#yeah he does and it’s Crick

[nezumasa]

Dead wife yaoi

[moresrush]

By the gods, you are terrified of loving a man who tries to help everyone he meets --- but you chide him for his selflessness and you remind him, again and again, that you intend to keep him WHOLE as you travel together on land and sea. He, in turn, reminds you that he is no pushover, that it is the two of you against the world --- and someone should start warning people. He's going to make big changes, and you fear the ones he will instill in you the most.

[junietuesday]

hardwon surefoot is the funniest bisexual character of all time to me bc jake seems fairly committed to playing cishet men. as in all his other pcs in naddpod are men who jump on opportunities to express attraction to female characters but not really male characters at all. but naddpod being as horny a podcast as it is murph will describe a male character and emily or caldwell will make the joke of him being hot and you can Hear jake jumping in as a comedian/improviser, only for like emily to go "hey. hey hardwon are you being fr right now" and murph to make the character earnestly match or even go above and beyond hardwon's accidental flirtatious energy. forcing jake to commit to the bit. which has resulted in hardwon kissing so many men in the show. even tho jake only ever initiates hardwon talking abt women- and even funnier more specifically Failing at talking to women. hardwon has had one singular girlfriend ever and completely bombed even the smallest of flirtations w every other woman hes been into. only one (1) time in the 99th episode out of 100 does hardwon kiss a woman or even have any sort of attraction reciprocated bc most of them think hes weird and lame. but not only has hardwon expressed physical attraction to an equal amount of male characters as female characters. he has successfully kissed several men and fully made out w i think at least two. happy pride month to hardwon surefoot specifically.

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 4 | masterlist

-

There’s nothing else to do but pretend it didn’t happen. 

In the morning, you’re surprised to wake up and find him in the bed next to you, still covered in old sweat and dried cum. You suppose even in your sleep you’d unconsciously expected him to avoid the incident altogether—wake up extra early to shower while leaving you alone in the bed, giving you a modicum of privacy to digest the situation and its repercussions on your own.

He does no such thing.

“Morning, sweetheart,” John rumbles, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Feeling alright?”

Dangling precariously over the edge of oblivion. Some kind of abyss. The kind that says you might not like what’s down here, girlie, but still you sit by the edge and kick your feet. 

“Yeah,” you croak, and Lord, your voice is hoarse. Scratchy and rough, like it’s been dragged over sandpaper. 

“Good.” He lets his hand rest on the curve of your cheek for a second before pulling it away. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? I’ll shower after.”

The bed groans under his weight when he sits up, throwing his legs over the side before rising to his feet. You quickly avert your eyes at the sight of his naked backside, hairy there as well. A bear all over. Even his yawn reminds you of one. And the way that he stretches his arms overhead and every bone in his upper body cricks and cracks, the sounds of age manifold. 

You scrub yourself with shaky hands in the shower, gnawing at your bottom lip when you spread your puffy folds to find his cum still slightly tacky inside of you. Very bad. Scooping as much out as you can with your fingers, watching it run down the drain. Very bad indeed. 

John has breakfast on the table when you come downstairs and it seems, somehow, uncouth to just tell him you want to go home. So instead you force yourself to sit and eat, glad that he at least agrees that it isn’t the time for conversation. 

At the door, he sees you off with a hug, watching you from the door until you reverse out of his driveway and drive off, waving as you leave. 

“This is really bad,” you whisper to yourself on the drive home. “Really, really bad.”

Despite the morning after, the night you spent together is never explicitly spoken about. It’s not a ‘thing’ you discuss by any means. No sit down conversation, no awkward allusions to it, no talking around and around the events until the exchange becomes unbearable. It simply blips out of existence as soon as you change into your old clothes and John walks you to the door, seeing you out. 

You still show up the next day, as usual. Nothing’s changed except everything, but it feels taboo to even mention that things feel different. 

The world hasn’t radically changed since you accidentally slept with John, but it certainly feels that way sometimes. In the few delicate hours after leaving his house, you were sure he’d call at any moment to tell you that your services would no longer be required—that he’d send your last check in the mail before parting ways. So sure of that, in fact, that you’d put your phone on silent for hours before mustering up the courage to check your missed calls later that evening.

Only a few texts from friends. No missed calls from your employer. 

He doesn’t fire you. He certainly doesn’t treat you any differently the next time you come to babysit. You still get paid every week—though, admittedly, the money makes you feel a little weird now after sleeping with him, but it’s not like you can just turn your nose up at making rent—and everything else in your life stays exactly the same. If you weren’t now acutely aware of the feeling of your boss coming inside you, you might even think you dreamt it up. 

Still, despite John never bringing it up or even alluding to sleeping with you, there’s still a sense that he—

The soft, affectionate thanks, hun that he gives you when you bring him a glass of water on the rare day he comes home early to work out in the garage makes you shiver. 

His need to touch increases tenfold, matched only by his proprietariness. He must feel like after what you did together, it’s nothing for him to squeeze your thighs when he tells you that you did a good job with the baby or hug you extra tight when you’re about to leave. 

If you’re extra shy around him, he doesn’t remark on it. 

You’re levelheaded enough to know that he shouldn’t be so touchy with his younger female employee—his babysitter no less—especially after what happened, but it’s not as though he treats you like sleeping with you is a given. When a week goes by and nothing happens, you almost relax. Almost. Enough to let your guard down. 

But—

You can’t stop thinking about it though. It runs through your head every hour of every day, made worse by the fact that you see him six days a week, Sundays excluded. Sundays being your one day off, which you no longer look forward to but rather dread because Sundays mean no baby, no park, and no John Price.

So, you follow his lead and pretend like it didn’t happen. 

You think it’s past you; a terrible mistake that’ll never happen again until it happens again. 

Eight o’clock at night and the blue light from the television has begun to strain your eyes. Baby sleeping upstairs—you put him down a few hours earlier without much of a peep; had to check on him a few times, but otherwise the baby monitor sitting on the end table hasn’t so much as crackled, leaving you no choice but to doze off on the couch. 

When the door opens, it startles you awake. 

“Mr. Price?” you ask, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and clearing your throat.

John’s there when you twist around to peek over the back of the couch, filling out the door frame. Dishevelled after a long day’s work, his beard even more grown out than when he left earlier in the morning. A bit rougher around the edges, the day leaving its mark in the slight dark circles under his eyes and the set of his jaw, which only relaxes when he lays eyes on you. 

“Just me, sweetheart.”

“Sorry, I…the baby’s been asleep for awhile, so I just thought I’d—”

“It’s fine, don’t worry. I know you’ve got it under control.”

“Let me just get my stuff and I’ll be out of your hair—”

He cuts you off with a wave, toeing his boots off at the same time. “No, no, no—you stay there and finish your movie. I’m gonna grab a drink and join you.”

There’s not much more you can say to that. Instead, you watch him take his bag upstairs to put away in the bedroom before you hear the sink turn on. Running water. 

You carefully avoid looking at him when John comes back downstairs, the creaking steps signalling his descent. He heads to the kitchen without stopping by the living room first. The light switches on with a click. The fridge door opens and bottles clinking together when he roots around for something to drink. 

And then you hear him make his way back to the living room. 

The unspoken pact to not bring up what happened the last time you spent any alone time together imbues you with a false sense of security. Part of you expects him to take the single recliner next to the couch, if only to put some distance between the two of you. 

Except when he comes back into the living room, he plops right down in the middle of the couch like always, close enough to you that you’re forced to scoot away, pressed up against the arm of the sofa. You shiver when he cracks open his beer and takes a swig, resting his arm on the back of the couch with the can held in a loose grip. 

“What’re we watching?” he asks, blatantly adjusting himself to get more comfortable on the couch. Even soft, the outline of his cock is visible through his trousers. 

You stare over at him nervously, unblinking. 

“Sweetheart?” John prompts when you don’t answer. 

“Oh, um…” You clear your throat again. “It’s just a Hallmark movie.”

“Cute. Well, we can keep it on. No sense changing it now.”

It’s tense for a little while. You keep your hands folded in your lap like a good girl and your eyes on the television. So you can’t stop inhaling the heady scent of tobacco and vanilla. So you can’t stop blinking your eyes, each blink heavier than the last until they spend more time shut than open. So you yawn and burrow deeper into the cushions, your head tipping back and nearly jarring you awake when you lean too far and topple over the side. 

When you lean the other way and start to doze off on his shoulder, he pulls you onto his lap. You squirm, initially resistant, but he shushes you before you can put up a fuss. 

“Just don’t want you to drool on my shirt,” he teases in a low murmur, smoothing a hand down your side and then it’s lights out for you. 

You wake to a blunt intrusion at your entrance. Half-awake and squirming, you vaguely feel him rub the tip of his cock up and down your pussy, teasing himself. The second you squirm just a little too much, he uses that little bit of movement to push the tip in. It pops in without much resistance; then the slow, methodical press inward, your walls squeezing around the thick length thrusting up into you. 

“Wha—” you whimper, keening when a big hand glides up your chest to squeeze a tit, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

“S’alright, baby, it’s just me,” John murmurs, his voice right in your ear. 

You come to gradually and then all at once, aware of your back pressed to his clothed chest and your legs spread around his, your ankles hooked around his calves. Skirt rolled up and panties pushed to the side, one of his arms locked around your waist like a seatbelt to hold you in place. 

“John, I’m—we c-can’t do it again—”

“Sorry, honey,” he apologises into your neck, kissing the area he just spoke into. “Had to be inside you again. S’all I’ve been able to think about since you came on my cock the other night. Promise it’ll be easier this time, okay, baby?”

He guides you down his length until he bottoms out, slick lips kissing the base of his dick. The pressure is overwhelming; in your belly, in your throat, in your head. Heart beating a million miles a minute. Walls throbbing around his length, thicker and heavier than you remembered. 

All you can think of now is the last time he had you like this, legs spread for him and pussy dripping wet. Taking his cock all sleepy and sweaty under his giant comforter, whimpering into his neck. 

It’s not as frantic this time, no rush to the finish line. He seems to like just burying his cock in you while he plays with your breasts, pinching and plucking your nipples until they’re pebbled and sore. His hands aren’t particularly soft either, callused from years of hard labour. When you whine and try to push his hands away, he shushes you again, not paying your protests any mind. 

“Fuck, these are pretty,” John praises, staring down at your tits from over your shoulder. “No, baby, jus’ watch your show. M’gonna use your pussy for a bit, okay?”

It’s just that it’s—

When he lets go of your breast to play with your clit instead, you melt, any resistance going up in flames. The heat fans over your cheeks, your eyelids too heavy to lift, vision blurring even when you try to focus. 

He helps you grind your hips down on him, big hands like manacles on your waist. Little undulations of your hips. Short, shallow thrusts that keep you both right on the edge, drenching his lap with your juices. When he gets bored of playing with your clit, he switches back to your breasts, pawing at them and then bending down to suck a nipple into his mouth. 

Any time you get distracted by what he’s doing, he stops, holding you down on his cock and coaxing you to focus on the television in front of you instead. 

When he jiggles your clit, you seize up, heart hammering in your throat. 

“Good girl, c’mon—jus’ like that.” John presses a hot kiss to your temple, arm tightening around your front to keep you close. Sweet talks you through your orgasm, all vaguely paternalistic and patronising in the best and worst way.  

He makes you lean forward so he can bounce you on his dick after, your hands braced on his knees to keep yourself upright. 

“Ah, ah, ah, ah—”

“Almost there, honey, jus’—fuck, perfect, yeah, tighten up like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

He comes with a strangled moan, still cognizant enough to keep the volume down even if you can’t. Shuttles you down onto his cock a few more times until you’re filled to the brim with cum. 

In the aftermath, he sits you back against his sweat-matted chest and pushes his cum back into your sore cunt with his fingers when it dribbles out. Ignores your wounded little sounds like they’re just background noise. He even makes you suck his fingers to clean them up, the digits coated in your combined juices. 

“Best fuckin’ girl,” John growls, pressing another kiss to the side of your head. Your fingers twitch feebly in your lap. 

Pretending like it didn’t happen after the second time around doesn’t seem wise, but still you don’t know how to broach the subject. 

Especially since you know it’s going to happen again. 

John doesn’t say it outright, but his actions speak for themselves. An arm looped around your waist casually in line for coffee. Paying for the two of you in any situation, you having your own source of income be damned. 

“It’s my money anyway, sweetheart,” he says when you point that out. “Might as well just pay now.”

And doesn’t that just send you into a tizzy, head spinning and mouth agape. Embarrassingly so. 

Not to mention you still have this strange, sycophantic need to please him, even after everything. The complicated nature of your relationship aside, it still makes your heart flutter to hear him praise you for anything. 

That’s how you end up in his bed on a Saturday afternoon, taking a nap with him after a long day out in the sun. Two hours spent at the botanical gardens, the sun beating down on your head, lathering sunscreen on the baby’s sensitive little arms and legs, and swiping it over his cheeks. John sporting a mild sunburn near the collar of his shirt where he forgot to apply sunscreen and when you have the audacity to giggle, he pulls your baseball hat down over your eyes. 

It’s almost too easy for him to coax you into his bed, even though you’re adamant about keeping it clean. A hand firm on your back up the stairs. Already yawning when you put the baby down for a nap, so why not take one too? Ushering you into the bedroom when you say you can take the couch, but why, he presses, take the couch when you’ve already shared the bed before?

Well, because the last time—

He draws the blinds shut and climbs into bed, pulling you into his chest. 

You wake up to John plastered against your back, bare cock nudging against your cunt while he snores into your neck. You don’t remember him curling up next to you without any clothes on, but he must have taken off his pants in his sleep, now somewhere rumpled at the end of the bed. 

When you try to quietly pull away, his arms just tighten around you more, grumbling in his sleep. The sound makes you freeze, going quiet as a mouse. A few more minutes go by before you feel confident enough to try moving again, carefully trying to slide out from his hold. 

You wiggle a hand out, reaching for the other end of the bed.

The hand resting on your belly dips low, shoved between your legs and feeling you up before you can do more than gasp. The man behind you gives a short exhale, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, rising out of it like a wave now that he feels something wet under his hand.

“Oh, honey…why didn’t you tell me you needed my cock again? You’re leaking right through your panties,” John rasps, dragging your underwear down to mid-thigh. 

A big bear hand clamps over your mouth before you have a chance to protest. There’s nothing you can do to keep his knee from spreading your legs and feeding his cock into your drenched centre with his other hand. As soon as he notches the head against your entrance, it’s a smooth glide in. 

“There we go,” he pants into your neck. “Big stretch—ah, yeah, nice ‘n tight. That’s my pretty girl.”

He keeps your legs spread with a hand on the inside of your thigh. All you can do is moan behind his hand, humid breath blowing back around your face as you pant. So hot for it that you’re almost nauseous. 

You’re a bit too tight for him to fit his cock in you, so he has to work to stretch you out, bullying another inch into you with every thrust. The angle makes it tricky though; means he can’t get more than half of his cock into you. It’s hardly comfortable for you either, your leg already cramping. 

“My leg’s got a cramp,” you whine, unsure of what you want to happen. All you know is that you can’t keep this up. 

He readjusts his grip, but that just makes you hiss, wincing when that makes your leg twinge. Suddenly the world spins, the pillows going from comfortably under your head to right in your face, John manoeuvring you onto your tummy and hiking your hips up a few inches. It lets him get even deeper, the angle letting him slide right to the hilt. 

“Oh god, oh god—John, I can’t—”

“Shh—you’re alright, honey. Much better like this,” he breathes, settling on top of you. It takes him a second to get comfortable, nudging right up against a sensitive spot inside of you the whole time, so deep you can almost feel him in your throat. 

He weighs a ton on top of you, rutting between your thighs like he can’t hold himself back, his self-control snapping like brittle glass. Bristly beard chafing your neck when he buries his head to suck on the tender skin there, smothering you under his weight. Thighs trapping you in place, your memory jumping back to that time at the beach, but now there’s nothing between you. Just a thick cock pounding into you and moulding you around its shape.  

His hips slap against your ass with every thrust, the lewdest sound you’ve ever heard. 

“Gonna make sure it takes this time,” John grunts. “Wanna take care of my baby so bad? I’ll give you a couple to mind.”

That rattles you right to your core; shakes you to the foundations of who you are. You don’t know what to think, what to say—tongue tied and loose lipped all at once. You’ve let him come inside of you so many times that if it hasn’t taken already, surely it will soon. 

It slips out before you can take it back. “D-daddy, please—” 

That makes him lose his mind. Just a bit. 

“Fuck,” he snarls. “Again.”

He wedges his arm under you to curl his hand around your throat, tilting your head out. 

“Daddy—daddy—please, I wanna come—” you pant, repeating the same word until it sounds like nothing, tongue puffy in your mouth. 

His dick slips out at some point and he wrenches himself off you long enough to wrap his hand around himself and slap it against your ass a few times, cum tagging your skin. Your breath catches in your throat, whining when you clench down on nothing. One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s all the way back in, hammering the spot that makes you go cross-eyed and squeak. 

“Make daddy another baby, okay, sweetheart?” It’s not sweet. It’s not doting. It’s growled into your ear like a demand, punctuated by the way his hips snap forward, nearly sending you into the headboard. 

