, and the two of you stared at each other for a beat, before you were breaking out into a smile. 

"Hi," you chirped. 

"Hello," he answered, perhaps a little too amused by your sudden energy. "Would you like something?"

"A kiss?"

"After all that labour I just put in for you?" he mused, but he was already lifting his head to brush his lips against yours, and was most certainly not pulling away when you eagerly connected them properly. 

You pulled back after a few moments, searching his face. "Do you want something for all that labour?"

His hand trailed up your spine, fingertips triggering a shiver to run up your back. "What do you have in mind?"

"I could give you the best head of your life."

He was clearly not expecting that as an offer, perhaps because you never had offered such a thing before. It wasn't even something you had talked about, which was bizarre (in your mind), considering he was quite enthusiastic about using his mouth on you. 

"You don't need to do that," he shook his head, but with how close your faces were, you could see the instant dilation in his pupils. 

"What if I want to?" 

"Then that's very nice of you, but my point still stands," he replied.

"Spencer, let me do something in return," your voice was nothing short of a whine, and if he was any less turned on, maybe it wouldn't have made his firm footed denial falter. Maybe you knew that.

"You could do anything but that."

"So a handjob?"

"Or that."

"You're such an awful liar," you huffed. "I can see your pupils dilating. I know you're turned on by the thought of it."

"It could just be because I'm looking at you," he answered, voice hoarse, no doubt from the arousal he was attempting to deny was there. "Romantic attraction triggers the same response in our hormones."

"But it's not."

He fell silent for a few moments, before he allowed his resolve to slip, shaking his head in agreement with you. "No. It's not."

"See! It's okay if you want it. I'm quite literally offering myself to you," you spouted. 

His eyes fluttered shut, and he exhaled through his nose, words coming out through almost gritted teeth. "That's not a sentence you should be saying."

"Why not?"

His only response was to say your name chidingly, and when he reopened his eyes, he was met with the shit-eating grin on your face. 

"Brat," he mumbled, lips seeking yours once again.

"Who gives really good head," you hummed against his mouth. "And would really love to show you."

"If you're insisting—"

"Which I am," you quickly interjected, staring back at him as yet another amused smile stretched across his lips. Then, he was nodding his head, and you were quite cheerfully kissing him all over again.

It wasn't that you kissed him with much fever at all — in fact, you were melting into his lips with a gentle hum. It was simply that he was kissing you back with a desperation you should be accustomed to. You weren't. 

Every kiss you received from him always felt like he was chipping away at your soul, claiming a piece of it. Maybe he was.

You mewled when his teeth nipped at your lower lip, and he was quick to take the opportunity of slipping his tongue into your mouth. Though, alerted by his sudden control over the situation between you two, you reluctantly pulled your face away from his before it could go much further. 

"Excuse me," he breathed out, scoldingly, only to be met with your hundredth grin of the day as you descended down his body. He'd take it — you smiling, albeit cockily, was much more rewarding than the concerned look you had been sporting for the majority of the afternoon. 

"I don't do this very often," you told him as you lifted your gaze to his, absentmindedly tugging his pants down his legs. 

"I hope not. You've never done it for me, and we've been together for quite a while."

"You know what I mean," you grumbled, and he was forced to poke his tongue into the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face. 

"Is this comfortable for you?" he then asked, having noticed your constant adjustments of your positioning between his legs. From nerves or comfortability, he didn't know. 

"Um. I guess so," you replied. "I've never done it lying down."

"We can do it however you prefer to do it, angel."

"Oh. Okay. Cool," you mumbled, sitting up straight and grabbing his hands within your own, tugging him over towards the edge of the bed. 

You sank to your knees on the rug, tapping his knees with your hands to part them so you could situate yourself comfortably between them. 

You were a vision if he'd ever seen one, and you weren't even doing anything. Perhaps you had noticed the effect you had on him, or maybe you were just largely enthusiastic about doing something for him, and only him. 

Your tongue darted out to lick your lips, eyes flickering up to meet his face, and if this was the last sight he saw before he died, he would have no complaints. 

"Have you ever gotten head before?" you mumbled, eyes fixated on him as your hands trailed up the sides of his thighs, resting at the waistband of his boxers. 

"Yes."

"Okay," you whispered, quietly, tapping his hips so he could lift them, and you rolled his boxers down his skin.

"Okay?" he parroted. 

"Okay," you confirmed with a nod of your head. "I just wanted to know if this is going to be completely new for you or not."

As you spoke, your fingertips dragged along his inner thighs, lips following soon after, kissing up the skin. 

"I don't think that's going to matter, honey," he answered, voice breathless. 

You smiled, not needing to ask what he meant. You lifted your head back up, studying his face. He gave you a nod, a silent confirmation to allow you to go further, and you took a beat to compose yourself. It's not like he would be mad at you if it sucked, but you had had a far too awful day to not do something good. 

You hadn't done this in a while, it was true. So your hesitance came more from your brain figuring out what it actually needed to do, than your insecurities (they were there too). 

Insecurities that melted away within an instant, for Spencer's thighs tensed beneath your hands that were now holding them apart the second your lips made contact with his cock, and through your lashes you could see his head tipping back. 

Your cheeks warmed at how easy it was to get him to respond, and you wondered if the satisfaction settled in your chest was anything similar to how he felt when he did this to you. 

You started hesitant. Gentle kitten licks at his tip that probably shouldn't have been garnering such a large reaction from him. But it was, and you had to preoccupy your mouth to keep the smug smile off of it. 

Wrapping your lips around the head, he lets out the breathiest moan you think you've ever heard come from him, and your mind goes hazy. Newfound blind confidence wills you to take more of him in your mouth, and it's a quiet 'Fuck' that compels you even further. 

In hindsight, he knew he'd enjoy it. It was you after all. He knew from the world shattering arousal that the simple sight of you on your knees was. He had, in a few short seconds, mentally prepared to enjoy this.

But not this much, and certainly not this quickly. 

"I've been too selfless," he muttered as you lifted your head back up, tongue licking a stripe up the underside of him as you did. When you met his gaze in question, he added, "I mean never asking you for this. I should've."

You hummed as a response (it was all you really could do), and the gentle vibrations shot heat throughout his body. A shuddering moan rocked through his body, and if not for your quick response time in pushing his hips down, they would've knocked against your face when he bucked them up.

You hollowed your cheeks, lowering your head back down, and emitting the loveliest of moans from Spencer, whose hand found its way to your hair. Upon the lack of your protests, he made a loose ponytail with his fist, gently tugging on it upwards so you could lift your head. 

You flattened your tongue on your ascend, successfully making his already weak grip on your hair go slack, within only seconds of him having grabbed it. Swirling your tongue around the tip of his cock, his hips bucked up again, and you flinched. 

"Jesus—fuck, sorry, honey," he rasped, though his guilt was quick to dissipate as he saw your thumbs up against his thigh. Your movements weren't hesitant, anymore. Just slow. Tortuously slow. "Can I..." he trailed off, seemingly becoming unsure of what it was he was asking of you within seconds, but the retightening of his hand in your hair gave you all you needed to know. 

You nodded your head the best you could, and he mumbled a quiet 'thank you', allowing you to set a base pace, before taking over. 

"So good. Jesus Christ, angel. Where did you learn this? Don't answer that. Don't tell me. Shit." 

His rambling was sharp sentences, that didn't really sound like they belonged together, and certainly didn't sound like they should be coming out of his mouth. They weren't the most articulately structured phrases he's ever come up with. A thought that comforted you, because you were doing that to him. 

"Fuck," he breathed out, once more, and you came to the mental conclusion you've never heard him swear so much in his life. The thought made your stomach flip.

Fingers dug into your scalp, though not too harshly to hurt. In fact, you were letting out a quiet moan of your own at the feeling, hips wiggling. Even in his state, Spencer noticed, and he smiled.

"You—ah—okay, angel?" he asked you, and you relished in the fact that he couldn't get out sentences without moaning. 

Your response was yet another hum, and he was bucking his hips. Again.

You knew he was close for a multitude of reasons; the fact that he had quickened his gentle-turned-firm guidance of your head, his fingers tugging on your hair a little harsher than before, and the ever so lovely, "Jesus Christ—please—oh," leaving his lips, breathlessly.

It was a few more moments of that, before the fingers in your hair went impossibly tight, and the muscles in his thighs locked beneath your hands. 

The fact you had never discussed doing this, meant neither of you knew the other's stance on what to do. Thankfully, Spencer was rendered so frenzied that he couldn't do anything. 

It was a sickeningly lovely sight; you pulling back and swallowing, some of his come painting your bottom lip. His fingers twitched, before they dropped back to the mattress on either side of his body, his chest heaving just as much as your own. 

Lightheaded, you slowly brought yourself back up to your feet, and Spencer's arms were quick to wrap around the backs of your thighs, pulling you into him. 

"Best head of your life?" you asked, lowering your lips to brush against his. 

"By a mile," he replied. 

"Just one mile?" 

"Maybe two."

Shooting him a glare, you huffed, and he laughed. "You're never getting head again, then."

He nipped your lower lip. "Okay."

"I'm putting my foot down," you retorted, disliking his lack of belief in your words. "Never again."

"I believe that."

"You should."

"Oh, I do," he hummed, sarcasm in his words making you frown. "Are your knees okay?" 

If his goal was to distract you, he succeeded, for your eyes were instantly dropping to your knees, indents from the threads of the rug evident. 

"They're okay," you confirmed, squirming as his thumbs rubbed circles into the skin on your thighs. 

"Tell me if they're not," he instructed, and you nodded. He stood up, hands sliding up to your waist. "Shower?"

"Shower," you confirmed with a nod, despite the fact that you had showered only a few hours prior. "Can we watch a movie after?"

"Yes."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[roosterforme]

Vintage | Rooster x Reader

Summary: You love teasing your husband about his deep and unwavering devotion to his Bronco, but he's insistent that it would come in second place to you every time, and he intends to prove it. While you're away on deployment, he concocts a plan to get you behind the wheel of your very own vintage beauty.

Warnings: Swears, fluff, mentions of smut

Length: 2700 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

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"Sometimes I swear you love that thing more than you love me."

Your voice startled Bradley as he ran the wet, soapy sponge along the hood of his vintage Ford Bronco, pulling him from his thoughts. That was something you frequently said to him, jokingly claiming that you were the second love of his life. But you both knew it wasn't true. Especially not tonight.

"Hey, Baby," he whispered, coaxing you closer to him as he tossed the sponge back into the bucket. "Come here."

The setting sun painted your face with orange and gold, and he noticed the sadness in your eyes. He quickly wiped his hands on his jeans and then held them out to you, and you were in his arms in an instant. "Bradley," you mumbled against his chest as he squeezed you, getting your shirt a little damp in the process. But you didn't seem to mind. "I'm going to miss you."

Detailing and cleaning what used to be his dad's 1973 Bronco had become a way for him to relieve stress. He would get out the soap and turn on the hose when he needed a few minutes to himself. It was easier to be alone in his head, processing his thoughts and worries when he was washing the light blue masterpiece he'd spent so many years and a lot of money preserving. He always found himself in a better headspace to deal with whatever was troubling him when he spent some time with the Bronco. And today was no exception. 

"I'm going to miss you, too."

Sometimes it felt like the nearly five years you and he had been married were just spent alternating deployments. First he would be gone on an aircraft carrier for months on end, and then it would be your turn. You'd be sent abroad with the Navy before returning to him, and then the cycle would begin anew. Everything felt harder when you weren't around, and maybe that's why Bradley was out on the driveway right now instead of helping you pack for your early call time tomorrow morning. 

With your cheek pressed to his sternum, you cried softly. "It's only two months this time. And I'll have access to my phone. And I'll even be home in time for our anniversary. I don't know why I'm feeling so emotional about this."

He pressed his lips to your hair and whispered, "It's not like it gets any easier. You know that. I know that. It's going to feel like two months of hell on my end."

You sniffed hard then looked up at him with a little smirk. "At least you'll have the Bronco to keep you warm."

Bradley groaned and started to walk you backwards toward the house. "I mean, she's pretty and all, and I've definitely spent a night or two curled up around her gear shift, but I never gave her a diamond ring."

Your lips and your soft laughter against his neck sent a jolt of physical pleasure through his body, but he didn't want to rush this. He needed this to last, to hold him over for two months without your touch. Both of you tripped along to the bedroom where he smiled and whispered, "Let me show you that you're my number one girl. Let me prove you always will be."

Bradley was meticulous. He knew every inch of his Bronco, inside and out, but he knew you better. The sounds you made were prettier. The way you clung to him as he brought you pleasure was unparalleled. Your fingers laced with his as he connected his body with yours in the most intimate way, and it left him breathless.

"I love you."

-----------------------

Two days. He'd only been alone for two days, and he was already halfway through binge watching a season of a show that wasn't even that interesting. When he got home from work, he eyed up the couch and TV before ultimately changing into some sweats and heading back out to the driveway. He looked over the Bronco from hood to taillights, making a mental list of what she needed: new wiper blades, two new tires, and an oil change.

When he took his phone out to order the parts from his favorite website, he must have typed something wrong. It rerouted him to a vintage Ford resale page that left him staring at a sage green 1975 Bronco in rough condition. Man, she was still pretty though, with her original chrome and hubcaps. She was just an hour away, and the price wasn't too bad...

He glanced up at the blue gem in front of him. An idea started to take shape. He wondered how you would feel about it. With a smile, he ordered the wiper blades and oil filter that he needed and went inside to make dinner. But he couldn't stop picturing that chipped, green paint, and the vinyl that needed to be patched. 

If he knew he could get you hooked on a Bronco of your very own, he'd make this purchase. Two months to go. Shit, he might have just enough time to pull this off. He could practically picture you cranking the engine to life and waving goodbye as you pulled out of the driveway and took your Bronco for a spin. He wouldn't be able to say it with a straight face, but he'd say it anyway. "You love that thing more than you love me, Baby."

When he was stretched out on your side of the bed later that night, enveloped in your sweet scent that clung to the pillows, he closed his eyes and thought long and hard about what he wanted to do. It would be fun to prove to you once and for all where his loyalties lie. Or maybe it could just be a project that would keep him busy, and if you didn't like the idea, he could resell it after you got home. Either way, he drifted to sleep as he thought about you behind the wheel, and he knew it was too perfect to pass up.

----------------------

"Hey, Baby," Bradley said with a smirk as he answered his phone.

"Bradley! I miss you like crazy!"

"I miss you, too," he promised as he looked at the rather beat up, green Bronco before him. He got it for a great price when he offered to pay cash, and the tow truck just dropped it off a few days ago. Half of the engine was taken apart on a tarp at his feet, and it was currently jacked up so he could replace the oil pan. But he thought it was gorgeous. "I have a little surprise for you when you get home."

"A surprise?! Tell me. You know I can't wait that long."

"Nah," he said, kneeling down to check the wiring for the headlights. "I think I'll make you wait this one out."

"Rooster!"

"What?" he laughed, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he slipped his work gloves on and pulled at the loose wire. "You know, this is what you get for always giving me a hard time about my dad's Bronco. I love you so much, Baby, I'll make you wait for the surprise. It'll be sweeter that way."

"You're the worst," you groaned playfully. "Now I'll be thinking about what it could possibly be the whole time I'm gone. I'll be wondering what you have up your sleeve."

"As long as you're thinking about me, I'm happy," he rasped, and your pretty sigh in response left him a little breathless.

"I'm always thinking about you. Promise me as soon as I get back, we'll go for a long drive? Up along the coast? Late at night?"

He loved that idea. It would just look a little different than you were probably imagining if he could get this thing up and running again in time for your return. "We'll make a night of it," he promised. "I'll pack some blankets, and we can sit in the back and look out at the ocean. Can't guarantee I'll be able to keep my hands to myself though."

"Mmm. That's what I'm counting on."

----------------------

After about two weeks of watching a lot of YouTube videos posted by professionals, Bradley finally had the engine rebuilt. He was just waiting for some parts to arrive before he could put it back in place. "You're a needy one, aren't you?" he asked the green Bronco. "Nothing like her. She's a saint." He nodded his head toward the blue one before kneeling to replace the taillights. 

He was quickly realizing that the money he saved on the cost of the actual vehicle was being eaten up in the expensive, vintage parts. He was lucky he knew how to do most of this himself, even if it took twice as long. Today he was replacing the brakes and listening to a Motown playlist, and he fully realized that he felt calmest when he was with you or a Bronco. He snorted at how ridiculous that fact was as he scooted under the vehicle, but it was true. And having you tucked away in the back with the tailgate dropped, all wrapped up in a blanket while you turned him on just by existing.... well, that's when he would be happiest of all.