You’re practically an old hat at taking his cum now, squeezing up when you can feel it coming and giving him a nice little treat. He sinks his teeth into the back of your neck when he does, muffling the sound roaring out of him, and it hurts. 

He’s tender with you after though. Lavishes the line of your neck with soft kisses; murmurs sweet nothings into your ear while you cry fat tears onto the pillow. Even twists and turns so you’re no longer on your back but rather splayed across his chest again, urging you up for a deeper kiss with tongue. 

“‘Know you’re tired, sweetie, but this is for your own good,” John murmurs as he wedges a hard thigh between your legs and makes you ride it, grinding your sensitive, throbbing clit down on the muscle. “Can you come, baby? Jus’ like that—that’s good, baby—”

It hurts so good that you don’t even notice when you squirt, the emotions too big for you. It’s like being squeezed too tight, unable to catch your breath or say anything but the same word on a loop. John’s sweet about it though—wipes the sweat from your hairline and upper lip, talking you through it until you slump down on his chest, legs akimbo.   

For a bachelor, you think in a daze, he’d make a good husband.

The days grow colder and the sun sets earlier.

A while ago you thought maybe this babysitting gig would be temporary. That at some point you’d move on—maybe go back to school or apply for a more standard nine-to-five job. That’s how the trajectory of your life was supposed to go, you think. 

But the timing never seems right. Maybe you’ve grown too attached to the baby or maybe the pay is just too good to give up or maybe you’ve just become habituated to someone getting you off at least every other day. Still, it feels a bit weird to get paid for what essentially boils down to fucking a man and taking care of his baby. 

It comes up when you’re sitting out on the porch with him again, this time in his lap in the same adirondack chair, a blanket wrapped around you to keep you warm. John laces his fingers through yours, thumb stroking over your finger, burning a line into the skin.

“Doesn’t it make you feel weird to pay me for…” you say, trailing off with a cocked eyebrow. Surely he must catch your drift. 

He chuckles. You wait for the joke.

Your eyes must be big as moons staring up at him. 

“Don’t think of it as a paycheck, sweetheart. That’s your allowance.”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and swallow. 

“Okay,” you whisper. Then let him reel you back in for another kiss, his thumb resting over your ring finger and pressing.

[burgojo]

KILLER? I BARELY KNOW HER! FUSHIGURO TOJI / M!READER

summary. shadows of your past catch up to you – but you're the strongest, and there's nothing you can't handle.

wc. 5.5k

tags. smut | top reader, bottom toji. mentions of underage drinking. sorcerer + teacher reader, enemies-to-lovers (with extra steps), sorta sugar baby toji/rich reader, doggystyle + missionary, mentions of exhibitionism + filming, unprotected sex, brief degradation (r. receiving), brief breeding kink, implied shower sex

notes. every dark-haired male jjk character deserves a silly and illogically powerful best friend with whom they have romantic tension :3 you're him. literally.

The pleasant chime of the doorbell echoes throughout your home. You're not expecting anyone.

You know you should be careful. In fact, you shouldn't be staring at the back of the front door at all. Opening it would ruin the carefully put-together façade of the closed-curtain windows and dark rooms.

Maybe you're tired, and you forget, moving on instinct. Maybe you're bored.

Maybe you're hopeful.

The door inches open, and a man looks up from where he'd been staring listlessly at the flower-spotted bushes lining the patch of green between the entrance and the driveway. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, and his eyes are dark, flickering with an emotion you can't quite catch before it flutters away.

"Toji?" you say, the surprise in your voice teetering on warmth. "Hey..."

"Hey," he replies – exhales, really, something like a hum. He reaches up by his shoulder, the action too familiar for you not to stiffen, but he just rubs the back of his neck, stretching out the cricks of his body. "So. New place, huh?"

Your hand rests behind the door. He knows better than to expect it to be empty. "Old, technically. It was my first property purchase."

He tilts his head. "Yeah? When did you get it?"

"Fifteen. A birthday present for myself – a gift for surviving another year of high school. And curses, I guess. Surviving them was way worse because getting their blood in my mouth made me want to die."

He scoffs, and the raised scar over the corner of his lips shifts with his amusement. "Fifteen... And what does a teenager do with a house?"

You shrug. "Drink. Party. Pirate movies. The usual."

"Hah. Sounds like you were a fun kid." Toji scuffs the toe of his sandals against the ground absently. Then he rolls his neck and sighs. "Look, I didn't come all the way here to talk history. Long-ass way out, too, so just let me in."

Lifting an eyebrow, you give him a once-over that feels keener than it should be. "Are you here to kill me?"

"What, you think I'm here for that bounty? Who do you think I am?"

"Don't blame me. You seem very well aware of it."

"Isn't worth the effort for the price. 'Sides, you've given me more than that over the years, haven't you? I like to keep my options open, and it seems to me like it's a better investment to keep you alive."

"You talk as if you could kill me at all," you mutter, a little disdainfully, but it dissipates swiftly when Toji cracks a smirk, so familiar and entwined deeply with your favourite memories. The breeze stirs lightly, and Toji's hair ruffles, almost blue in the sunlight.

"Couldn't I? You're the one who runs away."

"Yeah, after immobilising you. Not a lot of fun to be had if you're dead as a doornail. Say – how deep are you in the jujutsu world? You must be rusty. I'd be willing to help you train."

"You'd help me kill your fellow sorcerers?" He chuckles and arches a brow. "I'll have you know I'm looking at a contract worth thirty million from a bunch of religious crazies."

"Peanuts." You wave a dismissive hand. "Now that I mention it, I'm getting complacent, too... I could use the challenge. Keep in contact with me and I'll pay you double."

"You're paying me to use my body?"

"Your words, not mine."

He holds your gaze steadily for a while, and despite his airy voice, his eyes are thoughtful. "Let's not talk business on your doorstep. Lost your manners, have you?"

Finally, your shoulders loosen, and the tension in your body vanishes. With a soft chuckle, you pull the door open further and step aside. "Don't make me regret this."

"Please," he says, slipping out of his sandals and into your home. "You never do."

Zenin. Fushiguro. The Sorcerer Killer. All of his names, all of his history, and yet, to you, he is just your baby – your Toji. It'd be embarrassing if he cared enough to be embarrassed, he thinks as you draw him into a rib-shattering hug. Instead, he feels smug.

Before that Gojo kid, there was you. It wasn't a position you were born for – like the kid was – but you trained your way up and eventually found yourself most suited for the role, all but waltzing into it – because what youth wouldn't want to be number one? It was almost gross, your selflessness and single-minded ambition, and Toji knew how that sort of mindset made the people in power feel. They commissioned him for your death at one point, after all.

It was fun. You were both so young: dancing around each other's weapons as if it was all a stage, chasing each other's clues like a couple of dogs running after a bone. Still – you were society's best, the cream of the crop, and for you to be his, of all people, was a selfish triumph he indulged in too many times to count.

His hands creep up beneath your baggy shirt as he leans up to kiss you, tongue slipping between your lips to share in the taste of some expensive whisky he can't name. He hums – a low, rumbling sound, like a tiger chuffing – as his fingers bump over thick, warm muscle.

Blood and bone. That's what you all are, when it comes down to it.

"You should wear tighter clothes," he murmurs against your lips. "Less to grab in a fight."

The backs of his thighs press into the edge of the kitchen bench, where a forgotten glass of water sits – the remnant of your half-hearted attempt at being a good host while his lips found your neck.

You huff. "A 'fight', huh? I wasn't expecting one."

"You should always expect a fight. While you're at it, always expect to lose. Stops you from being disappointed."

"Sounds pessimistic."

"That's the price we pay for being good at what we do."

"As if you pay for anything, Toji."

He chuckles. He drops the hem of your shirt before sliding his palms up your chest – what a tease – and cupping your face. His hands are warm, callused, thrumming with lifeblood. He sweeps his thumb absently over your cheek, committing every pore of your face to memory. You have the urge to pull away, look down, like a schoolboy with a crush – but Toji's hands are firm.

"C'mon, at least look me in the eye before we kick this off. You that ashamed of me?"

Startled, your gaze flicks up to his. Instead of the half-wry look you expect, he smirks and pulls you in to meet his lips. His fingers interlace loosely at the nape of your neck, caging you in place, and you have no choice but to bend to his whim.

"Stupid," you mutter against his lips, mostly to yourself. "Stop playing with my feelings, Toji – that's manipulative. You're breaking my heart here."

Rather than pulling away himself, he pushes you away, a palm flat on your chest but without any real power. It remains there as he leans back against the stone countertop. "My bad, baby. It's just funny."

"Funnier than you calling this," you gesture between your chests, "something to 'kick off' after... how many years? If you weren't all over me seconds ago, I'd think you came over for a beer and a game."

He lifts his hands in teasing surrender at your accusatory tone. "All right. We'll fuck, then. Maybe include some heavy petting for the B-roll, if you're up for it. Sound good?"

You cross your arms over your chest and muster up a suitable amount of annoyance for a glare. Toji finds it hard to take you seriously – what with your dumb jokes and ridiculous inclination towards flashy fighting – so to him, it's more of a pout. "So, you got lonely without me, huh? Yeah, nah. We're not filming ourselves."

"Hm." It's not a yes, but it's not a disagreement, either. "Why not? It'd be hot."

"I'm a teacher, Toji," you remind him, clicking your tongue when he shrugs, one hand on his hip. "I don't want that kind of thing to exist. If it got out..."

"So you are ashamed of me," he mutters. He steps forward to grab your hands when you start to protest, visibly distressed. He snickers. "Kidding, kidding. Fuck, it's fun to play with you. You don't care about the other one, then? The one from the abandoned restaurant?"

"Well—" Your breath stutters when Toji absently compares hand sizes and laces your fingers together. You watch as he aligns four of his fingers against your ring finger specifically, one at a time as if comparing again, but this time...

"Well?" he prompts, his grin broadening. His shaggy hair falls across his eyes as he tilts his head.

"Well, I don't look like I did ten years ago, and as far as I know, my face isn't in it..." All logic scatters like leaves in the wind when he looks up at you through his lashes, that playful, pretty smirk of his tugging at your heartstrings just right. It's like the years never passed. You swallow. "I-It was different," you finish lamely.

Toji's eyes flicker down to your lips. With a flick of his wrist, he twists a hand in your collar and tugs you down so that your faces are inches apart. Your chests collide roughly. He doesn't seem to care, his gaze trained on you with a heavy, smoky intensity. "Fine. If you won't let me film it, you better make it memorable. I'll decide later if it was worth coming here for."

—

Toji should have known you were serious when you pulled the bedframe about six inches out from the wall. He'd laughed at first, insulting you for such uptight behaviour regarding something as boring as walls, but you'd just dragged him to the bed with a roll of your eyes.

With how loud he was moaning, you could only be glad that he didn't find you at your apartment property.

"Toji," you breathe, your gaze trapped on the tight, firm ass ricocheting off your hips. Your grip tightens. "Toji."

"Fuuuck," he drawls as his cock throbs, prying his eyes open to narrow them at you over his shoulder. Lust has turned the usual green of them nearly black. "What?" he bites out.

"I missed you. Missed this. Fuck, baby, you're so fucking tight."

He lets out a throaty chuckle, turning back around to rest his head on his forearms. With a shift of your hips, your cock punches his prostate, over and over, and his eyes roll back briefly, a pleased groan rumbling from the depths of his stomach. His dick pulses and swings uselessly between his muscular thighs.

"M-Men are all the same," he grumbles. You click your tongue, though you don't miss the way an involuntary moan makes him stutter.

"Awful way to greet an old friend, you know. I thought you were smarter than that. Try being nicer," you slam your hips forward, making his eyes fly open with a gasp, "and you'll get what you want."

His skin prickles when you glide a warm hand up his side and come to rest it upon his shoulder, holding him down with just enough strength to make his muscles flex to fight it. Your thumb rubs little circles into the back of his neck, tracing the dips of his shoulders until you find what you're looking for. You dig into the taut muscle, making him wince.

"Stressed?" you hum, and your voice is gentle. Gentler than he deserves. "Is it money problems again?"

Something like guilt stirs in his belly, but a well-angled thrust has his thoughts unravelling. "No."

"No?"

"No," he repeats. You hum in response and don't push the matter further.

Your hand lifts from his shoulder, and already he can feel the stiffness returning. Damn those God-hands of yours. He finds himself arching back, bracing against the bed, in an effort to return your hands to their rightful place.

You hush him sweetly, pressing your chest to his back and burying your face in the crook of his neck. The angle has the shaft of your heavy cock pressed right up against his prostate and his body jolts with the fiery burn of pleasure, his knuckles turning white as he fists the sheets. "No need to chase me anymore. Not going anywhere. 'M right here, baby."

Toji manages to scoff, and his voice is steadier than he expects. "Not chasin' you, asshole."

"Yeah? Then what do you call showing up at my door as you did, unannounced?"

"Welfare check."

You roll your eyes. "I hate you."

You punctuate your sentence by yanking his hips back on your cock, the wet squelch of lube and precome making him shudder. Despite the rough treatment, a moan tumbles from his lips, and he laughs, loose and breathy.

"Fuck me like it, then," he dares, knocking his temple gently against yours.

One hand lifts to card through his hair. He groans softly as your nails scrape his scalp, but his eyes fly wide open as you grab a fistful and tug, wrenching him up to kneel. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip as you wrap your hand around his leaking cock, jerking him off at the same pace as you fuck into him – he swears he sees stars as your thumb and index finger twist roughly around his swollen tip. His cock squelches in your fist, bubbles of precome sliding down his tip and smearing across your palm.

"Fucker," he snarls, ceasing his split second of flailing to grip your hip and thigh. You'd consider it painful if you hadn't also had the pleasure of being stabbed, slashed, shot, and bitten. "Nngh – so fuckin' big—"

"Going back on our word, are we, honey?" you say slyly, twisting your fist up and down his wet cock. "Tsk, tsk, Toji... so forgetful. I'd say you're getting old."

You glide a fingernail up the line of his vein, making his hips stutter and forcing another curse to slip from his lips, and you dig the tip of your finger roughly into his leaking slit. He moans and his back arches against your hold as your throbbing cock easily slides deep into him, the harsh, rapid smack of your balls against his ass almost disorienting.

He shudders. The heat of his body pulls his skin too tight, makes his tongue heavy and clumsy. Your hands are not quite soft – years of weapons training and hand-to-hand combat would do that to someone – but they're sweet on him. Loving, nearly. Your warmth softens the rub of calluses and tough scar tissue, and Toji learns them anew.

"C'mon, baby... want you to talk to me. Love your pretty little sounds." You end the sentence in a whisper, patting his stomach with the absent sort of friendliness you had as a youth. You never shied away from touching him, rewarding him with your weight draped over his shoulders or entwining your fingers when he did something that pleased you.

That familiar feeling jolts him back to reality. He glances your way – perhaps to say something, but he doesn't remember what about – and you capture his lips with yours, tilting your head and running your tongue over his lower lip.

He keeps them sealed, airtight.

You groan into the kiss and nip at him pleadingly, because you'd have to break Toji's jaw to get him to open up – and you couldn't do that to your favourite killer. Your name falling from his lips like a prayer is too sweet to pass up on.

Eventually, with enough petting and kisses, Toji relents, if only to see you perk up like a puppy tossed a bone. He groans softly as you explore his mouth, tongue curling around his and gliding over his teeth.

Your breath is hot and sweet against his, your lips shockingly gentle despite the quick and steady pace of your hips bouncing off his ass. He jolts every time your cockhead kisses his prostate, swollen and sensitive from your unrelenting pace. His dick bobs, dark red and pulsing hotly in your palm, and he groans like an injured animal. It's almost desperate.

Your shaft drags against his slick walls, which clench with a rippling squeeze as if he's trying to milk you dry. With each hungry snap of your hips, your tip punches the breath out of his lungs. His vision blots out, and he swears he can feel your cock in his damn throat.

Without warning, and without a word, he comes, his expression going lax with pleasure as he releases thick ropes onto his stomach. It's four hard spurts and two weaker pulses, the slow, measured tugs of your wrist twisting in a way that has his thick thighs trembling.

You coo softly, and Toji's face is uncharacteristically warm. Little kisses drift their way up his shoulder and neck and he sighs softly, eyes shut and head tilted back against your shoulder. You press your palm against his chest to feel the heart thudding beneath his ribs, the rise and fall with each shallow breath.

You cup his chest and squeeze.

He cracks an eye open, disapproval furrowing his brows. In response, you grin cheekily and nip at his earlobe as you smooth your fingers through his hair – a silent apology for being so rough.

To his credit, he lets it go. Doesn't even smack you for being an ass. He does, however, clamp down punishingly around your cock when he pulls off, making you hiss at the scrape. It bobs and you shiver at the cold air.

Thoughtfully, Toji glances down at it, still hard as rock and curving upwards towards your stomach. He reaches for it.

Your eyes widen when he slips a nail under the edge of the condom. "Wh-What are you doing?"

"Don't sound so scared. I know we're both safe. Said ya missed me, right?" He grins, dark and sharp, with eyes half-lidded – almost coy. "I'll let you finish inside me. For old times' sake."

"Contract-sanctioned stalking? I thought better of you, Toji." Despite your flippant words, your breath hitches, and Toji's grin widens. He tugs the slick condom off and tosses it aside – without even tying it up, the bastard – and before you can grumble about it, he grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him, and presses his lips to yours.

You groan softly as he parts his lips and allows you in. He shifts closer, his knee between yours, and grabs your hand. He brings it down between your bodies.

"Baby..." you whisper as he wraps your hand around your lengths, pressed together. He is hot and velvety in your palm.

"Mm." The sound is deep and content, and he blinks up at you slowly like a cat. "I know. I want it."

Then, slinging his arm loosely around your shoulders, he pulls you down with him.

You barely manage to catch yourself before crushing him, your instincts and reflexes dulled by familiarity and a dreamy languor. Not that you think he'd mind – not with that grin.

Toji spreads his knees and hooks his calves around your thighs. He guides your cock into him again, and he rumbles out a pleased moan as it buries itself hilt-deep into his slick warmth.

His head falls back against the pillows as you press your hips flush against his ass. "Ah, shit..."

"You good, baby?" you murmur, swallowing harshly as his gummy walls flutter tightly around you, as if he can lock you inside forever. Your dick twitches.

"Mmh, fuck, jus' sensitive. Move."

It's only natural that you obey.

Toji feels hotter now that you don't have the layer of plastic to contend with – hotter, wetter, hungrier. You thrust shallowly at first, but as his moans grow louder – less restrained – you allow yourself to move tip-to-base, deep and dirty the way he used to like it. Seems he still does. The rim of his puffy asshole catches on the ridge of your cockhead and his nails rake down your shoulders and back, leaving stinging raised lines in their wake.

Pride fills your chest, inflates your ego. An infamous assassin, the Sorcerer Killer, spread wide and inviting with his cheeks all flushed – he's certainly given you a thousand little deaths. You grip the meat of his ass and lift his hips off the mattress, fucking into his wet heat at a new angle that has him shouting your name.

Maybe it's because you can see his face – see all the pretty cock-drunk expressions that wash over his features – that you find yourself chasing the precipice of release embarrassingly fast. He locks his legs around your waist, thick and muscular, and you want to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Why would you ever want to leave?

"Toji," you grunt, panting softly. "'M gonna..." Your breath fans against his sweat-slick skin, making him shiver and arch into your touch. He cups the back of your neck as you nibble and suck dark bruises into his tanned skin, his lashes fluttering as you shift his thighs on your lap and leave far too many deep red hickeys printed on his skin. You even scatter a few across his collarbones and chest, and you're only pleased when he looks like he was mauled by a bear.

He pants softly, his bitten moans making your cock throb even harder. Fuck, you're so hard – the shape of your teeth printed into his skin for all to see makes you prouder than you'd ever admit. You trace the marks gently with your fingertips and Toji's chest stutters.

Gazing up at you with lidded, unfocussed eyes, he laughs, freer than he had since you met him earlier. Your heavy cock plunges into his stretched hole, again and again and again like you're trying to make him take, and your grip on one of his thighs is tight enough to leave red crescents. He grasps your face, turning it down towards him, and offers a sleazy, roguish grin, breathless. His eyes trace the cut of your cheeks, the curve of your lips.

"You look less stupid than usual. S'all you're good for, ain't it? Fucking me nice an' deep with that fat cock of yours – f-fuck. S'mine, yeah? All mine?"

You shudder and groan, bone-deep, and Toji can feel the heavy throbbing of your cock leaking inside him. The slick feeling of you against his walls builds a hot ball of arousal in his lower belly. Your chest heaves against his and your stomach tenses, familiar planes of muscle firm against his hand. Excitement roars through him like a wildfire – eager and keening.

He yanks you down for a devouring kiss as you come, catapulting off the precipice into white bliss. You gasp into it. His ass clenches around you with his own release as he moans, his soft walls stroking you and sucking you in.

He's so fucking warm, so fucking wet. His body is slick with sweat and he shoves his tongue into your mouth like a man starved. Maybe he is. You groan, low and pleased, and his thighs tighten around you like a cage, possessive in his hungry, unyielding embrace.

Spilling into him is heaven. You've died and ascended, you're certain of it. He drinks you deep, as if he was made for it, and lets his head fall back against the pillows with a less-than-steady sigh as your balls tighten and pulse hotly against his skin. Dragging it out, you grind your hips into his ass in lazy circles, huffing and puffing against his throat as if you've run a marathon. Your fingers graze his own, fluttering in a way that seems almost... uncertain.

Hah. As if you knew what that word meant. You were unshakeable, infallible. The strongest. You'd hold onto that title for as long as you could; the burden was heavy.

Rather disappointingly, you don't choose to hold his hands. They glide down his waist and hips, making him shiver, and you slowly pull out, the solid but gentle grip on his thighs never wavering. You set him down as if he was made of glass and his body twitches as thick come leaks from his stretched hole, dripping and pooling white below his ass.

He tosses a lazy arm over his eyes, bending one knee and bracing against the bed. Another hot gush of come. "Ah, f-fuck... shit. You still come like a truck..."

Your gaze, once so dark and sultry as if you were about to eat him alive, now snaps to him, wide and kind and so embarrassed that Toji can't help but crack a grin.

"Sorry, sorry! I didn't hurt you, did I?"

He rolls his eyes. "Other than the hickeys, no. Wouldn'ta minded it anyway," he adds slyly, peering out from within the shadow of his arm. "Pretty hot when you get creative."

Shuffling off of the bed with a soft chuckle, you pick up the discarded condom and toss it in the bin. You pull open the wardrobe with a flex of a wall of muscles that Toji watches keenly, spreading his knees to eye you through them. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

"Y'know, I was thinking," you begin suddenly, rifling through clothes and drawers.

"You can do that?"

"Shut up. I was thinking about you – your situation."

He closes his eyes and sinks back into your bed. "When'd you have the time? Not while you were fucking me, I hope."

"Just listen, Toji." You turn around, washcloth in one hand and a pile of clothes in the other. Dark, but loose and unremarkable – as he prefers it. You toss the clothes at the bottom of the bed and disappear into the adjoining bathroom, raising your voice as the faucet squeaks on. "I was wondering if you'd wanna... you know – catch up. Or at least let me help you."

You continue, "I could find you a place in a better school zone, get you set up legitimately. Honestly, actually, you wouldn't even need to work. You could just focus on your family and I'd take care of the rest."

Toji sits up, ignoring the pinch of pain and the mess between his legs. It'll ache later, so he'll deal with it later. "What?"

"I said—"

"Yeah, yeah, heard you the first time. But why?" He lowers his voice as you return to him and begin to clean him up. He meets your eyes and his mouth takes on the beginning slant of a smirk. "My ass that good, huh? You want me to be your sugar baby?"

Heat floods your cheeks. "You're not that hot, Toji. Don't get ahead of yourself."

"Wasn't talking about my face. Still – it's not like you to beg me to go on the straight and narrow. What's with that?"

"At the risk of sounding humiliatingly sappy after sex," you sigh, sitting back and dropping the cloth aside, "I still care about you. A whole fucking lot. I only want good things for you, Toji, and I have all this excess wealth that I can't donate fast enough, so if I can change just two more lives – I'd beg for the chance."

The desire to change lives without ending others'. He can understand the sentiment.

"What would you want from me?"

For a moment, you're taken aback by the tiredness in his voice. You blink. "Nothing? Like I said, the money would just vanish into a charity otherwise. Well – maybe I'd like to be invited over on the weekends, and maybe drop off-slash-pick up itty-bitty Megumi every so often. He's that age, right? Oh – and you gotta let me into the kitchen. I make a mean lasagne. Wonder if the boy would like it..."

He snorts. "That's a lot of conditions."

"Well, I am offering to let you live like a plump and happy housewife, so..."

He's quiet for a while, his hair falling over his eyes in a way that blocks your view of his face. You toss a rolled-up towel at his head, and he catches it without looking.

He lowers the towel. "You... don't seem to care that I left you."

"No, I didn't at all care that my friend dropped off the face of the earth without warning." You cross your arms and scoff, the smile slipping from your face. "I only heard about what happened months after you vanished, and by that time, there was nothing I could do to search for you. I had too many people looking at me to dig up old underground contacts and not enough time to comb through the country myself. You could have talked to me, you know," you say, your voice softening. "I would never turn you away."

He shrugs, noncommittal. "It's like you said – too many people looking at you. Would be alarming if I came strolling up to your door, wouldn't it?"

"You did today," you point out.

"Yeah, when there's a bounty on your head. I could be killing you right now."

You scoff, though the hint of a smile flickers across your lips. "You're impossible. But fair point. Just... think it over, okay? Come find me after all this bounty business is over and done with. You know where I live."

Toji chuckles softly, and he accepts your offered hand. You lead him to the large bathroom and he threads his towel over the rod next to what must be yours. He stares longer than he should, but the sight of the two towels beside each other – his green, yours blue – forms a lump in his throat that's hard to swallow around. His heartbeat quickens.

The sound of water hitting the tiles fills the bathroom. He raises his voice over it. "Hey."

Glancing over, your arm shimmering with water droplets from where it rests against the faucet handle, you tilt your head wordlessly.

"I should be picking up the kid in a couple of hours," he explains, "at six. As far as he and the childcare know, I work a normal nine-to-five like the rest of 'em. You could go."

Your eyes widen, and you let out an endeared laugh. "Toji, Megumi doesn't know who I am. The last time we met, he was a newborn. I'm not about to give everyone a heart attack by showing up on your behalf."

"It wouldn't be on my behalf, dumbass." His tone borders between disparaging and fond. "I'd go with you."

"Wh—?" Your throat bobs harshly. The shower seems forgotten, and Toji pushes you backwards into it with a palm on your chest because he's not about to waste the water. It pours onto your head, your hair beginning to stick to your face, and it still doesn't seem to register. A smile pulls at his lips as he reaches for your body wash, scanning the label while your brain putters out and short-circuits.

You didn't expect an answer that soon.

"You heard me," he says coolly, as if this is a normal Tuesday for him. He squirts a dab of body wash onto his palm. "Isn't this what you asked for? In my opinion, it's not that fun. I get a lot of women chattin' me up while we wait. Awkward as hell since I can't be rude or they might tell their kids, and then their kids won't like Megumi... ah, it's a big deal. You being there will help. You love to talk, so you can do it for me. Good game plan, right?"

"Toji, I..."

"The fact that I'm talking more than you worries me."

"You said pick-up's at six, right?" you say suddenly, the glint in your eyes intensifying.

He arches a brow, glancing up at you. "Yeah."

"That means we have an hour." You lean in, trapping him against the glass of the shower. There's a hint of mania in your gaze, starved with a vehement zeal. "I'm gonna fuck you, now."

His eyes widen. A feral grin spreads across his face. He laughs against your throat and moans when you press your thumb roughly into one of the many hickeys littering his neck and chest. "You're crazy. Fuckin' crazy – oi."

It's disturbingly easy for you to lift him by his thighs and press him against the cool glass. His skin prickles as he grips your shoulders and mutters, his breath mingling with yours: "If you drop me, I'll kill you."

"Promise?" you ask with a breathless grin.

He crushes his lips to yours. No one else gets the privilege of taking your little deaths.

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.4.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! (and I can't stress this enough, kids shoo!) Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 6,8K

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: mentions of injections (!) but nothing scary (just routine stuff), domspace, slight subspace, awkward sex talk, throat fucking, masturbation, some d/s etiquette (stoplight system), slight dacryphilia

author’s note: playlist here, @rennethen my beta, massive thank you and artist is @petitesieste ♡ + translations from Czech at the bottom!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

As the door shuts behind you, Viktor both regrets that the kiss wasn’t heated at all and is relieved that you are now gone, leaving him with no need to pretend his leg isn’t suffering the repercussions of last night.

He tightens the brace and retreats to the bedroom to swap the cane for a crutch—it’s going to be one of those days. It’s also going to be a day in which he cannot drive, so soon, he will follow your lead and get himself a cab to carry him from Islington to King’s Cross.

In the mirror, he can see his lips, kissed pinker than usual, his eyes still heavy with sleep, his neck marked in one spot that he hopes will be snugly obscured by his collar. Sharp angles are softened by bliss and warm slumber, subtle, barely noticeable. He can feel his dick faintly sore, his hip aching more than he expected, and he knows instantly—he is elbow-deep in something that will be incredibly hard to keep casual.

Because, impediments aside, his chest is pleasantly swollen with joy—purer than its source would suggest. Recharged, happy even, he does little to obscure the souvenirs of last night. A part of him wants Jayce to ask questions. And even though he won’t be able to tell the truth, he will be able to smile about it.

Someone aware and vacant but not yet shaped appearing at his feet, folded neatly, clean and crisp—that does not happen. Before, it was fleeting. Singulars or doubles with the better specimens, all of them inevitably saying, My ex used to. Interwoven between the plain and the regular when there was nothing else. Never had it left him so full, so calm. Never had it left him simultaneously restless, waiting for the next time. Never in such utter denial that this could be both the first time and the last. Never so hopeful for the endless next times.

Viktor changes into something warmer—August is already autumn here, rain on and off, the air thick with dampness. He wears a coat and scarf, an umbrella hooked over his bag, and the damn crutch keeps him upright as he waits for the cab.

Uncharacteristically for London, he arrives within a blink. Francis Crick greets him with its warehouse-like vastness, people bumping his shoulder and apologising as they move past. Jayce is already inside when Viktor steps into the lab, making coffee, his own neck carrying the marks of last night spent with Mel. Just like Viktor, he has done nothing to hide them.

“Got home safe?” Jayce asks, though the proof is right in front of him—breathing and walking wonkily.

“I was attacked multiple times on the short distance between the driveway and my building,” Viktor replies flatly, swapping his coat for a lab rendition of one. “But I managed to fight them all off.” He gestures toward Jayce’s neck with a smirk. “I see you fought someone too, hmm?”

“Oh.” Jayce’s hand snaps to his throat. “Yeah. Mel, she… she got really drunk,” he admits with a sheepish smile. “But I think she had fun.”

“I bet she had,” Viktor remarks dryly, rolling his eyes as he reaches for a mug, coffee waiting for him.

Jayce groans. “Alright, get off my back. What about you?”

Viktor glances at him, feigning innocence. “What about me?”

Jayce smirks, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “Did you have fun?”

“Absolutely,” Viktor replies smoothly, taking another sip.

“I bet you did.”

“Meaning?” Viktor raises a brow, though he already knows where this is going.

Jayce gestures vaguely at Viktor’s collar. “You call me out all you want, but I have eyes too, you know. Just… please don’t tell me it was with—”

“I got it before yesterday,” Viktor lies smoothly, cutting him off before he can finish that sentence.

Jayce squints at him, suspicion creeping into his expression. “I can’t remember you coming in with a hickey yesterday, Viktor.”

Viktor shrugs, nonchalant. “It’s not my fault your perception was stunted by nerves, Jayce,” he replies, tone clipped. Then, with a smirk, he adds, “Should I keep you informed at all times when I get laid?”

Jayce grins. “I wouldn’t mind.” Then, after a beat, he studies Viktor more carefully. “Something, uh… serious?”

“Ah, no, not at all,” Viktor lies again, answer coming too quickly. Jayce’s frown deepens, knowing. Before he can press further, Viktor nudges the conversation elsewhere, chin gesturing toward the stack of papers before them. “What are we dealing with today?”

Jayce sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Uh, you’re not gonna like it, man,” he warns, flipping through a few pages. “They keep pushing to change the direction.”

Viktor exhales sharply. “Any new ones, or are we still on turning people back to teenagers?”

“I’m afraid we’re still on that.” Jayce grimaces, tapping the folder.

“Ah, I see it’s imperative that the rich stay perpetually young instead of the sick getting aid,” Viktor mutters, voice laced with dry disdain. “Why am I not surprised.”

Jayce leans against the table, arms crossed. “Look, if we do something fast and present results that prove it impossible, maybe they will give it a rest.”

“Jayce, it’s such a waste of time.” Viktor shakes his head, adjusting his stance against the workbench. “Cancer won’t halt to wait for us finding a cure for old age.” He gestures sharply. “But we can find the cure for it. What’s more important?”

“Well, obviously cancer treatment,” Jayce concedes, pushing a hand through his hair. “But we will do nothing without funds.”

Viktor’s gaze sharpens. “Did Mel threaten that she will retreat if we don’t do this?”

Jayce shakes his head. “No, of course not,” he says quickly—then hesitates. “Her mother did, though.”

“Zatraceně,” Viktor mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. Usually, the exchange would go on until it breaks into a bickering fight that dies off because Jayce just can’t stand conflicts. Today though, Viktor manages to play it all out it his head before it happens and settles for a solution that they would arrive at anyway, just after a week. With a sigh, he says, “Fine. What’s your angle?”

Jayce blinks. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Viktor shrugs. “If we can’t convince them, it’s more time wasted.”