As the weeks wore on and the project progressed, the day finally arrived when it was time to try to start her up and take her for a little drive. Everything smelled like new rubber from the tires he'd just put on. The vinyl seats were still in bad shape, but when he slipped the key into the ignition and turned it, the engine purred to life.

Bradley's head tipped back as he groaned softly. "So fucking pretty. My god." He tapped the accelerator gently with his foot, enjoying the rev of the engine. He smoothed his hands along the steering wheel and the dashboard before he adjusted the rear view mirror to accommodate his height. Then he flicked the chrome switch and turned on the radio which he was surprised still worked.

My Girl by the Temptations poured from the speakers as the station crackled to life, and that felt like a very good sign. "Let's get out of here, Sweetheart," he whispered before shifting into reverse and leaving the driveway and his toolbox behind.

She was smooth and steady and everything he was hoping for. Would it ever fully compete with Goose's Bronco? Probably not. Was it worth the investment anyway? He'd find out next week when you got home. There were just a few things left to do before he dropped it off to be repainted and have the interior patched, and then she'd be good as new.

Bradley's phone rang in his pocket, and he smiled when he saw it was you. "Hey, Baby."

"Bradley! I miss you so much. I swear, if this thing was longer than two months, I wouldn't make it. What are you up to?"

"Oh, I'm just out for a little drive."

--------------------------

After eight weeks of nothing more than a few scant phone calls, Bradley was more than ready to have you home again. Maybe you and he could take a few days off from work. He'd help you catch up on some sleep after initially keeping you up all night. He already had some blankets ready to go as soon as you said you wanted to drive up to Carlsbad and watch the surfers at sunset before making love in the back of your Bronco.

Your Bronco. His wife's Bronco. It would take some getting used to, but it already made him smile every time he thought about it. With his hands on that familiar steering wheel, he drove toward the Naval base where both of you spent so much of your time. He waited, leaning against the light blue hood until you came running toward him in your uniform with your bags.

"Bradley!" you shrieked as you landed in his arms where you belonged. 

"I missed you," he promised, finally kissing your lips again after so many weeks. He felt your bag hit his foot, and he smiled as he tilted your face up for better access to your mouth.

"I missed you, too," you moaned softly, and he was already making the move to get you back home and remind you what you meant to him. But you dug your feet in outside the passenger door. 

"Where's my surprise?" you asked as you tucked your fingers into the top of his jeans and grinned up at him. "I've been thinking about it nonstop. Is it you?"

"No," he replied with a chuckle as his gaze drifted toward the Bronco. "You'll see soon enough."

You glanced at where he was looking, and you rolled your eyes before kissing his chin. "Did she keep you company while I was gone? She looks pristine, like you spend some time working on her."

Bradley kissed your forehead. "Just get in, Baby," he rasped. "The sooner we get home, the sooner your little surprise will make sense."

He knew the routine by heart now. The short ride home would start out with you holding his right hand and playing with his fingers while he drove. Then your hand would migrate to his thigh when the Bronco was about five blocks away. Then as soon as the tires touched the driveway, you'd unbuckle your seatbelt and make your way over to his lap.

The routine was important to him. He loved it. He loved taking you inside and directly to bed before coming back out much later to get the bags. He thrived on the return to normal life that was triggered by the routine. But today, he knew you weren't going to end up on his lap, and that was more than okay.

When your hand settled on his thigh exactly five blocks away from home, Bradley smiled. Your fingers crept up inch by inch as you leaned closer and whispered in his ear that you had their fifth wedding anniversary all planned out for the following weekend. You were playing with the zipper of his jeans by the time he could see the house, and he just waited for it. He was not disappointed.

"What the fuck is that?" you gasped, both hands going to the dashboard in front of you as you leaned to check out the freshly painted green Bronco as he coasted into the driveway. "Bradley?" you asked, glancing at him with wide eyes as he shifted into park.

He smiled and leaned over to kiss your softly parted lips. "This is your surprise. You're always joking about how much I love my Bronco, but I'll never love anything more than I love you."

You pressed your lips to his once before pulling away, shaking your head slightly. "So you got me one of my own?" you asked, jerking your thumb toward the green one.

He nodded and pulled his key from the ignition before pressing it into your palm. "Yep. She's all yours."

"Wait," you whispered, your brow creasing in confusion as you looked down at your hand. "This is your key."

"No, it's your key. The key to the green one is in the house. That's my key."

You gaped at him as your eyebrows shot upwards. "You're giving me your Bronco?"

"Yep."

"But," you whispered, turning to look out the window, "I can drive the other one."

"No, I bought the green one with myself in mind," he replied, taking your chin gently in his hand so you were looking at him again. "This one's better. She's sweet. Like you. She's yours."

"Oh my god, Bradley."

He was wrong; you did end up in his lap. Right where you belonged. His hands settled at your hips as you kissed every inch of his face while he laughed.

"I want to take her for a spin," you whispered, nudging him out of the driver's seat with your knee. "Go."

He smiled as he walked around to the passenger side of the blue Bronco, and he barely had the door closed before you started the engine and shifted into gear. "Pretty soon you'll love this thing more than you love me, Baby."

---------------------------

He gave you his Bronco. The green one was for him. That's how you know he loves you. I hope they do some nasty shit in the green one to break it in. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

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[missnxthingg]

Gal I need lando fluff as well could u do taking care of him when he’s sick and he’s all tired and clingy

needy | LN4

pairing: Lando Norris x Female!Reader summary: After a busy month, all Lando needs is his girlfriend to take care of him words: 1 K - warnings: Sick Lando and lots of cuteness (also not proof read, sorry) author’s notes:  I'm so sorry for the delay, it was a busy & unplanned week at work. But here we are, just in time to celebrate our favourite boy's birthday

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Triple headers always hit quite hard on Lando. Since he joined Formula 1, he doesn't remember a single time he didn't end up sick after almost a month travelling around the world. And this time it wasn't different; he started having a fever the morning after he arrived from Brazil and stayed in bed all day.

Y/N found it odd to not find him in his usual state of relaxation after a full month of work: locked inside his dark gaming room, full of snacks and laughing with Max. Instead, he was wrapped around three blankets in their living room, body almost lifeless on the sofa as he watched a boring movie on TV.

“Oh, baby boy, are you feeling okay?”, she asked, putting her things down so she could check on him.

Lando smiled tired at her and shrugged, too tired to even say something. She knew he was getting sick, especially after he spent the entire flight home – and their night of sleep – coughing. She just didn’t expect for it to be that bad, to the point where the most chatty boy in the world would go speechless.

“Have you eaten?”, she ran her hands through his face and he nodded tiredly. Then she found the empty yogurt cup beside him and rolled her eyes. “A yogurt isn't eating, Lando”.

“Come cuddle, baby”, he mumbled, wrapping one of his hands around her wrist.

“I'm worried about you, my love”, she ran her hands through his curls, making him open a tired smile. “I swear to God, every triple header is the same. I won't let you go anymore”.

“It's just a way my body found of telling I'm tired”, he assured. “If you come cuddle, then I'll be fine”.

“Later, baby. I have to make lunch for us”, she pressed a kiss on top of his head and Lando whined loudly. “Stop being a baby!”

“You're evil”.

Y/N started taking things out of the fridge to start cooking their lunch, and Lando suddenly appeared behind her, wrapping his hands around her waist from behind and resting his head on the crook of her neck. She smiled at the gesture and cuddled into his touch as she cut some onions.

“Ouches my eyes”, he cried, making her giggle just before she stopped cutting the onions, to put it in the hot pan. “What are you doing?”

“Caramelized onion and creamy cheese pasta”, she revealed, making him open a big smile. “A favourite for my sick boy”.

“You're the best, baby. I love you so much”, he pressed a kiss on her shoulder, but didn't let go off her, choosing to stay glued to her side as she cooked.

“Lan, it's a bit hard to cook with you clinging onto me”, she chuckled. “Maybe sit right there and keep me company. Then I'll give you as many cuddles as you want”.

“Mmm, okay”, he smiled tiredly, finding a spot to sit close to her, as he observed her cooking. Travelling the world is nice, but he loved coming home to the love of his life, who always took the best care of him.

Suddenly, he was taken back to the early dates of their relationship, when she’d invite him over for dinner and cook him the easiest pasta that, in time, became his comfort food. That’s exactly what he needed after a long month away from home, and away from her, since she only came to the first race in Austin. His heart felt at ease when she served him a plate and found a spot next to him.

“Thank you”, he mumbled before attacking the food. “It’s so good to be home. It’s so good to be with you”.

“I was counting the seconds until you were back to me”, she pressed a kiss to his cheek and cuddled to his side as they ate in silence, just feeling each other’s presence. He learned to appreciate silence after loud days as he rested next to his favourite girl. “Are you feeling better?”

“My throat is sore, and it feels like I was hit by a truck”, he joked. “The headache is gone, though”.

“I’ll use my super healing powers to make you feel better”, she sprinkled kisses through his face, making him open a genuine smile for the first time that day. But just before she kissed him on the lips, he backed away.

“You’ll get sick, baby”.

“It will be worth it, then”, she declared, before sealing their lips into a sweet kiss. Lando had missed those lips more than anything, and if she was willing to take the risk of getting sick, then he’s not arguing about it. “I love you, my sweet boy”.

“I love you too, beautiful”, he pecked her lips once again and took a second to analyse her face from up close; the face he adored so much. “Now, can we please cuddle?”

“Yes, my whiny baby, we can”.

Lando wanted to sweep her off her feet and take her to the couch, but felt too weak to do so. Y/N almost had to do this to him to get him to stand up and walk. He collapsed onto their couch and was too tired to open his arms to invite his girlfriend to join. She still found her spot next to him and pulled him closer, until they were tangled together between the blankets.

She pressed soft kisses all over his face and watched his lips tiredly curve into a smile, just as he felt a little better to have her taking care of him. They didn't even notice they forgot to turn on the TV.

“I'm so glad you're finally home”, she whispered. “This place is too quiet without you. I don't like it”.

“I'm happy to be back with my home”, he pressed his fingers to her skin and she smiled at him. “You're the best. I missed you so much that I might as well take you with me next time”.

“Anything so we can be together”, she said. “Sleep, baby, I'll be here holding you”.

“I love you so much. You're my everything, the love of my life, the sweetest…”, he continued to list various things about her and fell asleep mid-sentence.

“I love you more, Lan”, she pressed one last kiss on his forehead before falling asleep too.

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[is-this-even-relatable]

Misfortune Teller

tldr: An older Danny, apprentice to Clockwork, does a lot of field work across dimensions, resetting the timeline, queuing future events, and who knows what else. Occasionally, he warns people about such upcoming possibilities, to set them on the right path. How, you might ask? Well in this case... as a wandering fortune teller.

Crack-fic (oh god, it's getting long and my logic brain won't let it remain as crack) where Danny becomes Clockwork's apprentice after getting his GED. Living his infinite afterlife to the fullest. Inspired by this tumblr post.

Working for Clockwork had been... interesting so far. At first, Danny got frustrated by how vague and cryptic Clockwork was. He'd just shunt Danny off to some ancient time with a few words, his own time medallion (Danny carried it everywhere with him now), and then pop back into the portal, leaving Danny with only the faintest idea of where to go.

Eventually, after enough time (ha!) spent around Clockwork, Danny figured out that it just basically meant that he had free reign and to do whatever he wanted. Because if he went on the wrong path, (like that one time in Pompeii when he had almost caused the volcano to explode a few years too early), Clockwork would just pop on by, say another few cryptic words, and then it'd all be fine and dandy, or as he liked to say, "All is as it should be... Now stop practicing your wail by an active volcano."

After telling Jazz about that (it was supposed to be funny, not concerning), she just sighed and shook her head, with a forlorn "think before you act, Danny!" but hey, it'd turned out fine so far, so who cares how he does what Clockwork asks him to do, as long as it gets done, right? Even if it's with a liiiiitle more mischief than strictly required.

Besides. Danny was the one who had been doing time shenanigans across millennia, not Jazz. And he thought he'd been getting pretty good at it too! He'd actually started giving himself a different made-up background for each universe he visited. Sam and Tucker were helping him keep up with the identities on a spreadsheet, so if he had to go back to one he'd already visited, he'd remember who he'd said he was supposed to be.

---

He was on a call with them one evening while haunting Jazz's apartment, doing just that, when he felt a familiar tingle in the back of his throat, as well as a heightened awareness of the seconds passing by, that always accompanied his mentor's appearance.

Sam was talking about his past stint posing as a god of death when he cut in. "Hey- sorry to interrupt, Sam- Clocky's here, guys, I gotta dip."

"Aw, come on! We hardly talked any this past week since you passed your certifications, man," Tucker complained.

Danny rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, yeah. Partly on you too though, you've been caught up outside of class, and Sam's schedule is nearly the opposite of yours."

Sam hummed in agreement despiter Tucker's scoff.

Danny missed hanging out with them as much as they had in high school, but hey, life goes on. Or at least, theirs did, to college. After finally flunking out of Casper High, he'd taken some time to get used to his responsibilities in the ghost zone, and when he had, he realized that he didn't really have much enthusiasm or timeleft for his human life.

And he didn't really want to go back home either.

But Jazz had made him tie up any loose ends before he noped-off to god knows where, which frankly, he had to thank her for. Getting his GED took a few years, but it was an accomplishment that could be attributed to Danny Fenton, no ghostliness required. Then he was able to let that tether go free.

Pulled out of his musings by a few more grumbles from Tucker, Danny said his goodbyes, promising to call the next time they were all available.

After hanging up, Danny swiveled around, anticipation already lighting up his eyes an ethereal green.

Clockwork, for his part, had been waiting patiently through Danny's lengthy goodbyes. Although he supposed that it tracked for the watcher of time to be patient. With his job, it'd be a nightmare if he wasn't.

"Phantom," Clockwork spoke, calm as always. "I have some tasks I need you to complete as my apprentice."

And Danny, always ready for adventure, didn't need him to explain any further. "Sure! When do you need me to be?"

Clockwork smiled at that. "I am fortunate you are eager. Follow me."

---

Danny popped into existence in this universe with a burst of cold air and static electricity. He found himself hovering by a clocktower above a sprawling, gothic city. Smog and light pollution obscured the stars above him, to his disappointment. He comforted himself with the fact that he'd probably have all the time he wanted to fly someplace less populated to see them later.

He started off by familiarizing himself with the city. As he flew, he followed the trail of power and met the resident city-spirit, a spooky- but kind underneath- woman draped in black lace, who told him her name was Gotham. He spoke in length with her about this universe, its heroes, and her knights. On that, she was very enthusiastic... or at least Danny thought she was, her projected emotions belaying much more than her gloomy exterior. She told him how her knights had been through a lot and would need some guidance fighting the darkness that pooled in her deepest corners, smiling with too much glee, filling lungs with fear, and terrorizing with cold hard bullets.

Danny could sense that the dangers she spoke of were growing in power, ever slowly. The longer they shadowed people's minds and hearts, an intangible thing grew that lent them more otherworldly pull than their physical forms had right to hold.

That must be what he was sent here for.

But... they were weak, pitifully so for him, infinite king as he was. And besides, he wasn't here in that sense. He was a messenger, a simple apprentice. And he could do this however he wanted.

Cue his talk with Lady Gotham, and subsequent idea to arm her knights. With what? Well, he figured knowledge would be a start. Flying high above the city invisibly, Danny noticed a sea of colors and lights by what appeared to be the city's pier. He flew down, noting that it appeared to be the setup spot for a travelling circus or carnival of some kind.

He considered what to do. One of Lady Gotham's troubles was a madman clown, right? Well maybe he'd be attracted to his ilk here... and with the danger came the knights. Maybe he could catch one of them here?

Danny was floating around at the entrance and beginning to formulate a plan when a flyer caught his eye. Looking for a mystic to read fortunes. URGENT!

Hadn't Clockwork said something about fortunes? And he hadn't made an identity in this universe yet...

A mischievous smile crept across Danny's face, splitting it in two with far too many teeth.

---

Half a city away, a man in all black, perched on the very same clocktower that Phantom had Appeared by, shivered as he felt an ominous premonition about his sanity in the near future...

Said man quickly opened his comms to check in with his many, many kids. Yet even after hearing back from each, he still felt apprehensive.

Somewhere even further, Clockwork laughed.

---

And that's how Danny found himself seated at a fortune teller's booth at a pier in Gotham, two days later, for the Tricksy Traveling Circus's grand opening.