Jayce exhales and gathers the documents, flipping to a few key pages. “Okay, uh… I collected everything we did in the past that failed. And here is what we’ve been doing since the beginning of the year,” he explains, dragging a finger down a chart. “So I say… a month? Maybe two, two months of tests on mice, and we can probably call it a fail for, let’s say, another year.”

Viktor frowns, considering. “Any way of just… putting it down. For good?”

Jayce scoffs, shaking his head. “Finding a different investor,” he says, defeated.

“Why don’t we?” Viktor asks, tilting his head. Truly, why don’t they? Ockham’s razor, if the method doesn’t work change the method, all those wisdoms suddenly clear as day and instead of getting angry Viktor is as calm as stagnant water.

Jayce huffs a laugh. “Ah… wait. Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Viktor, but Mel—”

“What? Will break up with you?” Viktor cuts in smoothly.

Jayce frowns. “No. At least I hope not.”

“So?” Viktor challenges, raising a brow.

Jayce exhales, reluctant. “It will take time.”

“So will this,” Viktor counters easily. “If we both look in our free time, maybe we will find someone.”

“We don’t have free time, Viktor,” Jayce groans.

“Eh, don’t be so dramatic, Jayce,” Viktor smirks, leaning on his crutch. “I’m sure someone would be thrilled to have a cancer cure on their hands.”

Jayce considers, rubbing his jaw. “I mean… it’s possible. I guess I can ask Mel if she knows anyone.”

“There you go.” Viktor nods, satisfied.

Jayce narrows his eyes. “What the hell is with you today?”

“In what sense?” Viktor mutters in mock oblivion, his head dips between his shoulders as he is sipping his coffee.

“Why are you so fucking happy?”

Viktor smirks behind the rim of his mug. “I told you. I had fun last night,” he says, and it’s the truth this time.

Jayce rolls his eyes. “Aha, alright then. I will know, sooner or later.” He eyes Viktor’s stance. “How’s your leg?”

Viktor shrugs. “Been better. Nothing too bad, though.” He pick up the folder and turns on his chair. “Alright, I’ll go through it, you prep the lab?” Jayce only nods, still eyeing the crutch.

By lunchtime, Viktor has compiled about a thousand reasons why reversing aging is not only unethical but also impossible.

The telomere theory had long been paraded as the key to immortality—until it wasn’t. Scientists once believed that aging resulted primarily from the shortening of telomeres, the protective caps at the ends of chromosomes. Each time a cell divides, these caps erode, until eventually, the cell can no longer replicate properly. If telomere degradation could be stopped—or reversed—then so, theoretically, could aging itself.

But the reality is far more complex.

Extending telomeres doesn’t simply restore youth; it encourages uncontrolled cell growth—cancer. The body has natural safeguards for a reason, and bypassing them has proven disastrous. Tumours thrive on unchecked replication, turning what is meant to be a fountain of youth into a biological death sentence.

Which is why Viktor and Jayce are attempting to achieve the exact opposite. He taps his pen against the desk, scanning the reports before him. Even if the theory had held more promise, it was still a question of priority. But they have survived and braced through so much bullshit in the past that Viktor manages to settle into something resembling certainty—that whatever this outdated spurt is attempting, it will pass. And with its passage will come the freedom to pursue a goal far more important than a face free of wrinkles.

The rest of his day rolls between countless coffees, snacks that Jayce insists on bringing and, of course, work. By the time the sun sets his thoughts have drifted to you only three times, and only because he’s caught the glimpse of your lips imprinted on his neck each time he goes to the bathroom.

Until Jayce leaves and, inevitably, Viktor is left alone with his thoughts. And with his hands, which suddenly have nothing better to do than reach for his phone. He finds your number there, hastily exchanged right before you left for work. So he sends the text.

Normally, Viktor would put his phone away and check it again when the occasion arises, but now he gapes at it stupidly, waiting. Expecting.

Ignition is instant as three dots begin to jump by your initials, and Viktor hunches over as if that would make you type faster.

I have a thing in the evening, but I should be free at 10, if that’s not too late for you :)

Perfect, he replies—too fast to be dignified, but he cares not.

By the time 10 p.m. Saturday arrives, he is fucking giddy and nearly slaps himself when the buzzer goes off. When he waits for you at the door, crutch already exchanged, cane hanging on the coat rack, he smirks at the sight of you rolling out of the elevator in flat shoes, high heels dangling from your hand.

"Did you walk here?" he asks instead of hello, leaning against the doorframe.

You parrot him, pulling a face that attempts to distort his expression, mocking his tone. "No, genius," you say as you step through the door, tossing your shoes to the floor. "They won’t fit in my bag."

One brat point, Viktor thinks.

The second pair—the ones you’re wearing—you kick off, and as you do, Viktor asks, "How was your thing?"

"Do you really want to know?" you reply, turning—only to be met with him, lurking very, very close.

He smells good. Cheeks red. Shaking his head as he moves toward you, hands slipping under your skirt, sliding past your underwear as promised. Gliding over the round of your ass, lower, between your legs. Viktor can’t decide if this would be more fun with thighs or just as it is.

Your back meets the wall, your mouth meets his, your pussy meets his fingers in a small gathering of breaths and gasps. “Did you miss me?” you tease through exhales he allows, feeling the grin blooming against your lips.

“Are you going to be insufferable?” he hums. There is no answer to this—only a startled moan as two fingers plunge inside you. Viktor purrs, so, so pleased. “Oh, but you’ve missed me too, didn’t you?”

For you are dripping, the needy thing between your hips such a traitor.

You nod, defeated, twisting your fingers into his hair, nipping at his lip, kissing him deeply—tongue out, breathing him in as if you had been gone for a month. He tastes better when you’re sober. He tastes so much better. Feels so much better. His chest flush against yours, one hand on your neck, his forearm squeezed between your buttocks as he fingers you lazily. Your ass sticks out to meet his palm, to take more, to take him deeper.

“Greedy,” Viktor smirks as he pulls his mouth away from yours, a string of wet connecting your lips. You follow the trail, but he retreats further, shaking his head.

“We need to talk first,” he says, still playing inside you as if it’s nothing.

“You said too,” you breathe, ignoring him, pressing yourself into his neck, licking where the ghost of your mark still lingers. “So you have missed me.”

“Brat,” Viktor chuckles, but truth be told, he is utterly smitten. Defeated, too—right there with you, where your entire body begs for him. And you have no idea you’re already on three brat points, nor that he cannot fucking wait to cash them in.

But just to give you something, anything, he plucks your hand off his shoulder and places it on his crotch, whispering, “I have.”

You smile at him so sweetly Viktor would drop to his knees and eat you out if his hip weren’t still slightly busted. So, reluctantly, he pulls his fingers out of you, licks them clean in front of your very eyes—obscenely slow—then kisses you for good measure. Already wanton, you mess the shirt out of his trousers, fingers tugging impatiently, and he tsks, reprimanding,

“I meant it when I said I want to talk.”

“Fine,” you pout, fixing your skirt back in place with an air of put-upon suffering.

“Brat,” Viktor says again, but there’s a smile in it. Then, he reaches behind you, grabs his cane from the coat rack, and walks past you unceremoniously. He stops in the middle of the hallway, glancing over his shoulder with a raised brow.

“Well? Are you coming?”

“I could answer that in so many ways, you know,” you reply, exasperated, but you still drag your bare feet across the floor, slinging your bag back over your shoulder.

Viktor’s smile lingers as he sees it. The sight makes him feel oddly warm—because you’ve brought clothes to change into this time.

And he is so unhurried, it drives you insane. Maddening, the way he just makes tea, pours milk into yours without asking, and then sits across from you at the kitchen table as you resume your negotiations. He leans back in his chair, fingers curled loosely around his cup, staring at you as if weighing how to begin.

The silence is unbearable. “Are you always so responsible?” you blurt, unable to sit still, let alone wait patiently. You crack your toes against the floor, pressing them down in a distorted caricature of pointe.

“I like to know where I’m at,” Viktor says, stern but measured, blinking slowly. Then, without preamble, “So. From the start. Protection?”

You blink. “Oh. Straight in?”

A beat, and when Viktor does absolutely nothing to ease your discomfort, you release a breathy chuckle. “Okay, um… I have a patch anyway, and—” You hesitate, shifting in your chair. “Please don’t think I’m a freak, but…” You reach into your bag and pull out your phone. Tugging a strand of hair behind your ear, you fiddle on the screen before placing it in front of him. “I donated blood last month at a charity event, and these are my results.”

His brow quirks.

“So, you can lose the rubber,” you mutter, swallowing. “If you want.”

Viktor says nothing at first, just studies you with that unreadable expression of his. Then, with the same ease as before, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and places it in front of you. The screen is already unlocked, a document open.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low. “I test regularly. Everything’s negative.”

That catches you by surprise, though you school your face quickly, forcing yourself not to dwell too much on whatever embers of unjustified jealousy try to crack open beneath your feet. Lip caught between your teeth, you glance down—not to check if he’s telling the truth, but to give yourself an extra second to think.

Then, quietly, heat creeping up your ears, you murmur, “No condom then.”

It’s Viktor’s turn to swallow something down. His gaze darkens, as images of what he can do with this newest ruling flash through his mind. His fingers tap once against the side of his cup before he hums, satisfied. “Good.”

His voice is so casual, so certain, it’s infuriating.

“Next… safe word?” Viktor asks. You cringe, a small, involuntary wince that does not go unnoticed. He tilts his head, expression softening, and before you can even muster the courage to tell him you haven’t got the faintest idea, he steps in. “Okay,” he says, tone even, patient. “Are you familiar with the stoplight system?”

“Yes,” you say, relieved at the reprieve.

“Is that better?”

“Yes, I can do that,” you nod, fingers curling into your lap.

“Alright.” Voice still matter-of-fact, eyes stay on you, gauging, reading. “And if you can’t speak, it’s two taps for slow down, and three for stop. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” You barely recognise your own voice. It’s breathless, eager, and a little too quick to comply.

Because God, this is so hot.

Dark blood stumbles slowly through your veins, brain slipping into focus, breaths deepen and all you can hear is his voice. All you can see is his sunken-cheeked face—a map of spectacular junctions you linger on—pools of his eyes, yes, dark, yes, wanting, but above all—kind. Above all, awakened and eager when he reads the answers before you even open your mouth.

Then, his nose, again, the hill of it, the way it slithers into his cheeks. Lower, the crown of his lip, a bud made to be sucked on. It moves when he says, “Brilliant.” The word rolls out, thick and heavy, makes the muscles of his jaw flex underneath the skin and to save yourself from second degree burn on your face, you retreat to the trick of nose staring. Nearly fails you again, when he scratches it and instead of it your mind drifts to where those fingers have been just moments ago.

He leans forward, hand crawling toward you, and you place your palms flat on the table. Not yet touching, but the promise is there.

“Anything you won’t do? Hard limits?” he asks evenly, arrogant smirk impossible to hide. “It can be all sorts of things, even the basics. Like cocksucking.”

At this point it’s inching toward cruel, a praying mantis foreplay, but you suspect you are the one about to end up a meal on his plate. With a deep breath, you manage, “I’m not opposed to it,” your voice steadier than you feel.

Viktor exhales through his nose, something caught between a hum and a chuckle. “That makes me very happy.”

“I bet it does,” you mumble before you can stop yourself, pulse thundering everywhere—in your chest, wrists, pounding between your ears and legs.

The smug smile he gives you in return is positively wicked. Four points.

“So… anything?” He watches you carefully, head tilting. Then, as if making a decision, he leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table, his feet touch yours. “I’ll tell you what,” he continues. “If anything comes up, tell me. Even if randomly. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” A beat. “And you?” you ask, voice quieter.

A complete change. Viktor feels his chest flooding with warmth, eyes widen when he reaches out for your palms and cradles them in his. “Yes. I will make sure to tell you.” His gaze holds yours, unwavering.

It’s merely a glimpse of something. Then, his expression falls back into the sardonic kind, and after a pause, he asks, “How uncomfortable does this make you feel?”

You shift in your seat, squeezing his palms. “Very.”

His lips curl. “Good.” He tilts his chin, eyes lazily dropping down your frame. “Are you wet?” he asks, so casually it stirs the bottom of your stomach into a tight cramp and your thighs clench.

“Show me,” Viktor says, and you are already standing up, already moving without thought, drawn in by the quiet command.

By the time you reach the other side of the table, his hands are already on you—steady and sure. Your fingers press into his shoulders as his palm sneaks between your legs, testing, feeling, confirming.

“Very good,” he purrs, voice drenched in satisfaction. His teasing fingers stroke over the fabric. Then, with a small tug, arms pull you forward.

“Now, come here,” he murmurs, his grip firm but careful. “One last thing.”

He guides you to straddle his lap, and you settle against him easily, warmth pooling where your bodies meet. The shift makes your skirt roll up, your underwear now completely visible, but Viktor’s eyes don’t drop—they linger on your face, on something softer.

His fingers reach for the high, snug collar of your turtleneck. He peels it back, unrolling the fabric slowly, like unwrapping a gift. Then, as soon as he sees the marks blooming along your throat, his breath catches.

“Oh my,” he muses, and his voice is velvet—rich, low, utterly charmed. His fingers brush over the bruises, ghosting along the evidence of his own mouthwork. “I got you good, haven’t I?”

Your lips twitch, suppressing a smirk. “I suppose you have.”

Viktor hums, tracing absentminded circles against your spine. His other hand rests on the curve of your bum. “Did it get you in trouble?”

“Not yet,” you admit, craning your neck, as he presses a kiss to the unmarked side. His lips are warm, his breath even warmer as he nuzzles into the skin, rubbing his nose over it before pressing another—softer, gentler—kiss.

“And you know… it’s going to be winter soon,” you murmur, fingers playing at the loose strands of his hair. “We can regroup in spring.”

Viktor huffs a quiet laugh, but his arms tighten around you. “No,” he decides. “I’ll be more careful.”

Your hands slide down to cup his jaw, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Please don’t stop, though.”

He looks at you then, properly, and behind his eyes is fondness, undeniable, as his pupils search your face, hands reassure, his lap warms you up.

“I won’t.” His voice is a promise, lips brushing the words against your skin. Then, with a knowing smirk, he whispers, “Besides, there are other places.”

And you have neither the will nor the energy to gather more brat points this evening. So instead of snapping back with something clever, you nuzzle into his neck, pressing your nose against his skin and inhaling deeply—his stupid man-soap, his stupid plain washing powder, his stupid freckled skin.

Mouth open, you drag it up the slope of his throat, unhurried, skin pulling with the friction. He exhales, head tilting back, offering himself to you eagerly. His hips slide down the chair, and you have to hold onto his shoulders when he speaks to the ceiling, “Get on your knees for me.”

He smiles when he sees how snugly you fit there and asks, “Not opposed, hm?” Your palms rest on his thighs, fingers marching toward his belt as you shake your head, a timid smile stretching your lips. Before you can undo it for him, Viktor unbuckles himself. Metal clinks on the floor as he grasps your hands and presses them to his cock, leaning in to whisper, “Not good enough. I want you to love it.”

Your hands turn shaky all of a sudden, hesitating as you unbutton him. He looms over you, already cradling your nape, foreshadowing the moment the spaces between his fingers will be full of your hair. No drunken haze, no fucked-out brain—finally, you get a proper look. And Viktor is pretty, head to toe, you realise. His cock is half-hard, framed by dark hair that meets in a tempting line on his lower belly, rising and falling with each deep breath—just as the crown of his upper lip, it is made to be sucked on.

By the time your mouth reaches him, he’s so deeply blissed out he staggers. Because it’s not just your mouth—it’s your entire face that hugs him, repeating the gesture from the first night, when you simply rested your cheek on his length and breathed him in. His stupid man-smell. Sweet and salty with sweat, and you want to be closer, so you yank his pants down to his ankles. Viktor says nothing about the fact that you’ve done so without permission.

Because you move in, arms wrapping around his waist, your entire face pressed into his groin, mouth agape as you breathe deeply. Tranquillity, absolute and endless, floods you when, instead of yanking your head, he strokes it and sighs, long and heavy.

And then, you kiss him as if his cock were his lips—open-mouthed and with tongue—gliding over every inch in a loving rhythm, from the base to the tip and back down. Pressing him into his own stomach, hands tightening around his hips, you hum into his skin and Viktor shudders. Overwhelmed, he holds your jaw and urges you to stick your tongue out, mimicking the gesture himself. And that’s when you notice—his tongue is pretty too.

Cock lands in your mouth, its flushed head drags across the wet surface, teasing, the heat of your breath enveloping him. He pulls back, letting the tip slip free, and then smears the slickness of your spit along your cheek. The gesture so full of intent, his thumb following to spread it further, tracing the damp streak before he taps your cheek with his cock once—twice—three times, and smiles, grins with teeth and all. You’ve thought it impossible, but he just managed to get prettier even.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his pants, gripping tight. Your eyes flutter shut, waiting.

“Ready?” he murmurs, voice thick.

You nod, anticipation rolling through you, but Viktor is nothing if not careful. His warm palm finds your cheek again, thumb pressing gently at the hinge of your jaw. “Remember about taps,” he reminds you, free hand cradling the back of your head. Then, finally, he pushes forward, slow but insistent, the head of his cock breaching your lips.