[lovegalor333]

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

you’re gonna be ok (paige x reader)

summary: you’re going through a tough time and have pushed paige away but she finally realises something is wrong

content warnings: talks of depression and ed behaviours/language

requested by: @melpthatsme 💗

Your girlfriend was getting suspicious and rightly so. You had just given her another lame excuse as to why you couldn’t have dinner with her tonight. That was the third time this week.

At first it was ‘too much homework’, then a ‘headache’ and now it was your ‘period’. All lies.

As you lay curled up in your bed, all lights turned off, you sobbed silent tears until your pillow was saturated. You felt guilty lying to Paige but you couldn’t go out, especially not to eat.

You wasn’t entirely sure why Paige even wanted to be seen in public with you anyway, why she was with you at all actually. Paige was beautiful. Like the most beautifully perfect woman there ever was. Her eyes shone bright at all times and whether her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail or left natural and loose, framing her face, it looked immaculate. She was intelligent and athletic, maintaining an almost perfect GPA while simultaneously leading her team in back to back wins. Paige was everything and you, you were nothing.

You hated everything about yourself and you were usually good at hiding it. Painting on a fake smile and laughing when others laughed, mirroring your friends actions to make it seem like everything was just fine but it was getting harder to hide. You were drinking and smoking just to get respite from your thoughts. You were dragging yourself to gatherings just to count down the minutes until you could leave and be alone in your room where you could finally let your guard down.

You were proud at how long you had gone keeping this to yourself but it was almost impossible now. You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t want to leave the apartment. You didn’t want to eat. You didn’t want to see anyone. In fact, you didn’t want to see yourself. You had even gone as far to cover every mirror in your room just to avoid the reflection that made you sick to your stomach.

You felt like you had cried a river this past week but the tears wouldn’t stop, you thought there would be nothing left to give but you were a never ending pit of sadness.

You hear shuffling and muffled voices coming from your living room, your roommates must be home. You thanked yourself for keeping your lights off and closed your eyes so if they came into your room, they’d think you were sleeping.

A few seconds past before you heard a light knock at your door. You ignored it. Pressing yourself further into your mattress, wishing it would swallow you whole. Then came the click of the handle being turned and the door squeaking open.

You kept your body as still as possible, holding your breath in hopes that whoever was disturbing you would think twice but that doesn’t happen. Instead your bedroom light is flicked on and your door is closed with force, practically slammed.

“Why did you lie to me?” You recognise Paiges voice immediately and it’s a mixture of pissed off but also upset and you know it’s your fault.

“What?” You say, even though you heard her loud and clear.

“I know you’re not on your period. Our cycles are synced. They have been for months. Why did you lie?” Paige asks again and you feel so stupid for making such a rookie error.

Paige was right. Your cycles were synced, it happened often with women and girls that spent a lot of time together, so when you were on your period, she was too. She had caught you out in your lie.

“I don’t know.” You mummble into your duvet, still curled up tightly.

“You’ve blown me off three times this week. You barely answer my calls and texts, it’s like I have to force you to see me and now you’re lying to me and you can’t even be bothered to tell me why?” Paige rants and even though you still haven’t looked at her you can tell she’s pacing your room.

“I don’t understand what’s going on. I thought we were good but maybe not.” She says and you physically feel your heart brake at her words but you can’t bring yourself to say anything other than, “Maybe.”

“What?” She asks confused even though she was the one who said it first, “Y/N, can you at least fucking look at me?” She snapped and you know thats the least you owe her so you slowly roll yourself around so you’re no longer facing the wall and push yourself up into a sitting position but you can’t bring yourself to lift your eyes from your lap.

“I wanted to take you for dinner, spend some time with you. Just be with you and I thought you would have wanted the same but instead you’re in bed!” Paige continued and you just took her onslaught of words, you didn’t have the energy to argue or even defend yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You muttered, picking at the already raw skin around your nails.

“Will you just look at me? Do you want to break-” You finally look at Paige and she stops mid-sentence, “Have you been crying?”

You ignore her question because your heart is racing and more tears are threatening to fall at what she was about to ask, “Finish what you were about to say.” You whisper but she doesn’t need to, you knew what she was going to say. She was going to ask if you wanted to break up.

“What’s the matter? What happened? Why were you crying?” Paige asks all at once, any annoyance in her tone has been replaced with concern and her facial expression shifted from dark and frowning to soft and doe eyed.

“I wasn’t.” You lie, “Finish what you were about to say.”

“Yes you were. Your eyes are red and puffy, your skin is blotchy,” She walks towards you, “and your pillows wet. Why were you crying?”

“You want to break up.” You answer your own question.

“No. No, I don’t. But I don’t understand what’s going on with you, I thought maybe you did.” She says honestly sitting on the edge of your bed.

“I don’t.”

“Why were you crying baby? Tell me what’s on your mind.” She says placing a hand on your leg.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too much Paige. My mind is too much, it’s too dark. You don’t deserve that.” You begin to cry again and it quickly turns into sobs.

“Hey, baby, come here.” She whispered, pulling you into her chest and onto her lap, she wrapped her arms around your body and held you close, “You’re scaring me.” She admits, “Tell me what’s going on my love. I want to help you.”

“You deserve more than this Paige.” You choke out in between sobs, you’re hyperventilating now, your body shaking in your girlfriends arms but she continues to hold you tight and close.

“But I want you. I love you.” She pulls away from you slightly so she can look you in your eyes and she holds your face tenderly, a hand on each cheek, “You’re all I want, my beautiful girl.”

“Don’t say that.” You weep, jumping out of her lap.

“Don’t say what?”

“Don’t say I’m beautiful. Don’t say any of it. It’s not true.” You cross your arms over yourself wishing you could shrink down into the smallest dimensions and eventually disappear.

“Baby, what are you saying? What’s going on?” She reaches out for you but you pull away not wanting to be touched.

Paige properly looks around your room for the first time and you watch as she notices everything and you see the cogs turning in her head as her eyes fall to your mirror, covered by a sweater. She sees the paper taped to your wall with your weight written on it followed by the harshest of words that you thought about yourself. She sees the empty alcohol bottles on your dresser and the half smoked blunt on your bedside table. And when she finally looks at you, in your oversized clothes, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, her eyes were glossy and her forehead creased as she fought back tears of her own.

“I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but I do know that I do love you and you are beautiful and I’ll tell you that everyday until you believe it.” She says as a tear slips down her cheek.

Paige walks over to you, taking you by your hands first and kissing both of them. She pulls on the sleeves of your sweater and you reluctantly let her pull it over your head so your just standing there in your bra. You close your eyes not wanting to see her reaction to your body, the thought of it made you sick. You felt her lips press to your stomach and she peppered kisses up your torso, “My beautiful baby.” She mumbled against your skin as she continued to kiss over your chest and onto your neck.

She took you to your bed, laying you down and she hooked her fingers into the waistband of your joggers, pulling them off, exposing your legs. You wanted to grab the sheet and cover yourself up but her mouth met your thigh and she pecked it gently, moving over the the other, “So perfect.” She breathed, the tips of her fingers trailing down your legs.

You lay on your bed, eyes closed, tears streaming out and you feel Paige hover above you, “Look at me baby.” She says softly, wiping the tears that soaked your cheeks. You flutter your eyes open and look up at Paige who’s looking down at you, eyes filled with nothing but love and care. “Please don’t shut me out. I’m here for you. Anything you need me to do, I’ll do it. I just want you to be OK. I need you to be OK. You’re everything to me.” She says, blue eyes locked on yours.

“Can you just hold me tonight?” You sniffle. “Of course.”

Paige lays on your bed, pulling you into her arms, she presses her lips to your head before her fingers find your hair and she runs through it gently, “You’re gonna be OK.” She whispers comfortingly. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

a/n: i wrote this so tired so forgive any mistakes 😭 already want to write a part 2 🥺🥺

[blkgirl-writing]

Ahhhhh you are phenomenal! Do you have any more stray nsfw thoughts for Gale?

Oh my goodness I love this question!!! Um..I think… these are more random and much more detailed and graphic so beware 😩

More NSFW Gale of Waterdeep headcannons

He keeps thrusting hard while he’s cumming, grinding his hips against yours, milking every last drop of his orgasm

He Cums a lot, like my god does it make for a great cream pie

and he'd definitely just want to cum inside you

though it would be quite fun to tease him with keeping his cum on your face for a while after the first time he came on your face. You confidently walking back too camp while he followed closely "did you forget to wipe your face?" "love, everyone will see-oh, unless you wanted..that?"

he immediately gets hard again from that idea

Astarion would make quite a few jokes at Gales expense seeing the mess he made on you

and a few small comments on how he could do better

the next night Gale made sure to make you scream his name extra loudly, and wouldn't bother to cover your mouth to shush you

he has a hard time cumming from head, honestly. he loves getting it but he'd much prefer to be inside you

one you get to his real home, his tower, he'll want to fuck you in every single corner, on every single surface

his favorite probably being bending you over the kitchen counter but there's many favorites

Gale feels award not using his hands the whole time during sex, but specifically oral, both giving and taking

he will always be fingering you , or holding up your hips, or feeling your body, his hands will always be in use

and while you give him head he'll hold your chin or cup your jaw (isn't that just the prettiest sight)

and he'd tell you how well you're doing

lowkey compliments you so much because he wants to be complimented

Literally will walk much happier after you say he has the best cock/massive cock, anything really

And of course he's packing. Always well trimmed, solid 8 inches, perfectly curved

he doesn't even have to do much with a dick like that but he still treats you like royalty

Let's talk mutual masterbation ok

He's so used to his own touch from the time he spent alone that he definitely still needs to masterbate

but gods is he feel guilty

he'll tell you every time he wants to

and you'd just hear him moaning your name

before you were together one of his biggest fantasies about you was watching you make yourself cum

laying so prettily on his bed, spread wide

that thought would make him cum so damn fast

and also unable to look you in the eye for a whole day

he couldn't look at you directly for a whole week because of the nasty things he made up

he was masterbating quite literally every second he could manage to

to the point where he didn't really have any sperm left

thankfully he didn't have to wait long til you joined his fantasies

anyway

it became a very usual thing to grind on each other til you both came

it felt intimate and he wanted to feel you cumming on his leg

Absolutely licks his fingers after pulling his finger out of you

I think thats enough for now 😭

[textmel8r]

[ DRABBLE ] 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ! ( eleventh installment ) in which you find toji fushiguro’s number off a sugar baby site .

୨୧˚ part; one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven.

୨୧˚ incl; toji fushiguro

୨୧˚ cw; sugar mommy! reader , sugar baby! toji , profanity , prostitution , bisexual! toji , smut , spit , gunplay

୨୧˚ an; if there are plot holes, no there aren’t. i just wanted an excuse to write toji suckin on some gun🧌

୨୧˚ join my discord server ! we share headcanons, fanfic recs, color roles, and more drooling emoji

His hair is wet, sopping and adhering to the canvas of his forehead. Back at the hotel, Toji set the record for the world’s shortest shower, forsaking even a once-over with a towel in favor of slipping his clothes right back on. He doesn’t even recall the shitty excuse he tossed at his one night stand, not bothering to stay long enough to hear her response. Quickness was of the utmost importance, the man told himself to justify blowing through four separate red lights. 

Oh, the irony. Because now, Toji stands before the grand entrance of your extravagant abode with a palm flat against the column of wall beside the door as he staves off constant hitch wracking his lungs. Unhurried, stagnant, moving as though he was thawing out frozen limbs. The last half hour having been spent on nothing but hastiness, it is at this time when all of these troubles and concerns fight their way to the front end of Toji’s mind. 

The most prominent question: why?

Why did you ask him here? What use could you possibly get out of his shriveled husk?

Toji knows where your spare key is. Beneath the clay pot, the one flourishing with a bouquet of pastel Hydrangea flowers. Glaringly obvious to any happening stranger—Toji had barked at you endlessly to swap its hiding spot for one a little less in plain-fucking-sight, and everytime you told him you’d get to it. And you never did. Idiot woman. He steals a glance to the pot once more and notices the flowers’ stems have a lot more limpness in them than he remembers. Wilted. Poor little things.

Toji knows where your spare key is. He knocks anyway. The side of his fist pounding poplar wood once, twice, three times, and then he takes a step back. Blunted thumbnails pick at the callouses welded into the inside of his knuckles. 

He can’t even blink before the door peels ajar. Fast, like you’d been waiting nearby for him. 

The permanent slouch in his spine corrects itself when Toji stiffens. Shoulders squared, thick fingers curled into iron fists against his thighs. And like the colossal moron he is, Toji doesn’t speak. He just looks at you, standing there in the openness between door and frame. A downy robe obscures you in its rouge silk, cascading down just barely passing the center of your thigh. Your thigh… Toji observes more carefully, noting the bulky extremity protruding out from the side of your shapely leg. A boxy bulge sheathed under a reddish robe; the man scoffs. 

 “Thank you for coming,” you break the silence first, offering all-too polite benediction. Almost robotic, like you’d recited it from a script you memorized. 

“Yeah,” Toji replies, curt.

Mores standing, more silence. Melodic chirps from the crickets fill the chasms of dead air. 

Then finally, finally, you make a move. Toeing the door wider with a bare foot, stepping back to accommodate his bulky constitution. “Come inside.” It is a quiet command, the last words you speak before pivoting on a heel and heading deeper into your home. Toji acts on the instruction, plodding in your trail. He kicks the door shut with the outsole of his muddy boot. 

“Sorry,” there goes your second apology of the night, “I know it’s late.”

He doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn't care much for these pointless I’m sorry’s right now. You’ve guided Toji into the living room—back toward him, shifting weight between legs, plucking at the stitches along the seam of your garb. Toji stands merely ten paces behind, awkward in the way he is uncertain of what to do. What to say. Existing here, in your presence, in your house… it all felt so disgustingly unnatural now. He should've never come back to this place. God, he should’ve never done a lot of things.

“Why am I here?” Toji asks bluntly. Cutting to the chase, because the suspense of anticipating the worst has his stomach coiling in sharp knots. He’s waiting for a fleet of officers to come barrelling down your staircase, ready to gun him down where he stands. Or, alternatively and arguably more dread-inducing, you’ve corralled him here so you can collect proper reparations for all the anguish he’s put you through. Both would be thoroughly deserved.

A glance is thrown from over your shoulder. “I have something for you. Please, sit.” 

“Okay.”

Toji settles on the sofa while you pad upstairs. He never cared much for your couch, its expensive leather was stiff and unforgivingly uncomfortable. Like it was brand new. Like you never had time to sit in it with the schedule you worked. That was the setting for the rest of the room, as well—unlived in in appearance, cold and empty. 

Footsteps thud. He turns his head and watches you curiously as you reemerge from the second level of the house. A ball of worn fabric swaddles your fist.

Toji sits up a little, looking up to where you stand before him with the puzzling bundle of textile. “Is that my..?”

“Your shirt,” you finish for him, tossing the thing into Toji’s chest, to which it hits before tumbling limply into his lap. Not for a second does he bother sparing a glimpse to the useless shirt; still, he commits to your eyes, hoping that you can decipher the inquisitiveness in his. 

Gravelly and mystified, “what?”

“You left your shirt here the last time—”

“What?” A decrepit, holey tee shirt cannot be the reason why he’s sitting on your couch right now. In a bone-crushing clutch, the shirt sits braving force from Toji’s iron fist. He holds it with such conviction that his fingers activate a tremble.

You’re not stupid. You’re the most intelligent, most sagacious woman—person—he knows. So it really fucking irks him when you continue to play oblivious. 

“What do you mean, what?”

“I’m not here right now because of a dumb shirt.”

Your lips smack together pensively, looking fixedly at the drab, eggshell walls. To the porcelain tiles now scuffed from being grazed on by two bespattered tactical boots. To your own feet, to the perturbed curl of your toes. To anywhere besides him. Never had you avoided looking at Toji so unmitigatedly, as if locking eyes for even a split second would cause worldwide devastation.

He reflects upon the night you’d thrown him out, discarding him back to the streets where he belonged. “‘Get the fuck out of my home’, she says,” Toji mumbles a recitement of your own words, struggling to keep the muzzle on his distaste. Elbows on his knees, head in his hand, he taps his index to his lip in thought. “You hate me, and then suddenly you like me enough to return my damn shirt… What kind of game are you playing? Just fucking cut it out and be blunt about what you want from me because I’ve had a really shit day and I’m not in the mood to be cute for you, Y/n.”

You bear his outburst in stride, pulling a face of forlorn at his apparent exhaustion. You don’t shout back at him, nor do you comment on his attitude that you’d surely never let slide in the past. 

“Okay.” 

On tiptoes, you shuffle closer to fit between Toji’s spread thighs. There is a streak of hesitation that perpetually hugs around your body, he realizes, because every which way you turn oozes trepidation in its slow tempo. Jitters teeter down your person, oscillations so tangible that it sways your hair. “You’re shakin’,” Toji annotates, tilting his chin back to gaze up at you. Shaking like a leaf, in fact, and he wonders where all your composure has fled to. “Why’re—”

“I need to…” You take a pause to swallow down the thick ball of uneasiness clogging your esophagus. A sheen glints along your forehead, cheeks, neckline; fucking sweat. “I have to confirm something.”

You are off. This whole situation is off, and Toji can’t pin a point on any of it until…

Slowly, clumsily, your hand glides down the elegant curve of your oblique, toward the ponderous bulk against your thigh. With the brain of a seasoned assassin, Toji pieces the puzzle together with time to spare. Time he could’ve spent lunging at you, pinning you to the floor beneath his body weight, subduing your wrists in the cuffs of his own fingers. But he doesn’t. Be it a product of his own stupidity, his lackluster will to live, or maybe even his inextinguishable urge to devote his trust to you, Toji lets you draw open the curtain of your robe and pull your concealed gun on him. 

With heavy puffs of breathing, you direct the barrel of your handgun toward the centerpoint of his chest. It wobbles in a hybrid of uncertainty and inexperience, and there’s a cold, metallic rattle discernible the whole time. Toji admires the gun—it’s a small thing, some flavor of a colt pistol with a cask forged from iron. It looks weighty and misplaced in the palms of your delicate hands. 

“Nice piece,” he allots useless, apathetic praise. 

Evidently, you aren’t in the mood to reciprocate his quips. “Be serious.”

“I am.”

There is something picturesque about you in this context, it overpowers the innate fear he should be feeling right now. You tower before him like a deus ex machina, his own personal angel of death, granting him divine reprieve from this remarkably bleak concept of life. Toji wants to kneel, call you beautiful, and kiss your feet in appreciation.

“I wasn’t lying when I told you I liked you.” Those words contradict the finger you hold against the trigger. You shake your head, contracting the muscles in your jaw. “Was it just a version of you that I fell for?”

Toji concedes. “Yeah.”

“Do I even know you?”

His thick eyebrows furrow at the question. Do I even know you? “There’s so much I haven’t told you yet.”

You sneer, “you mean, so much you’ve lied abou—”

“No.” Toji holds up his hand, a pardon to interrupt. Because he has never spewed untruths in lieu of keeping his double life a secret. He never lied about his job, his addictions, his mental instability—there were no flimsy excuses, Toji had simply pretended his weaknesses did not exist. You made him forget they were even there in the first place. “No, I didn’t lie. Not once.”

“Then what purpose did you have for me at all?” Wetness glistened over rounded eyes, and wistful tears began to collect along your lash line. Toji watches a bead of sadness break loose, hanging from a cluster of eyelashes. Looking up to the ceiling, you attempt to blink it away. “I just… Fuck. I promised myself I wouldn’t sleep with you—wouldn’t get attached—but you… Why did you lay with me?”

The gun still aims to his heart. “I wanted to.”

“I feel like my head is spinning,” you weep, sniffling in the air. So utterly hopeless. “I feel like I don’t know you at all. Or your intentions.” You were a woman of prowess and authority, a real powerhouse in the sense that you always seemed to just know. Knowing what, knowing why, knowing how; he was so strangely drawn to that superlative superpower, finding your wisdom one of the most alluring things in the world. So perhaps that’s why Toji feels worse than cow shit right now, subjected to the awful sight of your realization that you truly don’t know who he is. The reigns were relinquished from your hands. “I’m scared, Toji.”

“Of me?” A stupid question he already knows good and well the answer to, but he asks anyway.

You whimper out your answer with a dejected nod. “Yes.”

The sorrow that oozes from your stare physically hurts, something akin to watching an eclipse with naked eyes, so Toji fixates on the handgun instead. The metallic shine indicates that it was recently purchased and most likely never used. You must’ve bought the thing specifically for this purpose.

“Are you going to kill me, Y/n?”

There’s no response. It aggravates him. 

“Are you?” Toji asks once more, projecting a rougher tone. Digging for an answer. 

Through tears, you whimper out a little reply, a question to his question. “Will you stop me?”

No. No, he fucking won’t. He sees through your plan; you’re waiting for him to lash out, to fight for his life. You want him to give you a reason to pull the trigger and prove your theories right—theories that he’s nothing more than a dangerous, vindictive animal hell bent on satiating his bloodlust. But Toji isn’t much of anything other than a torpid waste of oxygen. He won’t combat fate, he won’t put his hands on you even in the face of death. Toji takes your shaking wrist into his hand, keeping every last movement slow and sticky. You flinch away upon contact, but the look in his eyes was nothing if not assuaging, so you let yourself be handled. He draws you near, close enough to press the end of the barrel directly against his head. “Aim here,” he instructs with a lulling timbre, and fixes the thing to rest harshly on his temple. “It’ll be quicker. Less blood.”

Horrified, “what are you doing?”

“I ain’t gonna get violent with you.” Toji feels ready. This is okay, to die in a room as pretty as this one, facing a sorry sight as pretty as you. It’ll be a hassle to clean up for you, but you’re sharp as a knife. You’ll figure it out. His other hand, the one not attached to your forearm, rises to touch at your hip. Massaging over the thick robe, holding the dip of your waist with a vice grip. “If this is what I gotta do to prove myself, then fine. I’m ready, so take the safety off and put a bullet in my brain already.”

“N-no…”

“Yes.” He jimmies your arm, coaxing you to shoot. “Fucking do it, I know you can.”

“No!” You roar in his face, lips reeled back in a desperate snarl. “No, you made your point!” A knee sinks into the space of cushion between Toji’s legs, a hand clawing at his forearm. “Stop it, enough already!”

Toji is bemused by your fanfare of emotion. He barely winces as you work hard to pry your wrist from his handhold, scratching overgrown and timeworn acrylics into the tough flesh of his arm. “I can’t keep up with you, woman.” He tuts, observing the struggle. “Y’kick me out, then you call me back. Don’t talk to me for months, but you’re paying my rent. Pull a gun on me, then start crying when I give you a push.” Reaching up, Toji finds the warmth of your neck, cupping his palm to it. Sliding up and up, pushing your jaw with thick fingers because he needs you to stop focusing on the gun and start focusing on him. Your head is steered by his ginger hand, forcing your guys’ eyes to bridge. “You had me fooled. Here I thought you were more mature than whatever-the-fuck this is.”

“You want to talk about maturity?” Like a coin, the doleful effusion you bled was flipped into bewildered agitation. Fire ignites underneath your tongue and Toji braces for its heat.

“Yeah, sure,” ever the impudent asshole, “let’s talk.”

You give him a funny look. A you have a lot of fucking nerve look. “It’s because of your immaturity that we’re here right now!” Getting closer, your other leg fits across the opposite side of his, effectively perching yourself over his thick thigh. Toji grunts under the force in which you sit down. “You and your stupid flirtations. You made me believe that we could have…” Breaking off into a frustrated groan, you shook your head. “How selfish can you be, Toji? To pursue me when you know damn well what you’ve done is unforgivable.”

The tip of his tongue finds his molars, and he looks away for a moment to analyze your question. A moment that is cut entirely too short when you return the favor of maneuvering his head. “No, you need to look at me, too.”

There isn’t any elaborate reasoning he can present to you on a silver dish. When it comes down to the brass tacks of it all, that was just it: Toji is selfish. The only taste of love Toji had ever gotten was when he was young and dumb in his early twenties, spontaneously marrying the first woman who convinced him that he was worthy of tenderness. God, she was gentle with him, seizing his heart in her hands with so much caution and kindness that it made him physically ill. When she passed, he was positive that his heart had been buried alongside her deep in the Earth. That warmth never returned, not once in the years following when he’d find himself falling into strangers’ beds for a quick living. And he’d curse himself, reliving memories of her every night before sleep. So young and dumb, far too much so to appreciate what he had; what he’d never get again. 

But then you came along. 

Man, what a plot twist you were.

“You make me feel things.” What the fuck is he even saying? ‘You make me feel things’? That explanation was about as insightful as a child would be. Toji has never so directly spoken about his feelings before, this is challenging. 

Non-judgemental, you heed his message and urge him to continue. “Good things or bad things?”

“Uh,” Toji thinks for a second, “nostalgic things? I… Haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

“Felt like what?”

There comes a pregnant pause, and Toji takes this time to peer up at you. You sit tall on his leg, head at a tilt while you wait patiently for him to select a word. An attribute that you shock into his system every time you enter the vicinity. It’s a shitty, embarrassing answer, but he spits it out anyway. “Loved.” Using your quiet to his advantage, Toji prattles on. “Or somethin’ like that. I’m a fucking moron though, for thinking I could keep secrets. Selfish is a good way to put it.”

“You’ve killed people for money. You are the epitome of the word selfish.”

“That shit’s behind me.”

You reel, leaning back in his lap to gauge Toji’s expression. “Really?” It’s asked with skepticism, and Toji’s eye twitches.

“What, you think I’m bullshitting?” His hand involuntarily squeezes your wrist, a futile attempt to communicate his sincerity through touch. “No, I haven’t taken a job since last I left your place. I quit.”

This discovery retires some of that scorn. With a weaker voice than before, “officially?”

Toji gives you a subtle nod. “As much as you want to believe I liked dropping bodies, I really, really didn’t.”

There is a hint of a smile, just barely curling at the corner of your lip, before it droops back down into the biggest frown he’s seen you wear all night. “But then wait a second… Where have you been getting your income from? I stopped issuing checks when we—” You stop yourself from saying it. 

“Ah, I’ve just been,” shit, what a dilemma. “Getting some sugar.” It comes out with an awkward chuckle. It’s not a complete lie, sugar baby-ing and prostituting—it was all sex work nevertheless. He isn’t fond of the whorish implication, but you know him. You’ve seen him at his sluttiest, and you weren't disgusted.

“You’ve been having sex?” You veer in toward him. There is no shock or discomfort lacing your words—you know him—only bona fide earnestness. 

“Yeah.” Toji feels compelled to say sorry, but he doesn’t. “I needed the cash.” He doesn’t care to rally the question back at you, doesn’t care to know if you’ve fucked anyone else.

It’s subtle, but he can feel the pity radiating off you, seeping into his pores and burrowing under flesh. You look at him the same way you’d look at a scraped-up mutt abandoned on the side of the highway. He fucking despises that look from anyone else, but from you? It’s not so bad. If anything, it’s maybe even a bit soothing, the way you can console him with just your eyes. 

“Toji, let go of my arm.”

He does as told, dripping your wrist. The handgun falls to the couch, neglected, but Toji doesn’t get the chance to watch it because you’re shrouding the view. A buxom body nestles against the convex of Toji’s ample chest, two arms coil around his thick neck, fingers scritching over his scalp. You’re hugging him.

“Is this okay?” You must’ve felt him stiffen under the weight of your affections, perhaps you took it as a sign of discomfort. But that’s not it at all; the hesitation was a byproduct of Toji’s emotional stoicism. A defense mechanism he’s built for himself, successful in warding off contingence. Sex was okay. Sex was gritty and rugged and crude, enough to make him forget he was being touched at all. But this? Fucking hugging? 

How childish was he for submitting to something so teenage? This was the equivalent of popping a boner from hand holding.

And still… “I like it.” Once again, he lets you tear down his walls. Succumbing to you felt organic, almost as if Toji could just close his eyes and let muscle memory guide his limbs to their place. A heavy head knocks forward, plummeting in the valley between your breasts that have been exposed by the plunging neckline of your robe. Unbeknownst to you, the knot holding it closed had untied itself somewhere in the haste, and it has become more of a loose garnish to your body clad in nothing more than a matching set of dark, rebellious little underwear. Strong arms return the gesture, squeezing you to him so tightly that you must let out an audible oomph as your lungs constrict.

“I like it…” Toji repeats under his breath, nosing a path up to your clavicle. On you, notes of that saccharine, peachy body wash he’d once massaged into your skin. He takes self-indulgent whiffs, closing his eyes to hyperfixate on his sense of smell. “I like you.”

Totally abrupt, no sensibility in the manner, Toji blurts it out. Those three bedeviled words he swore to condemn to the pit of his guts, never to be released aloud. His conscience dictates his actions now, apparently, because the man has no longer any will to swallow his sentiments. After all the terrible, traumatizing shit he’s dragged you through, it’s the least he can offer. You’ve been deserving of those three words for a while now, Toji just never knew how to give them to you. As it turns out, it’s a lot simpler than his imaginations led him to believe. 

“You’ve never told me that before.”

He holds you impossibly tighter, hands flat and feeling the landscape of your back. “You knew, though.”

The hand in Toji’s dampened hair clenches when he ghosts his lips over that throbbing neck vein. “Still, you could have said it sooner.”

“I’m sorry.” He kisses you there, then kisses you again. Slow and tantalizing, just the way you liked. “Sorry for being awful.”

Teeth peek out and catch your skin. 

“I don’t—” you stop to gasp, cradling Toji’s head and holding him deep into the crib of your neck. “Think you’re awful.”

“Mm.” Blindly, he gropes the cushion beside his thigh, feeling for the discarded gun. Toji taps the cool metal against the chub of your cheek, attentive to the trigger—he never goes near it. Catching you in a lidded staring contest, “you use this on good guys, then?”

You pull a grimace. “I don’t use it at all.”

Toji is thoroughly amused. “You were gonna use it on me,” he chuckles quietly, so close to your pretty face that the point of his nose brushes yours. “Or were you just tryin’ to give me a scare?”

“I…” You trail off into brief thought. “I was afraid. I’m only a normal woman, Toji, it’s not everyday I find myself in the presence of a criminal.”

Again, he laughs, thumb sweeping back drapery that shades your thigh. You make no efforts to halt him, instead just following his line of sight all the way down to the black, leathery holster strapped high upon your thigh. Something about it is so enticing, the way fat pudges out along the sides of the tight strip. Like a garter belt, but a thousand times sexier. “‘Normal’ my ass.” Toji plucks the thing, gauging its limitation to stretch, before releasing it to snap back into place and choke your squishy thigh once more. You yelp, smacking his bicep.

“That hurt, asshole.”

“Sorry,” Toji apologizes loosely. He shakes the gun, hearing its rattle. “So this was a test, then.” There is no quizzical lilt, because there is no question about it. It was a test of trust. The weapon was a mere instigator, a tool to coax Toji into showing his ‘truest colors’; unmasking his supposed violent tendencies. All that trust you placed in Toji’s basket must’ve vanished on that rainy night, in the wake of his confession to murder. All that trust… It soured into bitter doubt. 

“A very idiotic, very flawed test,” you sigh, on the cusp of a humorless smirk. “You passed, by the way.”

“I don’t feel like I did. You thought that I would’ve hurt you.”

“I was just preparing for the worst case scenario.” 

The way in which he surveyed you was kindred to the nature of religion. Gritty fingertips explored your Holy face, and Toji worshiped every feature. Could you truly not see how sacred you are to him? Toji doesn’t caress the faces of his quick fucks, and he certainly wouldn’t surrender his life to them. 

“Put that thought out of your brain. Right now. I will never put my hands on you.”

You look flushed. Your cheek kindles warmth beneath his hand. “I want to kiss you.”

Toji’s instantaneous submission was laughable. Jaw unhinging, scarred lips parting wide, tongue twitching with anticipation. He opens his mouth for you and waits.

His face gets clamped in between two tenacious hands. Nails dig into Toji’s face as he’s yanked in to meet you in a teeth-clanking lip lock. It feels like a breath of fresh air, to kiss you like this again. Suddenly, he forgets what those strangers’ genitals tasted like. He forgets the taste of coke dripping down the back of his throat after snorting his fifth line in one night. Forgets the taste of soupy, liquor-flavored bile. All Toji knows is you and your nectarous little mouth. Your honeyed tongue is a tyrant in his mouth, dominating every wet corner, branding your essence into his taste buds. 

“I missed you,” Toji laments into your lips. He grapples with your hips, manhandling them into a constant gyration deep onto the crux of his lap. “I missed us.”

“I can tell,” you mumble and give a sharp grind against him. Against the prominent tent beaming up from the crotch of his pants, and he shudders. Then, you look at him stone cold sober from lust and ask him foolishly, “do you want to have sex right now?”

A nasally exhale huffs out, because you have to be joking with him. “My cock’s hard, ain’t it?” 