“That’s it,” he sighs, his grip tightening as he sinks deeper. “Good girl… You feel so—” He exhales sharply, rocking his hips shallowly. “That’s right. God, you feel good.”

His pace builds, measured at first, the tight ring of your mouth around him making his breath grow heavier. His fingers twitch against your scalp as he mutters, “So fucking pretty like this.”

Each word of praise spurs you on. You moan around his cock, and Viktor grunts with effort, his breath shuddering, brows knitting. He brushes your hair off your face, gathering it carefully in his hand, mindful not to pull. Tears begin to sting the corners of your eyes, but you do not falter. You clutch his legs for support as Viktor shifts to the edge of the chair, caging you between his thighs.

Sweat begins to pearl on his forehead, fingers pressing deeper into muscle. His voice thickens, English fracturing as pleasure takes over.

“Děláš mi to tak dobře,” he groans, voice rough with need. His hips push forward with a little more force, testing. “Podívej se na tebe… tak nádherná s pusou plnou.”

Less air, more heat pooling low in your belly. Drool pooling in your mouth. A tear breaks free, rolling down your cheek, and something shifts in Viktor’s expression—fascinated. Your lashes flutter, eyes hazy as he holds you there, thighs clenching.

He pulls back, letting you gasp, spit clinging between your lips and his skin before he presses in again, deeper this time. His grip tightens at your nape, holding you steady.

“M��j chytrý, drzý, krásný děvče,” he pants, voice hoarse, words spilling from him like a prayer. “Vezmi si mě celého.”

You roll your tongue out and angle your head for him to enter easier. He’s back instantly, you catch only a glimpse of his cock glistening in your drool, and it excites you, boiling over. He slides in, slowly, watches himself disappear between your lips with wide eyes, half of him, and then, oh, all of him, as your throat straightens and becomes full. All falls quiet around you, and you close your eyes, holding him in for four long seconds, before patting his thigh twice.

Viktor retreats immediately, cradles your face and asks, “Colour?” before you are done gulping on air.

“Green,” you rasp, reaching back for his cock, a string of drool hanging from your lip, low, nearly staining your chest.

You flatten your tongue, tilt your head, open up. He’s there in an instant, the blunt, slick head pressing against your lips. A brief glance down—his cock shining, thick with spit, dark hair curling damp at the base. A sharp pulse flares in your loins at the sight, and then he’s sliding back in, slow, watching himself vanish between your lips. Halfway. Then deeper. Your throat takes him, stretches, the press of him filling your mouth, your ribs tightening with the effort of stillness.

Everything stills, quiet in your ears. His hand heavy at the back of your skull, his breath gone shallow. Your lashes flutter, eyes shut. Four long seconds, your lungs burning, and then—two quick taps to his thigh.

He pulls back instantly, his hands gentle when they frame your face. “Colour?” His voice frays at the edges, all rasp and need.

“Green.” Your voice is wrecked, breathless. You reach back for him, spit trailing from your lip, stringing low, silver in the dim light. “Please, again.”

His thumbs stroke across your cheeks, slow, tracing heat beneath the skin. “What have I done to deserve you?” His voice, a rasp of breath and want. He presses a dry kiss to your forehead, something reverent in it, then tilts your face up. “Does it feel good, when you can’t breathe?”

Your breath stutters. “Yes,” barely more than air, forehead pressing to his chin, hands clenching around his wrists. “God, yes.” The words slip free like a confession.

He lets you hold on, lets you bear down as he presses in again. The tension of muscle, the slow give of your throat around him. He watches, eyes dark, intent—reads the flicker of your lashes, the shudder in your ribs, the shine of spit where it slicks him. He sees the way your body makes space for him, the way your throat clenches, the way tears bead and slip from the corners of your eyes.

A long, shuddering breath. He pushes deeper. Watches himself disappear, faster this time. Pulling your hand with him, his fingers skate down, brush the column of your throat, mapping the way it stretches, the pulse leaping beneath his touch. He watches, always watching, eyes heavy-lidded, half-wild, but still careful. His palm flattens, thumb stroking over your skin as he rocks forward, measuring each inch that slides in, each tiny shift of muscle.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice fragmented. “Touch yourself.”

Hand leaves his wrist and finds its place between your legs when you part your thighs and dip into your underwear. It sticks to your skin, drenched, when you part yourself and try to not lose focus. You picture it’s him, somehow, touching you.

His hips roll, slow at first, feeding you the length of him, watching how your lips part wider, how your jaw strains to take him deeper. He feels your fingers flex around his wrist, grip tightening before easing, giving way. The first wet sound pulls a groan from him, rough yet quiet.

“There you go,” he says, as if coaxing something delicate to open. His thumb lingers at your throat, pressing just enough to feel himself inside. His grip at your nape steadies you as he moves again, guiding you, his restraint threadbare.

The wet pull of your mouth drags another guttural sound from his chest, and it sounds so fucking lovely you moan around his cock. His words break into rough blabber, heat-struck and low. “Tak nádherná... tak dokonalá…”

A stutter of hips, breath cuts when he swallows hard and fingers tease at your throat. “Breathe,” he reminds, voice fraying, rasping. “Tap if—” His voice cuts off as you swallow around him, as your tongue presses firm.

His jaw clenches, body tight, but his hand never leaves your throat, never stops searching for your breath, for the shift of muscle as he works himself deeper.

Your eyes flicker up, wet and wide. The sight of you like this undoes him.

His breath stutters out, a ragged curse, his head tipping back. Fingers tightening as heat coils, as his restraint snaps, and with a final shuddering groan, he spills into your mouth. The taste of him, heavy salt, the sight of his stomach hollowing out under the muscle cramp, tips you over and you suck him out, milk him, grunting around his sensitive skin, cunt clenching around nothing as you come.

You swallow around him until there is a vacuum, and Viktor hisses, his grip on your head tightening. He exhales heavily, unsteady, then pulls out with a wet sigh and beckons you up by the neck, guiding you back until your thighs bracket his.

Up there, in his lap, he kisses you—deep, grateful—licking himself from your mouth. A low hum rumbles in his chest as he wraps his arms around you.

“Not opposed, huh?” he teases.

You chuckle, warmth curling at the edges of your voice. “I suppose you can call me a fan,” you admit, sheepish, fingers idly tracing the back of his neck.

Viktor is already elsewhere, mind moving faster than breath, reading you even now. “How are you feeling?”

You exhale, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. “So fucking tired. But good. Now good.”

He hums, then urges you to stand. His own movements are slow, careful—he rises with difficulty, a quiet wince caught in his throat. He stretches, rolling his shoulders, then glances at you. “How early do you have to wake up tomorrow?”

You shift on your feet, rubbing your arms. “I don’t… I have to do some things in the evening, but I have Sunday morning free.”

And Viktor tries not to come off as anything, face fully naked when he says, “I implore you to stay, then.”

Spacing out just a bit, not as strongly as the last time, you nod, sling the bag back over your shoulder and let yourself be walked to his bedroom. There, wordlessly, Viktor undresses down to his underwear. You catch the glimpse of a fresh bruise on his stomach, previously hidden beneath his shirt. He sits on the bed, stretching his leg out with a sigh, then looks up at you, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“You can change in the bathroom, you know?” he says, amusement curling at the edges of his lips.

“I know, I just—” you hesitate. “It’s just very domestic,” you say, cringing at your own immaturity.

Viktor exhales a laugh through his nose. “Only because we are at my home.” His gaze lingers, curious. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” you say and the fact that it truly doesn’t—that’s what bothers you. Viktor shifts from acting like he cares beyond measure to as if he would go wherever the wind blows. From being utterly excited about your discontentment to completely unbothered about anything you decide. He sits on the bed in just his boxers, giving you a lopsided smile. “Go change.”

As soon as you do, he falls onto his back and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters quietly to himself. After a long breath, he rolls onto his belly, reaching into the bedside stand. He pulls out a syringe, rolls back, sits up, and gathers a small pinch of skin on his stomach. On the opposite side of the fresh bruise, the needle goes in smoothly, but Viktor hisses at the sensation of fluid expanding the tissues. He massages it out and drops the syringe into the trash bin beside the bed.

By the time you come out of the bathroom, he’s already in bed. His arm is flung over his face, his body slack, only the subtle rise and fall of his chest betraying that he’s still awake. You settle into the farthest edge of the bed—just like last time.

Viktor chuckles when you slide under the covers and yawn. Shifting closer, he reaches for you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest. His breath is warm against your temple.

“Why are you all the way over there again?” he murmurs, voice tired.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, arms trapped, fingers tapping his sternum. “I don’t want to invade your space.”

Viktor hums, his lips ghosting over your hair. “You are in my bed,” he points out, his tone dry but fond.

You hesitate, then offer, “I can go if you want me to.”

“Hush now,” he chides softly, arms tightening. A pause, then, quieter, “Do you mind this?”

Your breathe out a quiet groan. Then, “N-no,” you stammer. “But I’m fine today, I don’t need—”

“I do,” he interrupts, his voice lower, steady. His fingers splay against your back, pressing you close. “I need this.” A beat of silence, then, gentler, “Is that okay?”

And even if you were able to say no before, now it’s impossible. Because Viktor sinks, his face brushing against yours in something almost absentmindedly affectionate, his breath warming up your cheek. Being needed overrides the unease of non-sexual closeness.

“It’s okay,” you mutter finally. Then, “Viktor?”

“Hm?” he hums, the sound lazy, content.

“Why a skirt?”

“Ah,” A chuckle. “No reason really, other than that I like your legs. Also, easier access, if you please,” he says, squeezing your butt. “I might have gotten a better use of it, wasn’t my leg not up to it today.” That’s a quiet admission he hasn’t meant to share yet, but it just happens. And it lands softly in your clever brain that connects the dots quickly.

“Is that why your stomach is bruised?”

“Oh.” He shifts slightly, reaching back toward the nightstand. “Partly. It’s the brace,” he explains, retrieving a small syringe and holding it up for you to see. “These prevent blood clotting under the trapped tissue.”

You frown. “It looks painful.” Another piece of Viktor for your collection.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he assures you, setting the syringe aside. His mouth quirks slightly. “But I’m aware it’s not the most aesthetically pleasing sight.”

You scoff. “Your stomach is one of the most aesthetically pleasing sights I’ve had the opportunity to ogle.” You hesitate, then add, softer, “I’m just checking. Just curious.”

Viktor exhales a quiet chuckle. “I like your stomach too.”

You snort. “Are you always such a sap after sex?”

“Do you want me to be mean?” he counters, brow quirking.

“No,” you say quickly. “No, please be a sap.”

He hums again, his grip on you tightening briefly. “You are a very strange creature,” he says at last, affection dripping from his tongue, though it seems he hadn’t intended it to. Mercifully, you don’t comment on it. You just nose into his neck, breathing in deeply—the stupid smell of him. —

Translations: Děláš mi to tak dobře – You make me feel so good Podívej se na tebe… tak nádherná s pusou plnou – Look at you… so beautiful with your mouth full Můj chytrý, drzý, krásný děvče – My smart, sassy, beautiful girl Vezmi si mě celého – Take all of me Tak nádherná... tak dokonalá… – So beautiful… so perfect…

[gold-onthe-inside]

with love, from reid

who? spencer reid (s8) x blake!reader summary: after a case ruins spencer's carefully planned valentine's date, he does his best to make up for it. but all you needed was him. and all the gifts in the world are nothing compared to yours. word count: 3.3k based on: Valentine’s Day Request - Spencer and his partner are separated for Valentines Day (maybe he went to go visit his mom or he was on a special assignment like in Minimal Loss and a storm grounded flights) but he uses every method possible to give his partner the most amazing Valentines Day ever. a/n: i'm so sorry for sitting on this request forever, but inspiration struck today i guess. hope you like it anon.

Spencer’s not like other guys. It’s the mantra you have to keep using to keep your head on straight. But being cheated on by someone you had been about to marry changes your whole perspective on things. Makes it harder to trust, even the most angelic man you’ve ever met. You have to take a deep breath every time he gets a call from JJ or Penelope, have to remind yourself that there’s a valid reason for every missed date, every morning you wake up without him. Because it’s scary how much you like him, how often you think about him.

The scarce amount of time you both get makes the little moments more important, and he knows it. In his head, he’s been building it up, down to the cardigan he would wear on the 14th. He’s calculated the exact amount of time it takes to get from Quantico to your hospital, chosen a restaurant within walking distance — something right up your alley with exotic food and a quiet atmosphere. He knows how many footsteps it’ll take to get there, how many topics you can cover, all of it, down to miniscule details. The flower arrangements that would wait for you both. The menu he had memorised in his head, knowing exactly what you would order. The average time it would take for you both to finish eating while talking. The train back to his apartment, where your favourite movie would be waiting.

If only he could control this unsub the same way. But they were no closer to finding the unsub on the 13th as they were two days ago. He’d been putting off the call all day, staring at his phone until Alex had pointed it out, unravelling the first stitch of his sealed lips. The seam split and he told her everything — the date he’d planned, the flowers he’d bought in advance, the reservation that was waiting for you. He receives the pat on the knee he’d been expecting from Alex, the promise that you’d be understanding (who would know better than her, really?), and her stern voice telling him to call you.

You can hear the regret in his voice when he calls, the tired fatigue that makes you smile sympathetically. “Did you get home okay?” he asked, scuffing the back of his sneakers against the floor, standing right outside the precinct, stars glittering above him, much brighter in Tennessee than in DC. It’s a whole nother date on his bucket list — going star-gazing with you.

“Yeah, just now,” you replied, and he can see you in his mind’s eye, taking off your boots and neatly arranging them in your rack, keys in a clay dish that an 8 year old had made for you, the crick in your neck that he wants to massage for you. “How about you? Any closer to finding your strangler?”

“No,” he huffs, leaning against the railing. There’s a slight chill in the air, but he can’t feel it, not right now. He just wants to hear your voice. “But that’s not important — I just wanted to make sure you made it home safe.”

You huffed a small laugh, and he can hear you bustling around over the call, maybe changing into your pyjamas, or hunting for ingredients to make a quick dinner for one, and a frustrated ache builds behind his eyes. He wants to be there, with you, listening to old jazz music and making dinner and small talk. “I think I’m in less danger than the FBI agent hunting down a serial killer, honey.”

“You’re always in less danger than I am,” he grumbles, the beginnings of a smile playing at his lip. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back and picturing the dimly lit kitchen in your apartment, the scent of spices and the warmth of old vinyl records. “I miss you,” he confesses in a soft, almost broken tone.

He hears you pause, a palpable beat passing before you murmured, “I miss you too.”

“I wish I could be there,” he says. He wants to run a hand down your back, trace his knuckles over your cheek to feel the softness of your skin. “I had a whole night planned for us tonight.”

"I know, lovely," you murmured, leaning on the kitchen counter, phone pressed to your ear. "There'll be other nights."

He sighs. He hates having to cancel on you, especially now, when they’re already so rare. “Not like this one,” he mutters, and he knows you can probably tell by his tone that he’s pouting like a child.

“Why, because tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day?” you asked, talking while making a quick pasta.

He’s quiet for a second. Then — “Yes,” he admits in a near-whine. “It was going to be a special night.”

"Spence... Every day is Valentine's Day with you," you said, knowing exactly how cheesy you sound and running with it anyway.

Spencer’s just grateful you can’t see his face right now, because he knows he’s blushing a little, that he has an adorably smitten smile on his lips and he’s sure it would only embarrass him if you could see. “Sap,” he accuses lovingly.

"Said the man who collects ticket stubs of every movie we see," you retorted, grinning into the phone.

He sputters. “That’s — that’s — you’re not supposed to know about those,” he complained. “I keep those for myself, they’re a private collection for a reason.“

“Wow, what happened to what’s yours is mine?” you teased him, watching the pasta boil, and Christ, you felt like a lovestruck teenager right now, like those sickly sweet couples in Hallmark movies.

“That’s — there’s exceptions to that rule,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t you dare touch those. I’ve sorted them in chronological order, by the way — if one is out of place, I’ll know it was you messing around, looking over my things.”

You laughed into the phone, bright even with how tired you felt, because he brought it out of you, a glowing feeling in your chest that made the ache in your feet hurt a little less. It’s a sound that never fails to make his heart skip — the softest, most wonderful noise he’s ever heard. “I wish I was there,” he says again, his voice suddenly quiet and heavy with want.

"I know," you said quietly, watching the water grow cloudy as your pasta cooks. "But those women need you more than I do right now, Spence."

“Stop using logic on me,” he says, only half-joking, his expression serious even though you can’t see it. “I want to be selfish with you tonight.”

"Sweetheart, you don't have a selfish bone in your body," you replied affectionately.

“It’s not fair,” he complains, still playing the part of the pouting child in his mind, just whining and grumpy because he wants to be with you. “I was going to give you flowers, and take you out to dinner, and I was going to drive you home and kiss you so much—”

"We can still do that," you said, cutting him off before he could fill your head with ideas and then you could say goodbye to sleeping peacefully tonight.

“Not tomorrow,” he says. He’s almost definitely pouting right now, staring down at the pavement, his eyes dark under his lashes. “And it’s only Valentine’s once a year, I wanted it to be perfect.”