You’re a beacon of po-faced prudishness, all the while he pants for more. “Your erection is a given, considering the position we’re in,” close-grained and consolidated in intimacy. You tap Toji’s forehead, “how do you feel up here? I’d like to know.”

Such shitty pillow talk, but even still, Toji felt rosy. It made him feel acknowledged; recognized as more than just a dick to bounce on. Fuck, you’re really turning him on with that corny, mushy bullshit. “I’m good,” he tells you honestly. “I want you.”

I want to be inside of you.

“And you’ll let me know if that feeling changes?”

He groans against your cheek, “Jesus, yes, just fuckin’ touch me.”

“Ask me appropriately.”

Here he goes, sounding like a little bitch again. “Please, m-ma’am… Take it out.” Another memory to add to his internal cringe compilation.

Satisfied, you sit up on your haunches. “Lift your ass.” He does so, and accepts your help to shimmy the waistband of those constricting pants down to quarter thigh. Just low enough to make a spectacle of the hard rod straining against the thin material of his snug boxer briefs; gray and breathable and damp with his pre-ejaculant.

“Shit.” Toji huffs, giving a weak jerk when your hands begin the delicate procedure of feeding his slippery appendage through the piss hole at the front of his ruined underwear. He watches you pull him out with grace—he’s privy to the consideration you show to his most sensitive spots when you handle him like this. He thinks it’s endearing.

There his dick stands, tall and proud in the valley where both pairs of hips meet flush with one another. Toji looks down at the pinkish thing, watches the way it drifts back to hit his navel, falling under its own mass. “Rub me,” Toji whispers with his forehead pressed against the shelf of your shoulder, gazing down under heavy lids to watch his own dick drool spittle into his tee shirt. A hand precipitously hangs below his chin, fingers and palm working with each other to create a makeshift bowl. Assuming to catch something. 

“Spit, Toji.”

A second hand strokes the back of his skull, and the gesture emmenates patience. There’s only a split second of hesitation before he grants your vulgar request. Toji swishes his tongue around, collecting every ounce of saliva that coats the inner seams of his sticky mouth before opening up. The wet muscle unfurls, and a waterslide of spit cascades down into the palm of your awaiting hand. He’s rewarded for his efforts—good job, Toji—before you get down to business. 

His spit is cold when it smears along his tip. Toji bites his lip, sinks his digits deep into the meat of your ass, and fixates on keeping a composed breathing pattern because fuck, your hand was magical. You jerk him off leisurely, maintaining languid strokes that squeeze tighter near the peak of his length. “This alright?” You coo next to Toji’s ear, keeping your free hand busy playing with his raven locks. 

Toji makes a pitiful, throaty noise in response. “Do it faster.”

“No.”

He grits his teeth. “Unfair…” Toji’s hands tremble. To combat this, he begins grabbing at the robe still hugging over you, shielding that sexy body from his perverted glare. You make no indications that he should stop, so he doesn’t. Shucking off that expensive, red cape down your perfect shoulders, splitting the front open right down the middle. It’s a black, lacy little number, and the cups of your darling bralette plead transparency.

Toji pulls the thing up without dawdling, sighing blithely at the heavenly prospect of your perfect breasts bared and ready to be taken by his mouth. “God.” He captures your tit in one hand, squeezing it, playing with its weight. Your latter breast gets swiftly tucked between his lips, subjected to enthusiastic teasing from Toji’s tongue. He’s teething, rolling your budding nipple between rows of ivory fangs like he’s trying for milk. 

“You’re so hungry for it.”

“You've been depriving me of this,” Toji emphasizes his point with a long, keen lick to your cleavage. “An’ you expect me not to be starving.”

You pull him off your chest by the scruff of his neck, hoisting Toji’s heavy head up at your face level. Saliva moistens his lips, and you take your time swiping up his spit with your deft thumb pad. “Shall we get on with it, then?” Condescension and sympathy duel each other when you speak to him, like he is the unreasonable one for becoming a frenzied mess of sensuality. 

Toji is about to answer when it catches his eye. The glinting iron barrel, taunting him. It sits once more at the side of his thigh, untouched and forgotten. Begging to be used.

“I want you to fuck me.” There’s a brief intermission of silence while he collects the weapon, grabbing it by the cask and offering you its handle. You’re inquisitive, staring at the thing with uncertainty, so Toji lays his motives out across the table. “Hold this on me while you do it.”

You chortle, expecting his laugh to come next. But it never does, so you stop and raise a brow. “Come again?”

“You went through the trouble of buying this just for me, yeah?” It was obvious to anyone with two working eyes that you had no experience maintaining firearms. The gun was spotless, brand-spanking-new, and never had you mentioned to Toji that you keep something so dangerous in your home. So yeah, you can try to deny it all you want, but he knows that the only reason you now own a pistol is in case you needed to pop a cap in his brain. “Now I’m asking you to use it.”

“Toji,” you sweatdrop, “I don’t think…”

He takes your hand in his and presses the grip of the gun into your palm before securing your fingers around its silicon. Wide eyes look at him with pure solicitousness. “It’s okay.” Just like before, he steers you into position. “Jus’ keep your arm up like this. Hold it to my head. Yeah, perfect.”

“This is sick, even for you.” Despite your words, you don’t sound too dismayed. 

“Been rocking a half chub the second you pointed it at me.” 

“Filthy.”

Toji hums offhandedly, peeking down at your panty-clad pussy. Your undies were cute, he thinks, teasing the tiny ribbon bow perched on the waistband with a feather-light fingertip. Twin ebony fibers crafted the panties, just as chiffon as the bra. “Gets me off,” he shrugs, hooking his index beneath the gusset and dragging it to the side where it’ll stay in the crease of your thigh. Toji can feel the blaze of your core grate against his hand. You’re turned on. He looks back at you. “Putting my life in your hands.”

You’re shifting, stretching up a little higher to accommodate his cock. One of your knees props up at a right angle, the other remains firmly planted into the couch. “You’re so insane.” Ruddiness blooms along Toji’s neck when you hawk a wad of spit into your hand and bring it down to rub yourself. Lubricating yourself for him, moaning for him, fuck. He’s holding himself too. 

“Aintcha feelin’ powerful, though?” Toji challenges haughtily, slapping his swollen tip against your pubic bone. In response, he feels the barrel of the handgun sink a little rougher into the thin skin on his temple, and it makes him chuckle out loud. “Makes you wanna give it to me harder, don’t it?”

Tacky, spit-soaked fingers catch the angle of his running jaw with a grip so taut, it squishes his cheeks and forces his lips into a reluctant pout. “What am I going to do with that mouth?” You glower, and his mind races with a catalog of hundreds of different risque solutions to propose. However, he doesn’t get one out before your next order: “Put it in.”

And he does right away. A concoction of spit, semen, and cunt juice made the insertion process quick and painless. Without delay, your hips crash down into his lap, and it draws a paltry cheep past his clenched teeth. Fronts stick together thanks to the bone-crushing bear hug he ensnares you in. You give in, throwing your arms over his broad shoulders to attune to the sudden adjacency. He can feel a hard, steely nozzle trace around the circumference of his skull, ending at the base behind his head. 

And that’s how you two sit for a while; inside one another, breathing humid puffs of carbon dioxide into each other’s necks. 

“I’m… Gonna move now.”

“Please,” Toji murmurs.

 Hands walk down your spine, finding purchase on the malleable globes of your ass. Toji kneads like it’s dough; grabbing, pulling, grinding you back and forth. This is how sex should feel, you’ve made him come to realize. Equal parts raw and nasty in perfect tandem with intimacy and comfort. Hell, you have a fucking gun trained at his cerebellum, and even with that unusual addition, this is the safest sex he’s had in months. 

You are an expert in the ways of motion, methodically pirouetting those godsent curves in the most salacious degrees. “Oh God, don’t fucking stop,” Toji pleads, lapping against the slope of your neck. It’s killing him, the way you’re fucking his body deep into the couch like you owned it. It’s physically strenuous to keep his teeth at bay. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

The gun clinks against his head, the thud echoing in his mushy brain. “Hey,” you manage to pant out between short grunts. “No marks, y-you know that.”

Oh. Right. Stupid fucking professional job bullshit…

In the throes of Toji’s desire to swallow you whole, your warning goes in one ear and flies right out the other. “It’ll be fine,” he hushes you, skimming his sharp canines up your throat. 

“Toji.”

“How about here, then?” Before you could say ‘knife’, the tip of a tongue prodded into your ear. Swiveling around, collecting your flavor. Even here, you tasted clean. Like soapy chemicals, but not unpleasant. 

“Toji!”

You’ve stopped fucking him. Toji blinks, and suddenly, he’s being pushed into the back of the sofa by a hand in the center of his pectorals. It takes a second to catch his breath, but when he does, “what?”

Gawking, you palm your ear and cast a horrified look. “You can’t lick there! That’s dirty!”

“But I felt your pussy squeeze when I slid my tongue in—” He hacks around the foreign object. Did you just…?

“Your fucking mouth.” The barrel now lodges in his mouth, pressing back against Toji’s tongue hard enough to trigger salivary glands. It’s obvious that his nonchalance had rendered you harebrained, but thrusting the gun between his jaws like that was the last thing Toji expected you to do. It appeared that the surprise of it all was mutual—you, too, ogle your hand that holds the firearm. “Oh my—Toji, I’m sorry I didn’t—”

With haste, you move to reel back. But Toji’s reflexes are military grade, so he’s able to snag your wrist and hold you there. The shock subsided, and in its wake was the most intense form of pleasure he’d ever felt. Has there ever been a more pure forgery of submission than this? Choking on the loaded gun of your lover, hinging on each breath, wondering if your next will be your last. The whole concept is giving him a headrush far greater than any drug could. So Toji holds you in place, muffling out his pleas through the metal. Staring at you down his nose, eyes teeming with his adoration. 

I want it. And he means it. 

Thank God you’re not one of those dumb bimbo bitches he normally fucks with. You understand the message conveyed in his eyes. You see it. You’re not dense, you know what he wants, and you’ll give it to him. “Tap my leg if you need a break.” He won’t. 

The humping of his sore cock resumes, and any crumb of fortitude left within him curled up and wilted like the Hydrangeas on your front doorstep. He wilts too, collapsing back into the couch while you use his erection. 

You mewl contentedly, bracing yourself with a gentle touch to his pec. A stark contrast to the way your latter hand thrusted the piece in and out of Toji’s willing mouth. He’s not averse to something long and stiff down his throat—desperate times called for desperate measures, and if he had to suck a few cocks to cover the bills, then that’s exactly what he was gonna do. Though this was more enjoyable by miles, he thinks offhandedly while he stifles his gags. There’s no musty stench burning up his nasal cavity, no foul taste of unwashed skin. And a potential bullet was much more appetizing than the inevitable gluey spunk guaranteed at the end of every hummer. Spit bubbles up into a foamy mess at the corners of his lips as he sucks the gun. Sucks it like it’s attached to you, like you’ll be able to feel the way he coils his experienced tongue around the metallic muzzle.

“You’re really i-into that..” Awe infuses each shaky syllable, and Toji hopes maybe in some twisted rhyme or reason, he’s impressed you. Once more, he tries to talk back, but the barrier between his teeth results in utter incoherence. 

Orgasm was near shortly after, and the only warning Toji can supply is a broken half-cry, half-cough. His body began to jerk and twitch in strange ways. Like his right thigh, now sporting an uncontrollable tremble. Or his eyes rolling skyward. “You want to cum?” You asked softly despite your own impending climax, and you stroke the clenching muscles in his abdomen. 

“Nngh.” Fucking pathetic, but it’s the best he can do.

The muzzle clips the back of his throat, and tears spring into Toji’s trundling eyes. Everything gets brighter, and atmospheric sounds jumbled together into deadened white noise. Very distantly, weight lifts from his legs, and that’s when he can’t stop from diving over the edge of his orgasm.

Toji shakes, then shakes some more. Oh, his mouth is empty. When did that happen? Everything is wet and thick and syrupy. The brightness starts to fade, but even still, he has to cover his sensitive eyes with a forearm while he gasps his way back to reality. “Fu… F-fu… Ck…” You have diluted him down to nothing but a babbling idiot. Jesus Christ.

“—ji… Toji!”

Hazily, he peeks down from underneath his arm. You’re massaging soothing circles into his restless thighs that have still yet to calm down. But you’re doing it all with a quiet grin. “There he is.” 

I’m happy.

I’m happy.

Because you remind me that I can have good things.

There is your beautiful face, shining at the end of his orgasmic rainbow. Ready to clean up his mess, ready to talk him into slumber, ready to hold and caress under a shared blanket. Maybe he can deserve this—you—if he works hard enough.

Summoning whatever remained of his stamina, Toji lurches off the couch’s back to meet you into a sweet kiss. A simple kiss, devoid of any spit swapping; just his lips to yours.

“Here I am.”

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[deusfoundry]

zayne domestic fluff brainrot again except this time, it's you who comes home to him, and he finally gets to pamper and serve you the way you always do for him.

you're greeted by a warm waft of air the moment you open the door. the entire apartment is filled with the smell of your favorite dishes and you know instantly that, for the first time in weeks, zayne is home before you.

you hastily take off your coat and shoes, rushing past your cat sprawled in the middle of the hallway and to the kitchen where you find zayne. he's got an apron loosely tied around his waist. it takes you a second to realize that it's your gift from last week, the one that came in bright baby blue with ruffled, lace edges and an embroidered snowman dead center.

"it reminded me of you!" is what you had said when you handed it to him over dinner.

and he had thanked you with a feathery kiss on your knuckles, "i suppose i look a bit like this snowman, no?”

it still warms your heart, oddly enough, despite the fact that zayne has never been one to turn down any of your gifts, no matter how trivial or silly they were. he still has the keychain you gave him secured on the handle of his bag. the ceramic white kitten you got from your trip out of town five years ago sits comfortably on the desk at his office. one cutout panel from a photo strip of you and your cat is tucked inside an antique heart-shaped locket you found in some thrift store downtown. and there's not a moment where that locket isn't on him, one way or another, hung around his neck or buried in the safety of his pockets during surgery.

he adores you, and by extension every little trinket or piece of clothing you decide to give him.

the moment zayne turns down the heat on the stove is when you decide to make your presence known. you take light, careful steps as you walk towards him.

you wrap your arms around his waist, hands settling over his stomach.

and either he knows you've been lingering near the kitchen for a while or you weren't as sneaky as you thought, because he's not startled with your sudden arrival. he merely hums, as if to acknowledge your presence, before immediately melting against your touch. he takes one of your hands in his, the one that's not holding on to the ladle, and brings it closer to his lips.

"welcome home." he presses a kiss over your palm, absentmindedly tracing the lines with his finger. "dinner's almost ready. you should go and wash up.”

"this is a lot, zayne. thank you." you nuzzle a cheek against his back, trying to bring yourself impossibly closer to him as if you aren't already soul to soul at this very moment. "can't i at least set the table? wanna help you.”

"don't worry about it, my love." zayne turns down the stove completely. he faces you for the first time this evening, and you try not to be taken aback at how he looks at you. a bright gaze that makes him look like he’s in a trance as he’s staring at you. his eyes track the few strands of hair that manage to escape from behind your ear. he’s quick to move them out of the way. from there, his hand naturally gravitates towards your cheek where his thumb drags across smooth skin. he digs into the flesh with little pressure. "let me take care of you tonight.”

"if you insist.”

you can't help but laugh at how he sends you off. he’s ushering you to go to your shared bedroom, to get out of the clothes you’ve spent your entire day in and freshen up, but his hand stays firmly clasped around yours. it takes a few weak tugs and a lot of coaxing, of dragging out his name and using every possible pet name that comes to your mind for him to finally let you go.

when you return to your dining area after a quick shower, half of the lights are turned off. there's a set of three candles in the middle of the table lined with the placemats you only ever bring out when your parents are visiting.

zayne notices your arrival as he’s in the middle of placing two bowls of soup near your plates. he pulls out your chair, revealing the small bouquet of red chrysanthemums resting on it.

“for you.”

you’re briefly surprised as you take the flowers in your hands. he moves closer until his palm finds the small of your back.

"if i didn't know any better, i'd say you're planning on popping the question tonight.” you tease.

zayne tries to hide the pink dusting his cheeks by looking the other way. “can’t a man spoil his beloved?”

“oh, of course he can.” you reach for his face, taking his jaw by your hand. gently and with little resistance, you turn his face towards yours. “and his beloved couldn’t be more grateful. really, zayne, you didn’t have to do all of this.”

“i got off work early. when you told me you were working overtime, i thought it was the least i can do.”