You fretted as you turned the gas off, putting off straining the pasta as you turned into the phone. “Why’s this so important to you, angel?” you asked softly.

It’s one of the things he loves about you — the gentleness with which you handle him, the way you ooze with care and curiosity instead of coddling concern. “This is our first Valentine’s,” he replies, slightly petulant. “And I wanted it to be good. Something you could look back on. I had it all planned out.”

Christ, you could cry with how much Spencer cared about you. You couldn’t remember anyone, boyfriend or not, who loved you this much. “You know it would’ve been perfect, regardless, right?” you asked gently. “You and me, that’s all I need. Even if it’s over a phone line.”

He’s quiet for a moment, just listening to you speak. “You deserve the best,” he says eventually. “You deserve flowers. And an elegant restaurant. And a movie. And a home cooked meal.” And me, he wants to add, but he doesn’t. “Not a phone call and the knowledge that your boyfriend is across the country.”

"Sweetheart, I get all of that from you even when it isn't Valentine's," you said, in that same gentle tone. "Besides, I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you were here when you could be catching a killer."

“Why do you have to be reasonable?” Spencer groaned, rubbing a hand over his face again because you’re being entirely too logical for him to fight with right now. “That’s not fair.”

You chuckled, crossing your arms and leaning on the counter. "We'll have a make-up date, I promise," you said. "Just how you planned it."

That seems to pacify him a little bit, because he lets out a soft sigh. “Okay,” he agrees, slightly begrudgingly. “But I’m in charge of planning. You don’t get a say in the matter.”

You fake a tsk, as if planning mattered at all to you. "Fine. Whatever you decide."

That makes a soft, contented sound form in his throat — one bordering on possessive. “That’s what I thought,” he says, and you can all but envision the smirk on his lips.

"Go find your killer," you chided him, grinning stupidly, but there's no bite in it.

He lets out an amused huff. “Yes ma’am,” he teases, before his tone softens again. “I miss you. I’ll try to come home as soon as I can, okay?”

"Okay," you replied. "Stay safe, please."

“I will,” he promises, because he knows how much the thought of him getting hurt scares you. “Don’t worry about me.”

You snorted quietly, like it was possibly to not worry about him on cases. "Bye."

“Bye,” he responds quietly, and he wishes he could kiss you goodbye, trace the line of your lips with his fingers and feel the pulse in your neck against his fingers. “Sweet dreams.”

"You too," you whispered before hanging up. Spencer stands there for another moment after the call ends, his phone still in his hand and his heart heavy, and he wonders if it’s possible for someone to actually ache from missing someone this much.

And then Morgan’s calling him inside with his newly minted nickname since dating you — ‘lover boy’ — to adjust the geographic profile and he’s unwillingly dragged back into the vortex that is his job. And he has to shove any thoughts of you to the back of his mind for the time being, the lingering ache at the edge of his chest a constant, nagging thing that he has to continuously push past to focus on the case.

The whole team is working hard to try and solve this, but progress is slow. Somewhere between analysing blood spatter patterns and doing his own research to figure out their unsub’s deal, he does his best to plan your make-up date, paranoid that someone would see him looking for places to take you and make his day worse. Eventually, tired of having to look over his shoulder, he bites the bullet and calls Garcia for help, even if it would no doubt get back to Morgan and the rest of the team.

And then he has to deal with Garcia’s excited squealing, her incessant questions about you both, her comments about how cute he is and how she needs to meet you. He keeps his head down and grits his teeth, because he knows she means no harm, and it’s a small price to suffer through just to have this night be perfect.

The first thing to arrive was a bouquet of tulips with your morning paper waiting outside your door, a pretty arrangement of red and pink that matched the outfit you were going to wear to work — the whole department had agreed to come in red, white, and pink colours — and you can’t stop smiling as you go to put in a vase with water.

He gets the picture texted to him in the middle of a briefing with Hotch and the team, barely able to restrain his smile as he checked his phone under the table.

You: They’re beautiful, thank you.

He’s oblivious to Morgan giving him an odd look as he texted you back:

Spencer: Only the best for the most beautiful girl in the world.

Spencer tucks his phone back into his pocket when the meeting ends, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Morgan. He knows he’s going to get bombarded with questions he doesn’t feel like answering, and for once he’s glad they have a case to work on so he can use that as an excuse not to interact with him.

The second arrival was a package sent to your office, because of course he had your shift schedule memorised, and you signed for it, grasping the brown paper package that was obviously a book back to your desk. There’s no reason for you to hide it, not in the sanctity of your own office, but it’s as if you’re back in school, your crush sending you a note that you unfurl under your desk, finding a hardbound copy of Persuasion, arguably your favourite Austen novel.

You do your best not to blush, picking up your phone to text him, chewing on your lip before flipping to the right chapter and sending him a direct quote.

You: There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison.

Spencer’s in the middle of examining a body when you sent him the text. But as soon as he feels his phone vibrate, he pulls it out without a second thought, uncaring of the fact that Morgan and Rossi are looking his way. He has to hold back a smile because no, he won’t give Morgan any ammunition.

Spencer: You have my whole heart.

“You two are sickening, I hope you know that,” Morgan told him, a smirk on his lips.

Spencer’s head snaps up in alarm at the sound of his voice, and he quickly drops his phone in his pocket, face flushing. He’s silent for a minute, trying to regain his composure and come up with something to defend himself. “No idea what you’re talking about,” he replied weakly.

"Uh-huh," Rossi replied, masking a smile. "Can we look at the body now, or does your girlfriend have more input?" He wouldn’t be surprised if you did, to be honest, but he’d rather keep you out of this part of his world. He just shook his head, stepping closer to the slab.

Your last gift came in just as Valentine’s Day was about to come to an end, Spencer silently tracking into your apartment, 5 minutes away from midnight, cringing as he opened the bedroom door as quietly as possible. You’re asleep, your breathing soft and deep, the soft, soothing sound filling the room. He kneels by your side of the bed for a moment, just looking at you: all loose-limbed and relaxed, your face soft and sweet against the pillow. He can’t help the little smile that tugs the corner of his mouth up, and he wonders how he got so lucky. Softly, he reaches out, fingertips gentle as he brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

You flinched, startled awake, until you recognise Spencer's eyes blinking back at you. "Jesus Christ, you scared me," you breathed out. "You should have told me you were coming."

“I was trying to be quiet,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so only you would hear. His hand brushed the curve of your jaw, a soft, almost reverent motion. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You sink back into your pillows, shifting inside so he can sit on the edge. "I would have waited up for you if you'd called first," you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hip right against your knee, his fingers still trailing along your face, then resting on your thigh over the covers. “I tried to get home earlier,” he said, and he sounded exhausted, the stress of the case weighing on him. “But the team was debating something. And then paperwork...”

"You don't have to explain," you said softly, shaking your head, making a mess of your hair.

He watches you, his gaze lingering on the mussed locks on your head, the sleepy bleariness to your eyes, the pinkness to your cheeks, and he feels a surge of longing so strong it borders on painful for a moment. He loves you like this — soft and sweet and rumpled with sleep, and he wants nothing more than to curl up next to you right here and now. “I hate being away from you for so long,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I missed you so much.”

"Should've caught your guy faster then," you said, shifting up to meet his lips with yours. "Happy Valentine's."

He returned your kiss, his fingers trailing up to the back of your neck, pulling you in closer. “Happy Valentine’s,” he murmured against your lips, before he was kissing you again, harder this time, and you could tell he was tired by the urgency with which he held onto you.

"I realised something when you were away, you know," you murmured against his lips.

He pulled back slightly so he could look at you, his fingers still trailing along the back of your neck. “Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head to the side and studying your face with those sharp, intelligent eyes of his.

You nodded, looking at him with your own fond gaze. "I love you," you said softly. Plain and uncomplicated.

He had heard those words plenty of times in his life, but he’d never tire of hearing them from your lips. He felt his heart stutter in his chest, and he moved his hand to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Say it again?” he whispered.

"I love you," you repeated, your smile glowing in the dark, streetlights dancing over your ceiling.

He felt something in his chest settle at the words, at the reassurance that you really were here, and you were his. He leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your nose, the. corner of your mouth, then the underside of your jaw. “I love you,” he murmured against your skin. “God, I love you so much.”

Your arms winded around him, his face burying itself in your neck, pressing soft kisses to your skin, his arms wrapped around your waist. His hands slipped up under your sleep shirt, his touch warm and soft against your back, and he practically sunk into you, needing the closeness, needing to be surrounded by you.

"I know the day didn't go to plan," you murmured, "but this is the best Valentine's Day I've ever had."

His arms wrapped around you a little tighter, like he couldn’t get enough of having you pressed against him, and he pulled his head back from your neck so he could look at you properly. “Me too,” he said, then reconsidered. “Well, the whole day was hell, but this… this is perfect.”

"Yeah?" you asked, pecking his lips.

He chased your mouth, kissing you again, lingering on your lips for longer. “Yeah,” he replied softly. “Being with you is all I need.”

[brooke121000]

hi! not sure if you’re still taking requests but your last fic was so incredible. i was wondering if you’d be down to do one that’s like, spencer loves to yap and nobody likes to listen but y/n is lowkey in love with him and always does. a friends to lovers type deal because she’s mesmerized by him and he’s mesmerized by the way she just hangs onto his every word, yk what i mean? if not it’s totally ok i just couldn’t get it out of my head after your last one! <3

S.L.A.N.T • s. reid

First of all, tysm for all the kind words!! Apologies for the wait, I’ve been swamped with school. I hope you enjoy! 🤍

word count: 1,076

———————————౨ৎ———————————

Spencer had never really felt listened to all his life.

His mind was a train, never faltering- chugging along faster than passerbys could observe it. He breezed through high school precociously, always filling bigger shoes and reading from books too heavy for him to carry. This intelligence, although alienating, provided him with a life long wealth of intelligence and a passion to learn-

And, of course, a passion to speak.

for most of his life, his words have fallen on deaf ears. Even amongst the team- a group of knowledgeable, experienced profilers, he’d grown used to eye rolls, yawns, and never-minds.

and then he met you.

You’re incredible. A match for his mind, in the first week at the BAU you beat his crossword record by a grand two seconds. You’re sweet, and beautiful, and so utterly comforting and familiar it leaves Spencer with an ache in his chest. Reminders of you are everywhere- he smells you in his coffee, hears you on crowded streets. You’re a splash of red wine on his shirt, a streak of technicolor in his black and white life.

And today, in the bullpen, he has your undivided attention.

You each sat at his desk in the dim nighttime office, the only two to stay this late.

Spencer was next you in his worn down office chair- he was reading, the Russian title unrecognizable to you. He had placed the book to the side when you two began to converse.

He looked up to you- you were sat on his desk, legs crossed.

“..your hands are shaking.” He said simply.

“oh-“ you smiled, pulling yourself back into your conversation and stretching out your weary legs. “yeah, it’s.. all the caffeine. I can’t help it, coffee’s in my DNA.”

He gave a nod. “You know we’ve never seen DNA? We’ve actually never seen the double-helix shape in person.”

Your ears perked up a little. Spencer entranced you. You were intelligent, that was no question. But the knowledge you had was largely to do with history and literature- his extensive experience in science and math was intensely impressive to you. You managed a simple- “really?”

“Mhm. We, well- James Watson and Francis Crick originally discovered the structure in 1953. DNA is just too small to see on a microscope, so they had to get..”

“Creative?” You added. He beamed.

“Creative, yeah. Exactly.”

You fidgeted with your pen, eyes glued to his as he spoke.

“Anyway, it was Rosalind Franklin who made the discovery. She used a special technique, called X-Ray crystallography.”

You cocked your head to the side- “and what’s that?”

“It’s.. well,” Reid has been caught a bit off guard. He was talking for so long, wrapped in the throes of his story, he didn’t realize how attentive you were to his words. He examined how you were sat, legs hanging off the side of his desk, eyes on his, clinging to every word and every sentence with a genuine interest and passion he had never seen before. It was mesmerizing how willing you were to hear what he had to say.

“It’s a special kind of microscopic photography where you beam X-Rays through the crystallized version of your substance.. you gotta use a special camera.”

“Hm..” you agreed. “So they did that, and took a.. picture of the DNA?”

He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, pausing for a moment. “um, sort of- the actual photograph- it’s called ‘photo 51’.. is actually more of a, uh.. blurry blob. But if you look closely, it sort of resembles a double helix- from the top, of course.”

“Wow, that’s.. really cool.”

He grinned. “You.. think so?”

“Absolutely.” You assured. “I mean.. other people are nice and all, but does Rossi, or.. Morgan.. do either of them know what the hell X-Ray crystallography is?” And let a laugh slip. “I think not.”

“Yeah, they.. probably don’t.”

A small, comfortable silence fell over you, and he observed you for a moment.

It was dark in the office, but your face was lit in a dim amber by his desk lamp. You spun a plain gold ring on your finger, your leg tapping against the desk. You looked so.. relaxed, so effortless. And yet, Spencer’s mind was churning.

“Thank you.” He remarked quietly.

“Hm?” You furrowed your brow in confusion. “Thank me for.. what?”

He turned his chair to meet your eyes, your faces closer than you had originally anticipated.

“for listening. I tend to.. ramble. After a while, I suppose people stop listening.”

You frowned. The thought of any singular idea in Spencer’s brilliant mind being dismissed as rambling was intensely troubling to you. “I think your rambling is cute. And besides- people who aren’t smart enough to understand your words tune you out because they’re overwhelmed. Their problem, I think. Not yours.” You murmured.

Spencer, still stuck on the first part of your sentence- looked up at you with hopeful eyes. “..you think im cute?”

You paused, and another silence washed over you two. You were painfully close, and the tension between you sparked from a sole ember to a lightly burning flame, soft and assuring.

You gave a little nod.

His eyes flickered down to your lips, and back up again.

And that look. Just that one look- pleading, hopeful brown eyes behind glasses was enough to bundle up and throw away any shred of resistance you had. Still sat on the desk, you leaned forward, your hands on the edge of the table, pressing an impatient but respectable kiss to his lips. It didn’t take long for him to reciprocate.

Placing his hands on the sides of your face, he pulled you in closer. The fire was stoked, warmth washing between the two of you as he tried against anatomical reason to pull your lips impossibly closer to his. you leaned in closer, hands on his wrists as his tongue slipped past your bruised lips- a silent plea for closeness. His fingers intertwined with your hair, but you didn’t mind the tugging sensation. Not with the fireworks going off in your chest.

When you pulled away you were both gasping for breath. His hands still on your face, the two of you so close you could feel his breath fan across your features. It was so painfully intimate- because there was no sexual intent behind the kiss. It was pure adoration, indulgence- a kiss solely for the purpose of kissing.

You were sure you looked a mess- partially because he did. Glasses fogged, hair tousled and face flushed, he adjusted his tie and sat up straight.

“Um.. tell me more about X rays.” You stammered.

“Yeah, yeah- good idea.” He grinned.

[peariote]

like them? ── .✦ patrick zweig x reader

hallo!! this is more a character study than anything. his loser ways intrigue me. not really happy with the ending :[ hope you enjoy anyways ‪♡. 2k words.

You were perfect.

Your glacé demeanor was the thing that drew him to you. Screw what anyone else said, he deserved a minute amount of softness once in a blue moon.

Especially after a particularly humiliating challenger.

So what if he was distracted by you? That doesn't account for his less than stellar performance, surely (he can blame the motel mattress for the crick in his back) but it sure contributed. That toothy grin was lethal, and you didn't even know it.

He was drawn back to your sparkling eyes every time he hit, the sound of the thwack fading into the back of his mind. He knew you wouldn't catch him—you were watching the ball flicker over the net with every hard strike.

It was only inevitable you would catch him.

The ball sails past him, slamming into the rusted, chain-link fence with a loud crash. It tauntingly lodged in one of the openings. As your eyes dart to catch its motion, you instead catch his dark gaze right on yours.

Patrick plucks the ball from its sunken position and pockets it, shoving it into his too-big shorts. He swore they fit a couple months ago.

He shuffles off the court after a half-hearted handshake with his (much) younger opponent, who gives him a movie star grin—like he’d won Wimbledon and not a backwater challenger.

You're waiting for him at the barrier, hands pressing into the metal. It's gotten a bit nippier, recently, in the late November month.

The sight of your trembling shoulders and fixed gaze makes him bold enough to invite you for a bite to eat.

He’s cute, all bumbling motions and wry, nervous smirks. His hip hits the barrier after one particularly eager motion. He thinks he hides his resulting wince well.

(He does not.)

You ended up in a diner. There were two in the town. He’d learned from the woman at the motel. He only heard half of her sentence as he was dead on his feet, but he distinctly remembers being told one was "absolute shit."

When he took a sip of jet black coffee and felt the bitter, smooth burn on his tongue, he knew he chose the right one.

He tries to start conversation. A cough instantly lodges the second he tries to speak, catching on the buildup in his throat.

“-sorry. Yeah, so… why were you here to watch?” You definitely look too cool for this town. Too cool for him, which is a sentence he never thought he’d think. His younger self would be aghast.

You purse your lips familiarly, and suddenly it's not you sitting across from him but her, tawny skin matte in the diner's shitty lighting and messy braid slung over one shoulder. Your words snap him out of his revere.

"Oh, well, I'm just a fan. You've got such a explosive style... I like it."

Well that's something she'd never say.

The unfamiliar kindness to your tone makes him smile crookedly.

He's different that night, around you. Not that you'd know.

His soft laughter rings through the almost-empty diner. You'd both ordered food by now—just waiting it to be delivered from the noisy kitchen. He can't remember exactly what you'd said that made him laugh like that, tinkling in a way he'd never let escape him before, but he finds he can't really remember.

When your food comes, you do this polite little shimmy back, eyes following the plate of pancakes as it's placed down in front of you. Jesus, that's familiar. He misses seeing how his eyes would go big at every meal, eagerly taking in the veritable mountain of food in front of him.

Then, his hot plate of eggs and toast is placed down in front of him and he can't help but dig in. He forgets all about him, if only for a moment, at the melt of warm, cheesy eggs on his tongue. Yep. Definitely the good diner.

One thing he's used to—feeling hungry. For food, for people, for happiness.

It leads to impulses. Bad ones.

He's accepted dates from so many sleazes. Let them push him and treat him wrong for reasons he doesn't want to think about can't understand.

Whatever. Introspection's a bitch.

He prefers to let them feed him on their dime and then have the mediocre sex they expect from him for their kindness. He slips out after they fall asleep and returns to his apartment or motel room (or car, when it's that bad.)

Oddly enough, you don't give him those urges. The results of his mindless swiping don't feel like the little meet-cute he'd fallen into.

The last thing he expects to do is to slip you his number he scrawled on the receipt for the bill you split. Can't imagine why he's kissing your cheek under the awning, protecting you both from the rain before waving you off—giggling, actually laughing at the view of you as you run to your car, hood pulled up over your head.

Not even a thought ran through him about propositioning you.

He returns to his stuffy motel room, peels off his shirt at the muted hum of the shitty AC. Broken again. He'll be gone by morning, anyway.

Slumping back against the mattress, his eyelids press visions of light eyes and curling hair to his mind. They don't feel as oppressive, as terrifying when their intercut with your voice, your smile.

The next time he sees you, it's colder. Far into winter, his breaths puff clouds into the air. The city is windier than the small town you'd met in, the skyscrapers tunneling the frigid air right against his back.

This was a long time coming. You'd think him younger (or busier) with the way he's glued to his phone—awaiting your messages and, later, calls.

He definitely feels younger; less like a man in his early thirties and more like a teenage girl. He hadn't crushed like this since—

That's enough of that.

The long trudge to your apartment was only caused by the less-than-ideal parking your old building had. By the time he made it to your doorstep, ringing the bell with tingling fingers and rubbing his reddening nose, he was thoroughly frozen.

His clothes was less than ideal, too—unused to being in a place that snows during the winter months. He runs from the freezing temperatures, fearing the slowness they bring and the idleness that may trap him. He flees to California and Florida for the winter, creeping around the coast and clinging on to the barest hints of heat that remain there.

Your apartment is his California, now.

The second the door opens, he's hit with a wave of warmth. The warm air seeps over his skin, coming from the rumbling heater and the scattered burning candles and the happily humming oven.

Yeah. He could get used to that. Especially the bright smile on your face at the sight of him, nose red and eyes squinted despondently.

"Pat. Come in. Jeez—you look cold."

Being swept into your apartment felt intimate. His shoulders tensed at the tug of his coat, unwilling to part with it even if you were just trying to be a good hostess—

Yet, as soon as the heavy fabric slipped off his back, he realized how laden it had been with ice and melted snow, keeping the chill pressed to his skin.

The flannel he had on underneath, layered over a long-sleeve, was much warmer. It seemed to absorb from the air and from his own body heat, insulating his trembling arms. His frozen hands rise to rub at his biceps, before slipping up to bathe in the pocket of heat it'd created.

He doesn't even notice being led to the couch, pressed into the cushion by your gentle hands. He settles heavily against one of your throw pillows.

The bustle of you in the kitchen is firmly background noise now, the faint clicking of a mechanical timer buzzing on the counter. Without the cumbersome weight of the cold, the desire for sleep enfolds his mind. His eyelids droop heavy, burdened no more with gelid crystals of ice.

A melting droplet slips down his cheek, followed soon by a salty one. They runoff, fading into the throw pillow that bears his curly head.

He's knocked out before the timer even beeps.

“Hey, hey.” Is softly cooed in his ear, a warm hand shaking his shoulder.

Oh. It’s Art, waking him up for practice—whatever, five more minutes. He attempts to shrug off the touch and flop on his belly, but his resting place feels smaller than his bed was at Mark Rebellato.

No, the fingers are too slim, and this is definitely closer to twin-sized. Tashi, then. Dude, he just got back from tour yesterday. He huffs and grumbles and tries to roll over again. Can’t she let him sleep in—

But he keeps getting shaken, and he blinks open bleary eyes to find no hint of… them. Just you, blinking down at him with a steaming bowl clutched in your other hand.

His sleep-crusted eyes flutter, caught off-guard at the rush of memories and then the brutal battering of your visage on his brain. Right. You're here, with him—or he's here, with you. In your apartment, on your couch. He'd fallen asleep.

"Dinner, Pat. Have you gotten thinner?"

He probably has. He accepts the bowl greedily, digging the offered fork deep into the white rice and chicken, dripping with a sauce he's never had but supremely enjoys.

It's different, home-cooked meals. He'd never had one, a true one, until he'd met him. To have a member of the family cook and pour hours into a dish was something he'd never seen. He usually didn't even glimpse the cooks, and was shooed from the bustling kitchen anytime he so much as tried to peek in.

The presentation wasn't the masterful art he'd grown to know, with perfectly placed leaves and round dollops of puree. But it steamed, wafting scents into his nose. He appreciated every bite.

You'd flipped on the TV while he was devouring the meal. Once he zones back in, he hears it—a droning voice enunciating familiar words.

"This is live coverage of the Australian Open, looks like the Donaldsons are coming in now—"

His head shoots up.

Gaze contacting with the screen, he glimpses cropped blond and a newly-cut bob. His eyes are downcast, following obediently behind her like an acolyte. Occasionally, he sees his gaze dart up, as if she'd acknowledge him and stray from her warpath.

Yeah, he's seen this before. Keep pushing, Sisyphus. She's no Orpheus.

He finds the strength to turn it off. His thin fingers tug the remote from your lap, impacting the little red button harshly. The place of it on your coffee table echoes.

"...can we go to bed?"

He's never been cradled like this before. After you'd fussed, shoved him into a too-big sweatshirt (he doesn't know where you got it) and graciously let him take his jeans off, you tugged him to your chest and buried your nose in his still-damp hair.

His hands are still warm from the bowl when they snake over your skin. Bared thighs slot against yours, pulled close and tangled in the web that is you.

Usually, he'd struggle. Resist the pull and tug of silken, sticky threads—each one only entrapping him further.

This time, he sinks into them. Surrenders, like a venom-laded fly to be wrapped and ensnared. The sounds of your breathing soothe his restless mind.

You're no longer him, with his smile and the youthful glimmer he used to see. Or her, with your funny, but scathing commentary. He doesn't see her in your focused looks, or hear him in your laughs. They meld together, swirled and blended into an amalgamation.

You soothe the roughened edges of the image. There's no cutting feeling in his gut or the curl of a vice around his ribs.

Just the press of your collarbone against his forehead and your breath through his short tresses.

[anonmousegosqueak]

141 on a plane. I think they all act so different when it's commercial flight versus mission flights. On missions, they're calm and focused, getting into the zone. But commercial flights? Johnny fidgets, can't sit still for more than two hours. John is too paranoid to do anything except sit in the silence, no sleeping, no headphones, won't even get food or drinks. Simon is passed out sleeping, but he's so fucking uncomfortable, buys the either seat on each side of him so he can put the arm rests up. Kyle is blasting music in his headphones, sharing with Johnny (who forgot his) and making sure he bought water and snacks before take off for John.

-🦴 (from a plane)

:(

I used to fly a lot (too and from Texas twice a year to visit the grandparents) but then I didn't. And as y'all know I was on a plane just a few weeks ago. And y'know what? I'm done. I'm okay, thank you. No more flying for me!

Alright, yapping time!

Nikolai: I know you didn't have him in your original ask but... Bro is fidgety. He hates it. He's supposed to be the pilot, not the passenger! He's either silently cussing under his breath the entire time or he's flustering poor Price (it's a good form of distraction). Yeah he's making jokes like "hey, I'm not flying now so I guess my hands are free ;)" but internally he's screaming.

Price: as stated above, he's *not* having a good time. Yeah he knows how to control himself but he's absolutely freaking out under the surface. He's literally in a death tube being flown by someone he never met, and he's supposed to be calm?! No thanks, Nik is his only pilot.

Ghost: okay I think everyone is miserable? He gets really sleepy on plains (like my sibling) but he can never get comfortable (unlike my sibling- HOW DO YOU SLEEP SO GOOD??) Sometimes he just gives up and ends up disassociating while staring into the seatbelt sign for an hour. It always freaks everyone out and he's been told to stop many a time. Also if you think any of these men are going to fit into that tiny airplane seat?? Anyways, he lands with a crick in his neck and a taste for blood.

Soap: baby. Hunny. If you think this man is sitting still in a tiny seat for an hour+? It's TORTURE for him. He's got that ADHD that means if it's not a life or death situation, boy is fidgeting. He also always steals the safety manual they put in the seat pocket in front of you, don't ask how or why. BUT- if he has a big strong Lt. next to him...? He could find a way to pass the time~ (aka he passes out on his shoulder and snores in his ear)

Gaz: the only one having a decent time. It's not like he likes flying, I don't think anyone does, but he probably hates it the least. He'll absolutely flirt with the stewardess for an extra bag of pretzels, supply everyone with snacks and water, and even provide distraction for those who need it. 10/10, sitting next to this guy is great. His momma said he was a good flyer as a kid, he ain't gonna make her disappointed!

Roach: I think he's a 50/50. On the one hand, he likes airplanes. He thinks they are neat. He likes the cramped space, the cool view, heck he likes comparing things with what he learned from Nik! The one problem though? His ears pop BAD. I'm talking crying from pain, unable to hear and head feeling like it's gonna explode. It's the one thing he can't stand, and of course it's extra hard for him because life (me lmao) wants him to suffer apparently.

Red: Red is not allowed on plains. You cause *one* bathroom fire and all of a sudden your "banned from flying" and "a hazard". They say it's bullshit, everyone else says it's 100% fair and probably for the safety of anyone and everyone on board.

[stayandot8]

Dreams

Genre: fluff

Relationship type: bsfriend!Chan x fem reader

Important Contents: it came to me in a dream, what can I say.

WC: 1k

masterlist

It was one of those dreams again.

I came to my senses always before I wanted to. Right when the dream was getting good, I would become very aware that there was a bright light coming from somewhere, a window maybe. My next notion was that my blankets were too hot; my fan wasn’t quite doing its job. Sucky fan. 

Yet another dream about finding the love of my life with blackish-brown hair, a big smile, and a laugh that filled your soul. This one felt so real though. We had been in this big house with all of his friends and my friends and they were desperate to see us get together and of course, all of the attempts were obvious. The boy was blushing so hard his ears turned red, but he never asked them to stop. My friends were doing everything they could to clear a room for us. I tried to shoot them pleading looks all night but to no avail.

It felt earlier than normal. I was certain my alarm would go off any second now to pull me away from this happy middle ground I was in the middle of. It was such a nice dream that I thought if I could just drift off again, I could go back to it. But the blankets were too hot, my breathing was too shallow, and I felt myself slowly rise from that dreamland, probably never to be found again.

But things were different. 

Outside of my consciousness, the air around me was off. The familiar scent of my bedroom wasn’t filling my nostrils like it should have. No, instead, the smell of something…edible…

It was still a struggle to open my eyes. A blur, everything blurred together and I couldn’t see straight. That’s what I blamed it on, anyway. Because there was no way that most of the stuff in my bedroom was black. And where did those LED lights come from? Where is my phone? Whose fucking house am I in??

A knock on the door brought my bleariness to full alert. And then that boy that I had been dreaming about came through the door. Eyes soft, black hair with some curls poking through, and a soft smile that made my heart jump. He was bringing a plate of something over to the bed that I was laying on, face-first into a pillow. 

“Hey, sunshine.” 

I grumbled something incoherent. 

“Tough night, huh?”

I furrowed my brows, and looked at him through my smushed face. Huh?

“What are you on about, Bang?” 

“You crashed pretty hard last night. You would barely move off the couch.”

“Then how did I get here?”

“I had to carry you so you wouldn’t get a crick in your neck.” His laugh squeaked out of him. “After everyone left, you passed out.”

“How drunk was I?”

“You started renaming all of our Skzoos. What does that tell you?”

I chuckled at the memory that was then coming back to me. “Oh yeah. Leebitch.”

“You named Bbokari ‘Dinner’, which was very creative by the way. Felix is waiting for your apology. And that was just the start.” He laughed. “You tried to draw vampire teeth on WolfChan before I took the marker away from you.”

I scoffed. “You should see what Stay says about that music video, vampire man.” He squeaked out another laugh.

“Oh, I know.” A pause as he looked over at me, in his bed. A question came to mind. 

“If I slept here, where did you sleep?”

“You wouldn’t let me leave. You have an iron grip when you’re drunk. I couldn’t even get up to brush my teeth.” 

“Which I bet was the first thing you did this morning, wasn’t it.”

“...Maybe.” He handed me the plate of kimchi stir fry he had brought and settled on the empty side of the bed. “So…do you remember what happened last night?”

My fork froze mid-air. “Uhm…Not really. Fill me in?” I said, staring at the plate. 

“Everyone was teasing you about me. Any ideas why?”

“Did Minho make this? Because it’s really good.” I scarfed down more so my mouth was full.

“After your conversation with Felix, everyone made themselves scarce. Which was convenient, I thought, considering your plan.”

I swallowed. “Plan? What plan?” I braced, unsure if I wanted to hear my drunken foretellings of what I had wanted to go down last night. I had an inkling of course, given my hidden undying love for the boy sitting in front of me but would I say that out loud?

“Your plan to get me to fall in love with you after everyone leaves.”

Shit. Yes, yes I would say it out loud. 

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

I snorted, trying to let my attempt at ease become real.

“Now why would I say a thing like that? That’s…crazy, Preposterous, even. That’s sooo unlike anything I would ever say.”

“Oh yeah?” Chris raised his eyebrows at me, peering at me like I had stolen something. That shut me up. I just stared at him. 

“Why are you not freaking out?”

“Because your plan worked.”

I choked on the rice. After a serious coughing fit and the tears stopped welling up, it was all I could do to continue to stare blankly at him and just say “What?”

“Dude. I’ve been in love with you for several months now.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been professed to while it is being proceeded by the word ‘dude’.” He just kept laughing. 

“Sorry, it slipped out. But I mean it.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just stared. 

“You can keep staring at me after you take a shower, I promise.”

That broke me of my stupor. 

“Did you just tell the love of your life that she smells?”

“Who said you’re the love of my life?” He called over his shoulder, heading to the bathroom. 

“I believe I did. Just now.” Climbing out of bed was a struggle, but the giddyness of the events that had just unfolded was enough motivation. “Are you joining me in this shower?”

“Maybe!”

[blackbirdi]

Rain and Realizations

Brief Description: James is so in love with Y/n and Y/n loves the rain.

Point of View: 3rd Person

Word Count: 797

Character: James Potter x Reader

James and Y/n were studying in the common room together. Well, Y/n was studying, James was just there to have an excuse to stare at Y/n for hours on end.

Outside, rain clouds were gathering, darkening the ground of Hogwarts, and sending students inside at the threat of rain soaking them to the bone.

Y/n lifted her head after what felt like years of studying to adjust her neck; thanks to looking down at her work for so long, she had gotten a crick in it. She smiled at James (who returned it with a lovesick smile) before she looked out the window. Her smile widened as she saw that rain had begun to fall.

"James, look," she said softly, pointing at the window. "It's raining!"

James swooned. Merlin, did he love the sound of her voice.

His eyes finally left Y/n as he turned towards the window. The sky outside was dark, covered by grey clouds compared to the usual bright blue that it normally was. Raindrops hit against the window pane, racing down the glass; it was indeed raining.

"It is," James replied, looking back at Y/n. "What does it matter?"

"I love the rain," Y/n cooed, looking at the window longingly. She gazed out the window for a moment longer, then her face lit up and she turned to James. "We should go out there," she suggested.

James hesitated to reply. He would hate to reject her proposal and make her sad, but he'd also rather not go outside in the pouring rain and get soaked to the bone.

Sensing James's hesitation, Y/n pleaded, "Come on, please, Jamie?"

Red bloomed across James's face, he looked away from her in shyness as she used his nickname, reserved for her, and only her.

How could he say no to her when she was practically begging him?

"I – okay," James sighed, finally agreeing with her.