“then let’s not keep the food waiting.” you smile.

you and zayne eat in an almost complete absence of silence as you urge him to talk about his day. and you find that it was pretty uneventful for the most part, except for the little girl he met in the hospital’s cafeteria.

“her name's mika.” he says between sips of red wine. “she’s six and she owns a cat who's three years older than her.”

you hum, motioning for him to continue.

“i met her little brother too. his name's louis, but he doesn't like being called that because it sounds too much like the name of the girl he apparently hates in school.”

“wow,” you breathe, “look at you, doctor zayne. akso hospital’s world-renowned chief cardiac surgeon and speaker to all toddlers.”

he lets out a low laugh, “i gave them some of the macarons you baked.”

“that’s adorable! did they like it?”

"when they asked who made them, i said they were baked by someone i hold near to my heart." zayne nods as he wipes the edge of lips with a napkin. "they said i should make sure to give that person lots of love."

"oh?" you lean forward, reaching across the table and past the plates of food to find his hand. "i think they might be right, doctor zayne."

zayne chuckles, choosing to indulge you. “i think so too.”

“meet me in the bedroom after i clean up?” he stands up, moving to stack the empty plates on top of each other. but you decide to beat him to it, swiftly taking the plates in your hand and out of his reach.

"leave this to me, love."

zayne frowns. there’s a slight crease on his forehead as he tries—but ultimately fails to protest. “but-”

“no buts. you’ve done enough for me tonight.”

but if there’s one thing about zayne that drives you mad, it’s that he knows when to use your weaknesses against you. he knows which parts of your bare skin to touch, what to say, how to say it. he knows that his hand sitting dangerously low on your back makes it hard for you to think of anything else. he knows that him leaning down to speak directly to your ear, hot breath fanning across cold skin, is enough to cloud your judgement.

“how about we do it together, then?”

bastard.

“fine…” you relent, knees feeling a little weak.

you two work in the kitchen like a perfectly well-oiled machine for the next half hour. he transfers all the leftovers into containers you plan on reheating over the week while you begin to scrub the plates clean.

"perhaps i did make too much…" he remarks at one point. it pulls a laugh out of you, and you bring your soap-covered hand to poke him in the cheek.

"cute." you mutter under your breath.

as the moon draws closer to its peak, you find yourself tucked in zayne’s arms, hiding under the sheets. the silk adds a layer of privacy, an added solace to the already peaceful four walls of your bedroom. and as you drift further into the land of your dreams, you think there's nothing else that could possibly be better than spending the rest of your life with zayne.

and maybe he has been sitting on the question for a while now. maybe he does have a tiny box tucked at the very back of his drawer, just waiting for the right moment to be worn on your ring finger.

[unearthly-doting]

finding their soulmate: genshin edition.

a/n: i haven't made a post here in a hot second and i honestly apologize about that lol. the motivation to write just hasn't been there but!! here's a small lil genshin post for now. i just spun a wheel to pick who i write but if u want me to write for some of the others then just lmk!!

includes: xiao, kaeya, kujou sara, albedo, tartaglia, and ayato.

warnings: mdni, yandere content, not edited, gn reader, kidnapping, forced relationships, arranged marriage, manipulation, reader injury in both kujou sara's, albedo's and tartaglia's parts, childe stabs you :peace sign:, canon is a very vague concept in my writing more often than not btw, this is kinda cringey </3, the yandere content in albedo's part is actually very mild bc i was restraining myself bc there was a lot i wanted to do w it.

XIAO — never really cared much about finding his soulmate. His entire existence was dedicated to protecting Liyue, even if the nation no longer needed his protection. Besides, with how long he's been around, he just assumed his soulmate was long dead and that he'd never meet them. Though, a small part of him wondered... what was his soulmate like?

And, almost as if the universe had been listening, he ends up meeting you. His soulmate. It wasn't a classic, romantic meeting. He didn't save your life or anything like that. You were just a traveler who decided to stay at the inn.

He didn't think much of you until his eyes met yours and suddenly color was flooding into his world. It made him dizzy, and it stunned him into absolute silence because all he could so was stare at you with wide eyes.

You were clearly going through it as well, because obviously. You just met your fucking soulmate on a damn business trip. What the hell were you supposed to do now? It would be awkward to just... ignore what had happened, right? I mean, he's staring right at you and this was all just very overwhelming.

It was an awkward first meeting, that's for sure.

But during your time at the inn, whenever you were free from work, you spent it with Xiao. He was closed off, clearly keeping his guard up and not letting you get too close. You didn't know the reasons, but you didn't expect him to tell you his entire life story just because you two were apparently bound by the universe.

Honestly, you just assumed he didn't want to be with his soulmate. This didn't upset you. It wouldn't work out, anyway. You're only staying for a few weeks before heading home.

But archons, did Xiao want you. Behind his typical, distant behavior, Xiao was taking note of everything about you. Your interests, your habits, your sleep schedule, your favorite foods and desserts... everything you told him or subconsciously revealed, Xiao was tucking it away in his mind.

He wanted you. He wanted you to stay here, in Liyue, with him. Where you belong. But he didn't know how to express that. He's never been in love before, and it's not like he'll just suddenly become an expert at romance after meeting you.

When it was time for you to leave, he was crushed. He needed you to stay. He needed you by his side. Letters wouldn't be enough to fill the emptiness in your wake if you left. You had to stay.

You will stay.

And when you wake up to find yourself no longer in the inn, and instead in some small home deep within the mountains of Liyue, you're distraught.

Xiao looks genuinely guilty, robbing you of your freedom but... you understand, don't you? You have to understand. He just couldn't let you go. You're his soulmate, you were destined to be with him! You'll love it here, he'll make sure of it.

Just stay.

KAEYA — had always wondered what his soulmate was like ever since he was a child. He would spend hours just staring at the small crescent moon forever stained on his wrist, wondering if and when he'll meet the person with a matching mark.

Of course, as he got older he spent less time thinking about such things, though he did always hold out hope that he might be able to one day meet his soulmate. Little did he know, he's met his soulmate already. Multiple times.

You took over Sara's shifts at the Good Hunter whenever she had other things she needed to focus on, so Kaeya has spoken with you on numerous occasions, he's just never realized you were his soulmate because you keep your wrists covered. He's not one to judge, his wrists aren't visible either.

Him finding out was an accident. You had been handing him his order when your sleeves rolled up a bit, and his gaze just so happened to look at your wrists and he saw the very same crescent moon that was on his.

And for a moment, he froze. He just stared. Long enough that you were starting to feel a little uncomfortable. But before you could awkwardly send him on his way, he was showing you the crescent moon on his wrist as well and thus began your love story.

Or... well... it's what Kaeya had hoped for, but you didn't seem interested in soulmates at all. You didn't want the universe to decide who you were meant to be with, you wanted to make that decision yourself, so you had, to put it simply, bluntly rejected him.

And he gets it! It hurts, sure. He spent his entire life dreaming of this day, and it's not turning out the way he had hoped, but... you guys can be friends, at least, right? No strings attached?

For a while, Kaeya was fine with that. You and he had a really strong friendship. He cared about you, and you cared about him. Though your feelings were platonic, he was holding on to the hope that maybe one day, you'll realize you two were meant to be together.

But it was starting to seem as though that day might never come, because almost a year into your friendship with him, you had told Kaeya that you were thinking about entering the dating scene. He was... not too pleased about that, honestly. It was pretty obvious too, the way his entire mood soured the moment you brought the topic up.

He didn't stand by idly while this happened. Any person he saw you chatting up with romantic intentions would suddenly avoid you like the plague the next time you saw them. Any blind dates would end with you being ghosted. Hell, even some of your friends, the ones who were helping you get dates, were starting to avoid you too. It was so confusing.

But not Kaeya. No, Kaeya was always by your side.

Whenever you needed him, he was there. He always seemed to be able to make time for you. He listened to you vent your frustrations out, never once judging you or telling you that you were being dramatic. He was the only constant in your life these days.

Of course, you were completely oblivious to the fact that he was the cause of all of this. It's not that hard to blackmail people, he's learned. But they didn't deserve you anyway, seeing how easily they gave up on you the moment he approached them.

Maybe... maybe dating Kaeya wouldn't be so bad... I mean, you're the one deciding this, right? The universe isn't having any play in it. This is your decision. Isn't it?

KUJOU SARA — never cared about her soulmate. She knew she had one, you were in every dream she had. She found it to be more of a nuisance than anything else.

Her entire life was dedicated to her training, and to the Raiden Shogun. She neither had the time, nor the interest in searching for her soulmate. Besides, it didn't seem as if you resided in Inazuma. Your clothing was similar what people in Fontaine wear, and Fontaine was far away from Inazuma.

She was confident that she wouldn't be meeting you any time soon, so she never gave you any thought when she was awake. She never made any plans on what she would do if she did, by any chance, meet you. It didn't matter.

And she can't help but regret that, now that you're standing in front of her. If she had known that meeting her soulmate would make her feel like this, as if everything in the world suddenly made sense, then... well... she doesn't know what she would've done, to be honest.

No matter, Sara had no time to entertain you. Your stay in Inazuma was only temporary, so she saw no point in trying to form a bond with you. You, however, seemed to have different plans. She was used to seeing you in her dreams every night, but she was not used to seeing you in her waking moments.

Whenever she wasn't preoccupied with something, you were there to offer her company. It was annoying, and she's sent you away more than once, but that didn't seem to deter you. If anything, you seemed to become more determined each time she brushed you off.

At some point, she had given up on avoiding you. It was easier to just let you stick around. And, the more time she spent with you, the more attached she was becoming. It wasn't smart, she knew that, but could you blame her? You're so... irrevocably you.

Her fondness for you didn't go unnoticed.

Many people in Inazuma treated you with the same respect they treated Sara. You were her soulmate, after all. Should someone insult you, they would in turn be insulting her. Nobody wanted to get on her bad side.

There were, however, a few bad apples.

It should come as no surprise that a target was placed on your back the moment people took notice of Sara's attachment to you. She didn't think she'd have to worry much, because no one would be idiotic enough to actually try and harm you under her watch, but she should've known better.

It happened a few days before you were set to leave Inazuma to return home. A disturbance was going on within the city so Sara wasn't with you when you went on your daily walk just outside of it. It was supposed to be safe, but it wasn't.

Some vagrants had got the jump on you, and you nearly lost your life. You were lucky enough to have been found by some bystanders, but Sara was less than pleased when she heard about this. She had never taken pleasure in killing anyone before, but there was a deep-rooted sense of satisfaction deep within her chest when she watched the lives of those who hurt you fade away.

And as she sat by your side, waiting for you to wake up, she came to a decision. You can't be alone. If you are, you'll get hurt, and she won't be able to protect you. She can't let you leave Inazuma. She knows you'll more than likely hate her for making this decision for you, but if it means she can keep you safe, keep you alive and by her side, then... that hatred is something she'll be willing to bear.

ALBEDO — doesn't have a soulmate. At least, he's not supposed to. He's an artificial being, so it wouldn't make sense for him to have a soulmate. Of course, he does find the concept of soulmates to be intriguing. Who, or what, decides who people are destined to be with? It's a question he hopes to find an answer to.

So he wasn't surprised when he found you passed out in the snow, deep within Dragonspine. He's seen this countless times before, travelers who don't take precautions before trying to brave the deadly cold that comes with being here. He assumed he would just nurse you back to health and you would go on your merry way.

That changed, however, when he was cleaning your wounds and he saw his name inked on your skin, right on your collarbone. In his handwriting, at that. It confused him, because... that would mean that he's your soulmate. But he can't be. And yet, it didn't come off when he tried wiping it off. It was a part of your skin.

This left him with many questions, though none of them got answered when you woke up. You couldn't remember much about yourself, other than your name and a few other details. You didn't even know why you were in Dragonspine, or where you were from. You did hit your head pretty badly, judging from the headwound, so that would explain the amnesia, though he's not sure if it was going to be something temporary or not.

You both decided it would be best to just have you stay here until you were able to recover some of your memories and although Albedo wasn't eager to make friends with you, he was grateful for the company. He was incredibly patient with you too, answering any questions you may have had ranging from a multitude of different topics.

And in return, you helped out as much as you could without overexerting yourself and making your injuries worse. You'd make sure to keep his little lab tidy when he was away. You'd help out with some of his experiments too, if he knew you wouldn't get hurt doing so.

All while trying to figure out how he could possibly be your soulmate. He checked over himself. Four times. Your name was nowhere on his body. So why? Why was his name on yours? As much as he hates to admit it, he thinks he may never get an answer to this mystery.

Though... that's not such a bad thing, he thinks. He finds himself enjoying your company more and more with each passing day, the whole soulmate thing rarely even crossed his mind. At least, until you had asked him why his name was permanently etched into your skin. It was fairly easy to explain everything to you, though he was unable to answer a few of your questions, sadly. Soulmates were still a mystery, after all.

And when you asked if you could write your name on him so you two could match, he found himself unable to say no. He found himself unable to speak at all, actually, as you wrote your name on his shoulder. You even added a little heart next to it.

But no, Albedo was too busy coming to terms with the feelings he has for you. They weren't new. He's been aware of them for a week or so now, he just never gave it much thought until now. Now, with you so close to him, it was simply impossible to ignore.

And once you pull away, you smile at him and say, "There! Now I'm your soulmate too, right?" And oh.

Oh.

There was no way Albedo was going to let you leave Dragonspine now.

TARTAGLIA — feels a little bad for his soulmate, whoever they are. They can feel his pain, and he can feel theirs. So... they probably hate his guts, considering he's not the most careful person in the world. He pushes himself to his limits and beyond, and his soulmate has no doubt felt every single second of it.

Don't get him wrong, he would love to meet his soulmate. It's been a dream of his since he was a child, always eager to hear the story of how his mom and dad found out they were soulmates. Even as he grew older, the desire never went away. It was just... buried.

And his soulmate just so happened to be you, the significant other of a man who owed the Northland Bank a lot of money. He doesn't normally partake in debt collections, but he didn't have anything better to do so he decided to take this one on. He was going to use you as an example to your husband, though the moment his blade stabbed you, he froze.

He felt the pain. He stabbed you, and he could feel it. Oh fuck, he just stabbed his soulmate. That's definitely not the picturesque first meeting he was hoping for. Probably wouldn't be a good idea to tell his family this either...

Stabbing aside, he was utterly delighted. You, on the other hand, were terrified. Not only did this man just fucking stab you, his expression went from bored to something akin to crazed glee. He stared at you with a hunger that made you want to shy away from his gaze.

He doesn't care that you're already in a relationship with someone else. Not anymore, you're not. You're his, destined by the stars or however the story goes. And if your lover tries to get you back, he'll just kill them. Easy as that. Absolutely nothing will get in the way of him having you.

And he likes that you fight back against him. He especially loves it when you manage to escape. Hell, sometimes he'll even let you go just so he can chase you down again. It sends a thrill through him like no other when he catches you, and you stare at him teary-eyed and out of breath.

You're always so scared that he'll hurt you, but he would never do such a thing. He treats you like you're royalty, spoiling you with a seemingly endless amount of gifts. You're not quite sure how he knows what you like, and you're too hesitant to ask.

Honestly... he'd probably let you stab him. Y'know, he stabbed you, so it's only fair that you get to stab him in turn, right?

You think not. You're very hesitant, staring at him as though he were insane for even proposing such an idea. A part of him was disappointed. He wanted one of the many scars on his body to be from you. But a much larger part can't help but go soft at the sight of you shaking your head, sternly refusing to hurt him.

If he wasn't obsessed with you before, he certainly was now. You're too good. Too kind. He's holding you captive (lovingly, of course) and you refuse to hurt him? You don't even want to pinch him? How adorable.

Why, if he didn't know any better, he'd think that you might care about him.

He was nothing if not stubborn, of course. You might not care about him now, but you will in the future. He'll make sure of it.

After all, he's spent his whole life waiting for you.

AYATO — never had the time to think of his soulmate. He was blessed (or cursed, depending on who you ask) with the ability to see the red strings that tied people together. When he was younger, before having to take on the duties of the Kamisato name, he would always stare at the one tied to his pinkie.

He even has the habit of twirling the red string around his finger whenever he gets stressed. Only behind closed doors, of course. It would probably appear strange to others if they saw.

Meeting his soulmate was something he had always planned out in his head as a child, and when he finally did meet you, it was so... simple. There was nothing magical about it, you had just bumped into him one day when he was out in the city and that's what started all of this.

For you, it was a forgettable encounter, one that would never cross your mind again. For him, it was everything he had been waiting for. Thoma thought it was a bit strange, but he dutifully gathered information about you when Ayato asked it of him. He needed to know everything there was to know about you.

He already knew what he was going to do when he met his soulmate, the only thing left was to actually do it. And you were definitely shocked when Kamisato Ayato himself showed up at your home and asked you to marry him.

You said no, obviously, because why the hell would you agree to marry someone you didn't know? Ayato had planned for this, of course. That's why he had Thoma learn everything about you, so the moment you declined his offer, he just smiled and made a comment about your family. It was very obvious what he was implying.

And even if you aren't close with your family, you can't live with blood on your hands. You were pretty much forced into accepting Ayato's marriage proposal. He was pleased with this outcome, promising to take care of everything himself.

Marrying him meant that you would, unfortunately, have to leave your home and instead live at the Kamisato Estate. Everyone was under the impression that this marriage was one of love and not coercion. You highly doubt that anyone would believe you if you told them the truth, and you were too concerned about what the consequences would be if you did.

Everyone at the estate was nice to you, at least, though the only people allowed to actually get close to you were Ayaka and Thoma.

And when the wedding was over, it was time for your honeymoon. You were not excited about that, but it seemed Celestia itself was on your side during that time because he was too busy to spend time with you.

If he wasn't threatening the lives of your family, you would have made numerous escape attempts by now. Still, you've made it very clear that you hate his guts.

Your hatred is something he detests, though he can't fault you for it. He understands that what he's forced you into is wrong, but in his mind, it was something that had to be done. He's sure that given enough time and space, you'll grow to understand why he did what he did.

And even though you scorn his existence, Ayato looks at you as if you've placed the stars in the sky.

Your strings are forever tied together, so there's no getting out of this. He doesn't plan on ever letting you go. He'd be a terrible husband if he didn't keep you close, wouldn't he?

[morallygreychaoticneutral]

Astarion doesn't ask for affection because he can't..... yet.

Ah, more tea steeping in this seeming endless sea of thoughts. This brew is a bit strong on the heart. Read with caution.

Warning for game spoilers and talk of abuse.

This perspective is from game content only. How anybody cannons their relationships or behaviors is perfectly right. No blame, no shame, it's your game.

I was always miffed at the lack of initiated affection from Astarion as a partner. YOU ask him for a kiss. YOU ask him for a hug. YOU ask him to tell you thank you after being an amazing partner and killing a massive beastie just for him! Brat...

But then I had a sudden realization. Given his past, affection is probably insanely hard to ask for. Like it can be for a lot of us.

Stay awhile and listen. (nerd)

Now when I speak of narcissistic abuse I am only speaking from what I know about it. I have no academic or phycology degree on the matter. Just good ol' tossed in the pond and forced to sink or swim experience.

Astarion spent 200 years under the crushing weight of narcissistic / psychopathic abuse. One of the things these types of abusers love to do is take what you love and make you hate it and then make you hate yourself for ever having liked it to begin with. All very nasty business that. But it's one of the main corner stones for the cage they build to control you.

They make you feel as if the request of a simple hug is the most pathetic thing you could ask for. Or the most selfish thing as it inconveniences them. They don't want it, why should they give it to you?

Shame, belittle, degrade, devalue..

200 years with a master who used him like a tool. 200 years with siblings that fought amongst each other so much comfort was a liability. Nights coming home assaulted only to be mocked for your tears. Insulted for your need of comfort.

"Pathetic! Weak! Disgusting! "

Shame, belittle, degrade, devalue..

Affection was nowhere to be found there, I assure you.

And for a Narc. anything given is expected to be "earned" in any way they see fit. And if you were "rewarded" with anything, it comes at high price.

And how dare you not find it fair. You ingrate!

Shame, belittle, degrade, devalue..

Hugs are pathetic. Kisses are an intrusion. Or they become gateways to other unwanted behaviors. To be held...what are you? A baby? The only way you are going to get held, is down.

Shame, belittle, degrade, devalue.. The pattern continues.

But you ask HIM for a kiss. And he says..

"There is nothing I'd like more."

And he means it.

I'd bet a mountain of gold he wants to just ask you himself. But years of conditioning to expect pain when seeking pleasure probably keeps him in a choke hold. Like rats that are shocked every time they try to eat food out of a dish. They learn it is safer to starve.

"I want to ask Tav for a kiss or a hug, but they might think i'm weak. But if they ask me first then it's them who wants it and they can't degrade me for it because they asked, not me. It's safe then."

"I want to ask Tav for a kiss or hug, but they might reject me for being too needy and shame and berate me for being so selfish or demanding of their time and person. But if they ask they have time and want me to kiss/hug them."

"I want to ask Tav for a kiss or a hug, but my primal brain keeps telling me they might demand more than I want to give in return for it. But if they ask, I have the power of negotiating the outcome."

This leads me to believe he would view sex and affection very differently as well.

Where most find affection safe and nurturing, it's anxiety educing and unsafe. It means there are feelings and if there are feelings there is the risk and fear of rejection or judgment. It's much scarier.

Where most find sex to be connecting and intimate, it's been used so much it's lost any meaning. Something you can do a thousand times over and walk away the second it's done and feel nothing afterward.

This may even be a part of the reason why he wants to stop having sex.

He wants to connect with you in ways denied to him. He wants the experience of being courted, treasured, nurtured. It means so much more to him than sex. It is so much more connecting.

Feeling this way is wretched and lonely. The most basic instinct is to want to seek comfort in the arms of those who love us. But it's broken. The risk is too great.

And it's hard. Because you could be the sweetest most honorable Tav in the whole of Fearun. But after being fed poised apples one too many times, all apples appear poisonous regardless of if is true or not.

I have no doubt that this prickly elf soaks up every second of non sexual affection you give him. And truly is grateful for your patience while he slowly and carefully disarms the safety measures he put in place to survive. The fact that he even allowed you to touch him like that at all was a monumental act of trust. And why not? You are incredible after all.

I'm going to go ask my elf for a kiss now. And then cry in my cup.

[aquaticmercy]

Match

Summary : You finally found your intellectual match in Bucky Barnes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x rare book dealer!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : You and Bucky are nerds (affectionate), mentions of his past. Sexual tension-filled philosophical debate. DC comics exist in the MCU as literature as per the guardians Christmas special lol. Cursing? Steamy not smut. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 5.7k

Note : This fic was inspired by that one scene in FATWS where Bucky said he read the hobbit. I just really like the idea that Bucky really really likes to read. Enjoy!

Rare books were not just a job to you, but a vocation. You spent your days seeking out treasures, preserving them, and connecting them with people who could truly appreciate their worth. Your little shop was a haven of creaking wooden floors and shelves brimming with the worn spines of countless literary works, sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

It was your home.

On a quiet Tuesday, the bell over the door jingled.

At first, you assumed the man who walked in was lost or killing time— maybe a tourist who thought your shop was an antique or souvenir shop (you’ve gotten a lot of those over the years). 

He didn’t fit your usual profile of a customer—no tweed jackets or scholarly glasses. No suit and tie, no clean white blouse. This one was confident, albeit rough on the edges. His leather jacket and heavy boots belonged in a biker gang, his long hair brushing beautifully against his shoulders. But it was his left arm that drew your gaze—a sleek, black metal hand peeking out of his sleeve, rippling slightly when he moved.  

You recognized him instantly: James Buchanan Barnes. 

The former Winter Soldier. 

A man who belonged to history books and legends. Seeing him in person was... surreal. No article had prepared you for the magnetism he carried, no photo did him justice.

Still, you weren’t one to swoon. And you definitely weren’t about to let him see you staring a little too long into his steely blue eyes. 

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice calm and professional.

For a second, he seemed to weigh whether or not to answer. “I’m looking for a first edition of The Hobbit.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t what you’d expected. 

“It’s in the case over here,” you replied, recovering quickly. You led him to the glass display where one of your most cherished possessions lay nestled, secure and pristine.  

He muttered something like ‘just like I remember’ as he gazed at the book, his voice close to reverence.  

“Big fan?” you ventured, curious.

His lips curved up, into a faint smile. He nodded. “Always admired how he built entire worlds. The languages, the histories.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “He lived through hell in the trenches, too. And from that, he wrote something… hopeful.”

You hadn’t expected that depth of understanding, and your surprise must have been obvious. “What?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t think I’d be the type?”

This was going to be fun, you thought.

You shrugged, trying to suppress a grin, “you’re not exactly my usual Tolkien collector.”

That earned you a sweet, gentle chuckle. “I didn’t think I’d be either, but I’ve always loved books,” he admitted, “They were one of the only constants after...” His voice faltered, remnants of his past briefly flashing behind his eyes.

You didn’t press. Instead, you followed his lead, steering the conversation back to Tolkien. “You're right about the worldbuilding. He wrote a full mythology— linguistic and cultural foundations and all. It’s like he created an alternate history.”

“Exactly.” Bucky’s smile returned, brighter this time. It had been ages since Bucky had an engaging, meaningful conversation that wasn’t about mission planning, let alone about a book. The heated, faceless debates with internet strangers—each convinced they were ultimately correct—definitely didn’t count. “It’s that attention to detail— You don’t see that much anymore.”

After that, the two of you fell into a rhythm, talking easily for nearly an hour. About Tolkien’s works, his love for language, and the way war had shaped his narratives. You even mentioned how Tolkien’s own experiences in World War I echoed the camaraderie and loss found in his stories. Bucky nodded along, sharing personal observations that surprised you—not just because of their insight, but because of how much he genuinely cared.

Back in the day, everyone saw Bucky as the classic jock, and to be fair, he was. But beneath the effortless charm, he was a nerd at heart—fascinated by books, obsessed with science, and captivated by innovation. It was Bucky who had dragged Steve along to the World Exposition of Tomorrow, it was Bucky who was eager to see Howard Stark’s presentation on flying cars. Back then, the future had been his fixation. It had been out of reach— a world of endless possibilities. 

Now, he was drawn to the past. 

He’d fallen in love with reading again. After all, he had a century of literature to catch up on. And with the internet at his fingertips, he had access to more knowledge and stories than he could have dreamed of. 

40s Bucky would’ve had a heart attack from the sheer volume of information he could consume. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just chasing a vision of what might be—he was immersing himself in what already was.

Eventually, the conversation drifted to The Lord of the Rings. 

“Did you read the trilogy?” you asked.

He nodded. “Only a couple of years ago. I didn’t even realize it was published after… everything.” He paused, frowning slightly, as if reaching into the murky depths of his memory. 

Right. You did a quick mental tally based on the books you’ve read about him. The Hobbit was published in 1937, and The Fellowship of the Ring in 1954. Bucky was presumed killed in action in 1945 and captured by a terrorist organization. So, yeah—he’d missed it.

“Hydra,” you said the thought allowed before you could stop yourself.

You winced, bracing for impact. Oh no, you thought, have I crossed a line?

“You read about me?” he asked to your surprise, likely catching you deep in thought. 

You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though your heart still beat out your chest. “Superheroes are a popular topic for peer-reviewed journals and doctoral theses. There’s a whole academic subfield about the Winter Soldier— a lot about your role in the war, too.”

His expression was unreadable, but you thought you saw a flicker of something— amusement? Whatever it was, it eased the tension you had accidentally created, and the conversation resumed.

You’ve read plenty about Bucky Barnes—the sharpshooter of the Howling Commandos, Captain America’s trusted sniper. You’ve probably read more about him in the modern age: scholars debating the pardon of the Winter Soldier, professors discussing the Sokovia Accords— a conflict in which he’d been a major player in. You’d disagreed with the Accords, of course, but that’s a story for another time. 

Right now, your focus was on the man in front of you, talking about Tolkien and his wonderful languages. See, the peer-reviewed articles about him had painted a stark picture: a kind soul turned into a cold, unfeeling weapon. But they neglected to mention that even after everything, he was still a kind soul. In person, it was hard to reconcile the man before you with the image of a killer. 

The paper also failed to mention a pleasant surprise: his mind. You realised now that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a soldier; he was sharp, curious, a man who loved literature and sought out conversations that challenged him. It was something the world overlooked.

Yet it was there, just beneath the surface.

“Have you read the Silmarillion?” you ventured.

“I tried,” He grimaced. “Felt like reading a textbook. Not sure I even made it halfway.”

“That’s fair,” you admitted with a laugh. “It’s not the easiest read. But it’s worth it, I promise.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t shut the idea down, either.  

You made a snap decision. Reaching behind the counter, you pulled out your personal copy of The Silmarillion. It wasn’t a rare edition, but it was filled with your notes in the margins, a map you’d sketched for reference, and little Post-its marking key passages. “Take this,” you offered, holding it out to him.

He hesitated, not used to kindness from beautiful strangers. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. Hopefully the notes will make it easier. And don’t even worry about returning it,” you nodded, “It’s probably for the best. I obsess over it too much.”

He took the book, his metal fingers brushing against yours as he did, making your stomach flutter. “Thanks.”

“And if you’re curious about all those papers written about you...” You looked through bookmarks on your laptop, typing ‘James Barnes’ into the search bar. You jotted down a list of academic articles you’d read— some about his time in WWII, others about his unique role as a postwar icon. “Here. If you want to see what people are saying.”

He smiled that kind smile again, folding the paper carefully and tucked it into his jacket. “I appreciate it.”

When he left with the first edition of The Hobbit, your annotated Silmarillion, and your list of articles about him, you found yourself staring at the door long after it had closed, hoping it wasn’t the last time he’d visit your shop. 

—

Bucky started coming in more frequently, always buying another rare book— Hemingway, Orwell, Lovecraft. The pretense was paper-thin, though, and you both knew it. 

Sure, he enjoyed books, but by that point he knew he could’ve gotten cheaper copies on a bid online (rent in a big city was expensive)— and the books he bought weren't even that rare. 

Each visit turned into a lengthy discussion that carried you through the night, far past the shop’s usual closing time.  

One afternoon, he returned something unexpected: your well-worn copy of The Silmarillion. Admittedly, you’d  missed it—  its once-pristine pages now brimming with additional notations—his handwriting mixing with yours.  

“I had to,” he said, an almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Your notes made me see it differently. It felt like a conversation.” 

You opened it, thumbing through the pages, your eyes catching his commentary. He had sharp, incisive thoughts: challenging some of your interpretations, expanding on others, and sometimes adding playful jabs in the margins when he disagreed with your analysis.

“This is dangerous,” you said, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “Do you really want a debate about Tolkienian theology?”  

“I’ve got time, doll,” he said with a grin, settling onto the stool by the counter. Your cheeks flushed at the nickname, hearts doing backflips in your ribcage.

And so, that evening, you indulged in the mind of James Buchanan Barnes, exploring his thoughts and musings about Middle-earth. For the next two hours, the two of you argued about the nature of Ilúvatar’s creation, the Fëanor tragic story, and whether or not Morgoth represented a failure of divine providence.  

“I’ll admit,” he said at one point, leaning back and crossing his arms, “I wasn’t expecting it to feel so... biblical.”  

“It’s a way to think about creation through the lens of fantasy,” you replied, your voice softening as you traced your fingers over the book’s cover. “There’s a reason people get lost in it.”  

He watched you for a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile fading into something softer. 

It wasn’t the only time your conversations would take a turn like this. A week later, gothic monsters were your battlefield.

Bucky leaned against the counter, an old edition of Dracula he had just purchased in his hands, the worn leather squeaking as he shifted. His brow furrowed in that way that always made you wonder what he was thinking— though you had a feeling he was about to pick a fight, again.

“You’re out of your mind if you think Frankenstein beats Dracula,” he said, glancing up, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’m not saying they’re even comparable,” you countered, crossing your arms as you leaned against the opposite side of the counter. “They’re completely different genres. It’s not a fair fight. But if it were... Frankenstein wins. Hands down.”

Bucky chuckled, a low, warm sound that made it impossible not to smile. “You think that because you’re obsessed with sci-fi. If it’s got a fake scientist and a lot of regret, you’re sold.”

“And you think Dracula is better because it’s all dark and broody,” you shot back, arching an eyebrow, “sound familiar?” You smirked, mirroring his stance against the opposite side of the counter. “Besides, Frankenstein is a masterpiece—philosophy, morality, hubris—it’s got layers. What’s Dracula got? Melodrama?”

“Hey! Dracula has layers!” Bucky chuckled low in his throat, setting the book down. “It’s about primal fear, wrapped in ancient powers, wrapped again in the clash between tradition and modernity.”

“It is enjoyable, I must admit, but it’s just a glorified soap opera.” You groaned, though your lips twitched in spite of yourself. “Shelley’s work makes you think, you know? It’s art.”

“Art?!” he repeated, stepping closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “It’s a guy making bad decisions and spending the rest of the book dodging the consequences.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing. “It’s about responsibility! The monster is a reflection of Victor’s failure. He’s abandoned and searching for connection—”

“And whining about it,” Bucky interrupted with a smirk, folding his arms. “Dracula doesn’t whine.”

The playful sparring faded when it hit you.

Frankenstein’s monster was created without consent, shaped into something he never chose to be. He was cast out, left to navigate a world that saw him as a mistake. The monster was isolated— burdened by guilt—the question of whether he was defined by the harm he’d done.

“Does he…” you started, gulping, unsure of how he’d react to an outright observation. “Does Frankenstein’s monster make you uncomfortable?”

As you stepped closer, his expression faltered, his eyes dropping to the book in his hands. Slowly, he set it aside, the movement deliberate. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold surface of his metal arm before resting there gently. “Does it hit too close to home?” you asked.

He didn’t deny it. A quiet laugh escaped him instead. He shook his head. “You’re too damn perceptive for your own good,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a longing for something you couldn’t quite place.  

Your fingers moved in slow circles against his metal hand, and when it twitched beneath your touch, you knew he felt it—knew he felt you.  

“The monster was never the villain,” you said, a fragile offering meant to soothe him. “He just needed someone to see him. He can be kind, too.”  

His gaze lifted, locking onto yours, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. For a heartbeat, the world stilled. 

Then Bucky’s smirk returned, smaller this time, as he leaned into your touch as if he craved it. “Nice try,” he said, voice lighter but still soft. “You’re not winning this one. Dracula’s better.”

You laughed, the tension breaking just enough to let you breathe again. “You’re impossible, Barnes.”

—

You were afraid you had scared him off after that, but to your surprise, he returned a week later, albeit a bit bruised from a mission.  

You’d been reshelving old graphic novels that day (First Edition Hergé that you were quite excited by), the quiet hum of the shop wrapping you in comfortable silence, when you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye. His dark leather jacket hung slightly open, revealing a plain gray shirt that stretched just enough across his chest to draw your eyes. There was a faint cut near his jaw, still healing.  

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he approached. His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary. “You look beautiful today. Is that a new dress?”

Your breath caught, and a warmth crept up your neck as you glanced down at the simple, flowy dress you’d chosen that morning. “It is,” you admitted, looking back up at him with a shy smile. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Hard not to,” he murmured, his lips curving into a small, almost teasing smile before he turned toward the shelves.

You busied yourself with reshelving more books behind the counter, but you couldn’t help watching him out of the corner of your eye. His human hand traced idly along the spines, careful not to inflict damage. When he stopped, he plucked a rare-ish pocket 6th edition of Thus Spake Zarathustra from the shelf, his metal fingers glinting faintly in the light of the shop.

“You actually like this guy?” he asked quietly, lifting the book like he was sharing a secret.  

“Like is a strong word,” you said, stepping out from behind the ladder. His gaze caught yours, and there was a flicker of something playful in those blue eyes. Your pulse quickened, beckoning him to the counter. “He was no saint, but hardly anyone is. I… appreciate his contribution. It’s not his fault people misuse his work.” 

Bucky had witnessed it firsthand: fascists distorting Nietzsche's philosophy, disregarding its complexities, and twisting his ideas into a justification for genocide.

His lips turned upward, a lopsided grin that softened the sharpness of his jaw. His stance shifted, leaning against the counter with a practiced ease. His eyes flickered, taking you in, and when you crossed your arms, his gaze lingered briefly, enough to spark a bubbling heat beneath your skin.  

“You don’t think Nietzsche was a proto-fascist, do you?” you asked, tilting your head.  

“God, no,” he said quickly, amusement softening his voice. His grin spread, revealing the faintest cute dimple in his cheek. “I’ve read enough to know better. But I don’t exactly buy the Übermensch thing either. It’s too... self-centered for my taste. The whole idea of being ‘beyond good and evil’ feels dangerous.”  

“That’s fair,” you said, closing the distance between you as you reached for the book in his hand. Your fingers brushed his as you slipped it from his grasp, his touch warm, steady, almost deliberate. His eyes flickered down to where your hands had met. “There are many flaws in his thinking, but I don’t think the concept is inherently bad,” you continued, the air between you charged with tension. You tilted the book toward him, as though showing him something, though you both knew you weren’t really focused on the pages. “It’s about striving for a better version of yourself. I think he wanted people to create their own meaning, not follow blindly.”  

“Maybe,” Bucky murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He shifted closer, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet room. His metal hand rested at his side, the vibranium gleaming faintly as his other hand inched forward, almost brushing yours.  

His breath fanned your cheek as he leaned in, close enough now that you could see the stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes framed those blue eyes. “But there’s something so… wrong about thinking you’re the one who gets to decide what’s right,” he whispered, his voice like a secret meant only for you.  

He was close, dangerously so— that you could feel his breath on your nose.

The bell above the door chimed suddenly, breaking the moment like shattered glass. Dr. Hart, a lecturer from the local university, stepped inside, a bundle of papers tucked under her arm, and smiled in greeting.  

She was a returning customer, here to pick up a special edition of Conversation on Botany that you had tracked down for her.

“That’s $40, Mr. Barnes,” You took a small, steadying breath and waved at Hart with a thumbs up that said I’ve got your book.

His lips twitched into a knowing smile. Hr reached for his wallet, pulling out a few bills. As he handed them to you, his fingers brushed yours again.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised, his voice soft, almost teasing.

—

The tipping point came late one evening.  

You’d spent the last few hours catalouging a shipment of rare books, the shop’s air thick with the comforting scent of old leather, yellowing paper, and the faint hint of dust that always seemed to cling to ancient texts. The shop was silent save for the scratch of your pen against paper as you logged the latest arrival.  

The peace shattered with the familiar jingle of the bell above the door.  

“Shop’s closed,” you said without looking up, your voice automatic, your focus still on the fragile spine of a sixteenth-century text.  

“Good thing I’m not here to shop,” came the deep, unmistakable voice of Bucky Barnes.  

Your hand froze, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips. You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe with that trademark blend of casual confidence and smoldering intensity. His black Henley stretched across his chest, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms—a sight you tried not to dwell on for too long.  

“What are you here for, then?” you asked, arching an eyebrow as you tried to sound indifferent.  

“Conversation,” he said simply, stepping further inside.  

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you returned to your work. “You came all the way here just to talk?”  

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he teased, his lips turning into a sly smile as he perched on the edge of your desk. “I was in the neighborhood.”  

You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother responding. Bucky always had a way of pulling your attention, and tonight was no different. You tried to focus on the delicate bindings in front of you, but his overwhelming presence was impossible to ignore.  

When he reached for a book from the nearby stack—a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius—you finally gave in.  

“Stoicism?” you asked, your tone light with playful mockery. 

He flipped the book open, his fingers grazing the thin pages. “You’re really surprised? I thought you’d figure that about me,” he said, glancing up at you with a hint of a challenge in his eyes. “Marcus Aurelius had a lot to say about self-control.”  

“And yet here you are…” you replied, gesturing to where he was leaning across your workspace, a soft furrow of amusement on your eyebrows. You decided you could be flirty— eyeing the undone button of his Henley, showing a hint of his skin underneath. “...testing mine.”  

The corners of his mouth curved. “Guess I’m doing my part to help you practice.”  

You shook your head, half-smiling. “It’s not just about self-control, now is it? It’s about accepting what you can’t change.”  

He tilted his head, agreeing with you. “Or a way to stop drowning in things you can’t fix.”  

From there, the conversation unfurled like a thread you couldn’t stop pulling. Philosophy, morality, the nature of good and evil—it didn’t take long before you were fully engrossed, debating with a ferocity that surprised even you. Bucky was sharp, quick-witted, and maddeningly good at challenging your points. Every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d counter with something so precise, so well-argued, that you couldn’t help but admire his mind.  

As the debate shifted, you sat on your desk, its surface cluttered with books that were hard to find, but not rare enough to be put in a glass case. Your focus was solely on Bucky, who was pacing the room with measured steps, his hands brushing against the edges of shelves every so often as though grounding himself.

“Alright,” you said, leaning forward, crossing your legs. “Here’s a question for you: Should Batman kill the Joker?” 

Slowly, he turned and walked closer to you, his shoes thudding softly against the floor. He stopped just short of your legs, leaning forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours, making your pulse quicken.

Oh, that piqued his interest.

“I should’ve known you’d bring up Batman.” Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk, eyeing up the first print of 90s DC comics in the corner of the room that hadn’t been there two days ago— a fresh delivery, perhaps? You were always very topical, and the recent restocks somehow always made their way into conversation.

“It’s a valid moral dilemma,” you said, straightening, your chin lifting slightly. 

He tilted his head, his expression a blend of amusement and challenge. “Why don’t you tell me?”  

“Of course he should,” You didn’t hesitate, the answer rolling off your tongue with absolute conviction. “The Joker is a mass murderer. Every time Batman spares him, more people die. His refusal to act is just as bad as pulling the trigger himself.”  

Bucky’s smile lingered, but his gaze grew darker, ever so slightly. “So you’re saying Batman’s refusal to kill makes him complicit?”  

“Yes,” you said firmly, leaning in slightly, the heat of the argument pulling you closer. “Batman’s morality is Kantian—rigid rules and all. But if he were more… utilitarian, he’d save more lives. The greatest good for the greatest number. One life to save countless others.”  

“That kind of math doesn’t scare you?” Bucky asked, leaning back as though to put some distance between you, though his eyes stayed locked on yours. “Once you start deciding whose lives matter more, where do you stop?”  

“It’s not about worth,” you argued, the intensity rippling from him unnerving but impossible to look away from. “It’s about outcomes. If you can prevent suffering, don’t you have a responsibility to do it?”  

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve. His jaw clicked a bit, tightening as he considered your words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, shyer.

“If that’s your stance, then maybe someone should’ve killed the Winter Soldier years ago.”  

His words hit you like a punch in the gut, your breath catching. The implication of his statement filled the room, coiling tight around your chest.  

“Bucky,” you said quickly, panic creeping into your voice, your fingers twitching toward him but freezing halfway. “That’s not—”  

The corner of his mouth curved into a small, fragile smile. “Relax,” he said, holding up a hand, his voice dipping into something gentler. “I’m not offended. This is just a debate, right?”  

“It’s not the same,” you insisted, your voice gentler, almost pleading. You stood from your desk, hesitation in your chest as you reached out— you were scared he might pull away, “you were brainwashed.” Slowly, you pressed your hand to his cheek, his stubble rough beneath your palm. It was a wordless apology—a pathetic attempt to comfort, to reach him where words had failed. 

To your surprise, he didn’t stop you. Instead, he leaned into your touch. 

Bucky, slid his arm around your waist, testing the waters. His eyes flicked to yours, searching for any sign of rejection, any hint that he’d crossed a line. But there were none. Instead, the subtle hitch in your breath and the way you leaned into him told him everything he needed to know.

He shook his head, rubbing soft circles on your hip as if to say you’re okay. This conversation is more than okay. “But in the grand scheme of utilitarianism, it shouldn’t matter, right? My life was a liability. More people would’ve been saved if I hadn’t been around to hurt them.”  

His words settled over you like a storm cloud. The silence stretched, your carefully crafted argument unraveling in the face of his lived experience.  

He leaned forward then, bridging the space between you, his arm pinning you in place. “Maybe I understand Batman better than most,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “Killing someone doesn’t always fix what’s broken. It just leaves you with blood on your hands.”  

Your throat tightened, the words sticking. He was too close now, the tension between you buzzing like a static current.  

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he heard it.  

“Don’t be.” His words were soft as he pulled you closer. There was always a hint of warmth in his eyes, an unspoken kindness you admired.

The room felt smaller now, more heated. You opened your mouth to respond, but his words had stolen all the air from your lungs.  

He leaned in, his voice dropping. “It’s easy to talk about morality in the abstract. But when you’re staring someone in the face—when it’s a real person, and not just an idea—it gets a lot harder to play God.”  

Shit.

He was right.  

Maybe utilitarianism wasn’t a steadfast rule. Maybe it couldn’t be, not when you factored in the messy, unpredictable depths of human existence. Lives weren’t just numbers to balance on a scale—they were stories, choices, pain, hope. And Bucky… Bucky was proof of that.  

Your thoughts churned as you looked at him.

You felt your conviction unravel. It wasn’t just that his argument was sound—though it was (infuriatingly so)—it was the way he’d delivered it, the personal truth lending it undeniable power. And that’s when it hit you. That’s why you found him so damn attractive.  

Sure, he was gorgeous. The sharp lines of his jawline, the piercing blue of his eyes, the way his Henley stretched over his shoulders like it had been designed with him in mind. But that wasn’t it. Not entirely.  

It was him. His humanity. His thoughtfulness. The kindness that softened the edges, the depth that came from wrestling with his own darkness and coming out better on the other side.  

And he was brilliant. For the first time, you felt like you’d met your match. Someone who met you on your turf and stood his ground, someone who didn’t just nod along or agree to avoid conflict. Someone who could challenge you, who could look you in the eye and make you see the world differently.  

You thought you’d built your worldview on unshakable foundations, but he’d cracked it wide open, and now all you could do was stare at him with the dawning realisation that this wasn’t just attraction. It was something deeper, something that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure.  

He wasn’t just a match for you physically; he was your intellectual equal—a rare kind of connection that made your pulse race and left your thoughts spinning.

Before you could stop yourself, before you could think it through, you leaned forward and kissed him.  

It was impulsive—a collision of lips born from the fiery tension that had simmered between you for weeks. It was everything unsaid, every glance, every near touch that had lingered just a fraction too long, all boiling over in one moment. He froze for the briefest heartbeat, but then something in him snapped. His hands found you, pulling you closer, his grip possessive, almost desperate. Your hands made their way through the soft strands of his hair, landing comfortably around his neck.

The kiss, slow at first, quickly became frantic. Neither of you could get enough. The only thing that mattered was him—his lips on yours, his touch, the way his body pressed against you like a promise. 

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead rested against yours, his lips curled into a breathless smile. For a second, he could forget about everything that has happened to him. For a second, he was truly, utterly safe in your arms.

“I didn’t think you were the type to kiss someone in the middle of a moral argument about Batman,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his lips grazing yours with every word, sending shivers down your spine.

“And I didn’t think you’d let me,” you replied, your voice laced with a mischievous edge.

His eyes darkened, his smile widening just enough to make your heart race before he closed the distance again, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. This time, it wasn’t careful or calculated—it was raw, fervent, consuming. Your back hit the desk behind you, his hands sliding around your waist and around the curve of your bum, firm and deliberate, setting every nerve in your body on fire. 

“The books,” he mumbled against your lips, glancing at the teetering stack beside you, the volumes threatening to topple.

“I don’t care,” you said breathlessly, and to prove your point, you swiped the entire stack to the floor with a crash. The sound echoed, but you barely heard it over the roaring thump of your heartbeat in your ears. 

They weren���t too rare. You’ll just put them on the discount aisle tomorrow. 

His response was a low, guttural groan, his lips finding yours again, His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your head tilt back, exposing the sensitive curve of your neck. He didn’t waste the opportunity, his lips and teeth trailing along your skin, finding the spot just below your ear that made you gasp. 

“Did I manage to change your mind this time?” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and unsteady as his lips brushed against your jaw, then lower, tracing a heated path along your collarbone. 

You managed a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the veins under his skin, his muscles tensing under your touch. “Okay, so maybe ‘the greatest good for the greatest number’ isn’t always the best approach when you’re the one holding the short end of the categorical imperative,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire.

His laugh was husky, his hands lower to grip your thighs, pushing himself flush against you. “God, you’re something else,” he said, his lips finding yours again, this time slower, deeper, as though savoring you. When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “Do you want to go on a date?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “You’re seriously asking me that now?” you asked, breathless. With your hands trailing over the planes of his chest, his breath mingling with yours, it seemed a bit out of order, but you weren’t about to complain.

“Yes,” he said, his words dead serious despite the way his hands clutched at your shirt, his lips finding the hollow of your throat. He kissed the spot slowly, firmly, making your legs feel numb. “I mean it,” he added, his voice softer, yet no less insistent.

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him into another kiss, the kind that left no room for doubt about your answer. “Then yes,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing as you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “We’re going to have a lot to talk about.”

And boy, were you excited to talk to this man— a man who could turn the simplest circumstances into a philosophical debate, someone who wasn’t afraid to dispute your ideals. 

Someone who was your match.

“Later,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with need, his hands trailing up to tug his henley over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs, but you didn’t have time to appreciate it before he was kissing you again, his bare skin pressed against you as he lifted your shirt off. “We can talk later.”

-end.