Y/n grinned happily, quickly packing her things away as James followed suit. Her things were put away faster than James, as she tossed her book bag to a corner of the common room where no one would touch it.

"Hurry up, James," she urged him, rushing towards the portrait hole, waiting eagerly to get outside.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," James reassured her, setting his book bag down next to hers before walking over to her.

When James was close enough, Y/n grabbed his hand, rushing them both out for the common room, through multiple corridors, and down into the courtyard.

The rain was falling down from the clouds in a light drizzle, the perfect kind of rain for Y/n. For James, it was another story: his vision had been blocked from the rain smearing his glasses. Y/n giggled as she realized this, taking a step closer to James and removing his glasses from his face.

"Can you still see?" Y/n asked him.

"Yeah," James whispered.

He almost couldn't catch his breath with her this close, her face inches from his. His head felt funny as her scent invaded his nose, not even the rain unable to block out her lavender scented perfume.

Y/n looked away from him, holding his glasses tightly in her hands, being careful to not break or drop them.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Y/n murmured, smiling softly as she looked across the courtyard, then up at the sky, the rain hitting her face and cooling her down.

"Yeah," James agreed, looking at Y/n longingly. "It really is."

And in that moment, that very moment, James realized just how in love with her he really was.

All he could see, all he could think about, everything came back to her. Whenever someone smiled, all he wanted was to see hers. Whenever someone laughed, all he wanted was to hear hers. Whenever he made eye contact with someone, all he wanted was to gaze into hers. Whenever he was alone, he craved her presence. He was in love, madly and wildly in love with Y/n L/n.

But she didn't love her, and that much was easy to see for him. Sure, he knew that he meant a lot to her, that she cared for him, but she cared about everyone, all her friends meant a lot to her. And that's all he was to her: a friend.

But he could live with that, right? It was enough to be her friend, right? He still got to help her when she was down, laugh with her whenever she broke into a fit of giggles, be at her side though everything. That was enough, wasn't it? Even though it wasn't in the way he wanted, he still had her. And that would be enough, right?

Right?

[juniper-sunny]

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 8

Vander gets your hopes up, and Silco shares some unnerving news with you...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Fix-It || SFW | WC: 3.6k

beta reader (and OC cameo!): @silcoitus <333

ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

You wake gradually, sleep still lingering in your bones as you lift your head off the armrest. The crick in your neck and the stiffness in your knees are uncomfortable. Sluggishly, you unfold yourself from the cramped sitting position you slept in, unsticking yourself from the furniture. A thick, patched blanket slides off your shoulders as you stand, and you see that Silco is covered with another, similar blanket.

It’s hard not to stare at him while you stretch. He looks so calm and peaceful, still deeply asleep. You caught a glimpse of him with his guard down last night, but right now he looks completely defenseless. His chest rises and falls with the slow rhythm of ocean waves on a calm night. Light from behind the door leaks into the room, illuminating a dust mote in the air uncurling lazily against his cheek.

For a second, you wish that the couch was wide enough for you to join him, his chest slotted against your back and your fingers entwined… Sharing the warmth of your bodies... Savoring his breath against your neck… Feeling his heartbeat against your spine… Waking him with a soft kiss—

You blush and tiptoe quickly over to your boots, grabbing them before you make your way out of the room as quietly as you can. When you exit, you concentrate on closing the door silently, gripping the handle tight as you shut the door. Then you put on and lace up your shoes. 

Slow, heavy footfalls approach you, and you look down the hallway to see Vander rubbing his eyes and yawning.

 “Good morning,” you say politely to him.

 “Morning,” he says warmly, voice still gravelly from sleep. “Silco still asleep?”

“Yeah,” you say. Curiosity gets the better of you as you ask, “Does he always drink that much?”

Vander shakes his head. “Only when he’s having a good time. Do you want to stay for breakfast?”

“No, I have to get going,” you say regretfully.

“You sure about that? We won’t mind the company.”

“Yeah, thanks though. I appreciate it.”

“I’ll walk you out then,” Vander says. He sweeps his hand up towards the doorway that leads into the pub, gesturing for you to walk ahead of him. You curtsey jokingly and he chuckles.

The Last Drop feels like an alien landscape with all the lights off, the dim outlines of the stacked furniture sitting stoically like rocks in a desert. At least it’s much easier to navigate when all the chairs are put up on the tables. You pat the jukebox affectionately when you pass by it.

When you arrive at the door, you turn to Vander with a smile. “Thanks for last night. I had fun!”

“We were glad to have you,” he says sincerely.

Before you can reach out for the handle, Vander pulls a ring of keys out of his pocket.

“Feel free to come back anytime,” Vander says as he examines the keys. He thumbs through them one by one, squinting at them. “The Children are meeting here tonight. You’re welcome to join us, if you like.”

“Oh…” you say hesitantly.

“I’m sure Silco would love to see you.”

“I’ll… think about it,” you say slowly.

“You know that spark in his eye? The one he gets whenever he talks about the Undercity?” he asks. “He looks at you the same way.”

“Really…?” you ask, trying to sound casual. 

You know that look Vander is talking about: the fire of Silco’s passion blazes bright whenever he speaks of Zaun’s independence. His determination to seize that future is almost ruthless. Just the mere anticipation of fulfilling that dream gives him so much hope and joy.

It seems unbelievable that he would want you just as badly. But the bartender has been Silco’s best friend for over a decade. If anyone knows what Silco wants, it would be Vander.

“Ah, here we are,” Vander says as he picks out a key. He unlocks the door and pushes it open for you.

You don’t move, still lost in thought. Vander calls out your name questioningly.

“Sorry,” you say quickly. You ponder briefly before you ask, “Are you guys—the Children—doing anything before the meeting?”

The bartender shakes his head, then he grins knowingly at you. “Silco should be free for the day.”

You blush and quickly step out into the Lanes, still avoiding Vander’s eyes as you ask, “Could you tell him to meet me at my place if he wants to hang out today?”

“Sure,” he promises.

“Thanks,” you tell him gratefully. You wave goodbye at him as you hurry away, still unable to outrun the unpleasant thoughts that creep up on you.

So, it’s official… Silco wants you to join the Children. You didn’t tell him last night, but you already know what answer you’re going to give him. 

And it’s not the one he wants to hear. 

Knowing Silco, he’ll ask you why. You could tell him that you already have a full-time job, but that’s not the only reason.

For the sake of your friendship, you’ll have to be honest with him.

He deserves to know the whole story. To learn about secrets that you’ve kept from him.  

Even if they paint you in a bad light.

It’s ironic that you have to tell him these things soon, just as you’ve finally acknowledged your feelings for him. You want to tell him the truth so he might better understand you, but that truth might drive him away altogether.  

The anxiety caused by your stalker was already bad enough, but this new worry is imminent, dragging you into rising waters of uncertainty. When exactly should you tell him? Is there a chance he already knows? What if he doesn’t care?

Will he still want you to join the Children?

What if he doesn’t want to be friends anymore? 

What if he’ll hate you?

All these questions and more buzz unpleasantly in your stomach, a cramping pain that has you clutching your side as you run home. Somehow, your body acts on autopilot as you reach your apartment, shower, make breakfast, and get ready for the day. Your throat strains every time you swallow your food, a stone lodged in your throat.

You realize belatedly that you hadn’t set a time for Silco to meet you. Just as you’re about to succumb to unhappy thoughts and climb into your bed, someone knocks at your door. The sound makes you jump, and you almost trip over yourself in your haste to look through the peephole. You step back and take a few deep breaths to compose yourself. Then, as casually as possible, you open the door.

Silco stands there, tall and handsome, shielding his face from the morning sun. It’s a cloudy day and forecasted to rain later tonight, but his cheerful grin would outshine all the stars in the sky even on a cloudless summer day. 

Your bad mood dissipates instantly at seeing him on your threshold, and you almost laugh aloud with relief.

“Good morning,” you say happily. You notice your jacket slung over his arm. Something about seeing him hold it for you makes your heart glow warm. “How are you holding up?”

“Good morning,” he says affectionately. “I’m well, thank you for asking. How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks. I thought you’d be hungover,” you chuckle, stepping back to let him in.

“Only for a little while. I wanted to see you,” he says. His casual remark sends a thrill rocketing through your heart, and you turn away from him to hide your blushing face. He sighs with frustration; you don’t need to look at him to know that he’s pinching between his eyebrows. “I must apologize for my behavior last night. It wasn’t my intention to burden you once again—”

“Silco, it’s okay,” you say automatically. But then you look at him with a smirk. “I won’t say no if you want to make it up to me, though.”

“There is nothing I could do that would adequately demonstrate the depths of my gratitude,” he says, holding your jacket out to you. “But I would do anything you ask of me.” 

“I’m not going to lie, I was hoping you’d say that,” you say eagerly, taking your jacket from him and putting it on. “How do you feel about doing some community service?”

________________________________________

 You hadn’t found an opportunity until today to tell Silco that you still regularly volunteer at Janna’s Embrace, the orphanage where you used to live. You could have told him the first time he slept over at your place, but you kept it to yourself. Bringing attention to your charity work felt too much like showing off that you were helping the Undercity, too; you’re not a mercenary, but you’re just as involved in community outreach as he is. Now that he’s agreed to help you, it seems more acceptable to share that part of you with him. 

Your flexible schedule as a freelancer allows you to drop in whenever you want. You’ve offered to work as a part-time employee there, but the staff include people who have supported and nurtured your love for painting ever since you were a child. They insist that you should focus on your one true calling as an artist. They still appreciate your help, though, and never turn you or your donations away.

Today’s errands involve a food run for the Embrace. The two of you set off for Topside with an old, well-used grocery wagon in tow, its wheels clattering on the cobblestone streets. Silco insists on taking it from you, but you refuse him for now, telling him he can pull it later. Your shopping list is long enough that you’ll want his help carrying everything.

It’s early afternoon by the time you arrive at the farmer’s market. The wide, open courtyard in Midtown Piltover is filled with neat rows of vendors and stalls. You’re both drawn in by the sheer bustle and life of the area, already filled with a milling crowd of shoppers. Lively merchants call out their wares, showing off imported goods from far-off lands. Artisans and hobbyists proudly display handmade crafts, haggling spiritedly with customers. A street performer with tiny pyrotechnics dazzles a small herd of children who shriek with awe and delight. Upbeat, joyful guitar music fills the air, played by a beautiful, pink-haired woman who smiles as brilliantly as a firework when you drop several coins into her open instrument case.

This area is one of the only places worth visiting in Topside, and it’s one of your favorites. You stop yourself from speedwalking directly to your regular booths. Instead, you take your time to explore each row with Silco, pointing out any stands that might pique his interest. 

A seller of hunting knives catches his eye. Silco examines the weapons keenly, picking them up one at a time and testing their sharpness against his fingertip. You tell him that he should take as much time as he wants to browse. It feels like a victory when he finds a knife of polished Noxian steel and buys it after a round of enthusiastic haggling, tucking it into his belt.

The grocery wagon gradually fills with eggs, meats, fruits, vegetables, rice, breads, snacks, spices, sauces, and cooking oils. All too soon, your shopping list is completely crossed out, the wagon overflowing with your bounty. 

You wish you could spend more time hanging with Silco, but duty calls.

“Was there anything else you wanted to look at?” you ask. “I’m ready to go if you are.” 

“Do you have a moment?” he asks. His face is solemn, an intense shine in his eyes. “I’d like to speak more about last night.” 

“…sure,” you say, feeling uneasy. You swallow nervously and tighten your grip on the wagon’s handle. Bracing yourself for Silco’s disappointment isn’t easy, but it’s better to get it over with sooner rather than later. 

The two of you make your way to an empty bench near a fountain, sitting down in sync. Silco leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and slowly wringing his hands.

“I must apologize again for last night,” he says, agitated. “I would like for you to join the Children, but I didn’t mean for you to find out in such a disagreeable manner.”

 “It’s okay,” you reassure him. “I don’t know why you want me to join, though.”

 He frowns at that, then sits up. He looks straight at you with a steady gaze. Even though his eyes are gentle, you can’t help but feel self-conscious. Somehow, his soft stare makes you feel even more vulnerable than his piercing scrutiny. It takes a monumental effort to not look away.

“You are kind, resourceful, generous, and brave,” he says seriously. His lip twitches upward in a hint of a smile when you blush. “The Children of Zaun would benefit greatly if you joined our ranks, and I believe you would as well.”

“Do all your sales pitches start with a compliment?” you ask with a nervous chuckle. You look away from him to rearrange a bag of onions in the wagon. When you imagine Silco trying to persuade Sevika to join the Children by complimenting her, you almost giggle out loud at the thought of her giving him an indifferent stare. 

Silco’s lips settle into a thin line, all humor fading away. You cringe at yourself inwardly, wondering if you said something wrong.

“I don’t wish to alarm you,” he starts grimly. “But I have reason to believe that someone has been trying to follow you.”

“Really?” you ask, surprised at the change of topic.

He nods. “Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. I’ve noticed them approaching the mural on multiple occasions, only when you’re there as well. I’m afraid my attempts to track them down have been unsuccessful.”

“You did that for me?” you ask, touched by his concern.

His eyes dart to the ground, hands balling into fists on his knees. A muscle in his cheek twitches as he admits, “They have proven themselves elusive.”

“Silco, it’s okay,” you reassure him. “If you can’t catch them, there’s no way in hell I could. Besides, it’s probably nothing.”

He turns to look at you with furrowed eyebrows, a suspicious glare in his eyes. “Were you aware of them already?”

“Yeah,” you admit. Despite the stress that the stalker has caused you recently, you feel a sudden embarrassment that they’ve caught Silco’s attention, and that your inaction could be perceived as laziness. You’re hopeful that the problem will go away on its own. 

Before you can tell him that, he jumps to his feet, swerving around to face you.

“How long have you known?!” he asks angrily. His fury turns the rasp in his voice harsh and grating. 

“It’s not a big deal,” you say, leaning away from him in alarm. “It’s not like anything happened—”

“They know where you work! What if they know where you live?”

“They don’t—”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I know how to lose a stalker, Silco,” you say defensively. “I can take care of myself.”

“Is this why you came to The Last Drop?” he demands.

“I—I was just in the neighborhood—”

He calls out your name, cutting you off. His hard glare dares you to lie to him again, as sharp as the brand new knife in his belt.

“…yeah, okay, I wasn’t sure if they were following me last night,” you mutter.

He raises his hackles, asking you through gritted teeth, “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“I… I didn’t want to bother you,” you say quietly, biting your lip. Reluctant to involve Silco in your problems, you feel a hot, twisting shame at not handling this on your own. Compounded by a sudden, horrifying realization that you might have made a mistake, you gasp. “I—I might have fucked up—I hope I didn’t lead them to The Last Drop.”

“Never mind that,” he says impatiently.

“Silco—”

“We just need to scare them,” he says firmly. “They won’t dare set foot in the underground again.”

The thought of the stalker targeting your friend scares you more than them targeting you. You clench your trembling hands into fists, holding them up to your chest as your heart hammers. “But—but what if they go after you?”

“I’m perfectly capable of handling them on my own,” he says confidently. “From my observations, this is a single individual we’re dealing with.”

You grind a fist into your knee, frustrated at your own carelessness. “I’m sorry, I should have told you—”

He says your name again, more gently this time. His irritation at you melts away, replaced by remorse as he says, “I’m the one who must apologize. I would have told you sooner, but I wanted to confirm my suspicions first. I hadn’t realized that my negligence was endangering you.”

“No way!” you say, shocked. “It’s not your fault, Silco. I don’t want you to ever think that.”

Silco carefully pushes the wagon away with his foot, making room for him to kneel in front of you. He gently takes one of your hands in both of his. His eyes are earnest and bright as he looks up at you.

“You once told me to value my own well-being more highly. I am asking you to do the same,” he says softly. “There’s no need for you to suffer in silence. Let me help you.”

“Don’t you have better things to do?” you ask jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.

“If I can’t save my friends, then who am I to save the whole of the underground?” he says, squeezing your hand tightly.

Your hand is warm in the cocoon of Silco’s light grip, your fingertips grazing a callus on his palm. The largest one is at the base of his thumb, developed over years of hard living as a miner and fighter. You press against it lightly, and his hand twitches in response. 

Your own hands must feel squishy and weak compared to his. As glad as you are to have dodged a career of intense physical labor, you would feel less pathetic right now if you were stronger. 

It was never your intention to ask Silco for his help. A small part of you whispers that you don’t deserve it. That he already has his hands full with saving the Undercity, so he has more important things to worry about. If he wants to see a free and independent Nation of Zaun in his lifetime, then he doesn’t have time to spare on your stupid little problems.

“You don’t have to do this—” you say quietly.

“There is nothing else I’d rather do,” Silco insists. “Let me stand guard while you work. I can accompany you whenever you visit the Undercity as well.”

“I don’t want you to waste your time—”

“No time spent with you is wasted. Ever,” he says sternly. “Please. If not for you, then for my own peace of mind.”

You can’t resist him when he puts it that way. The discomfort in your heart is briefly overtaken by a flutter of hope, a baby bird tentatively learning to take flight.

“…Alright,” you finally concede.

Silco smiles, jumping to his feet excitedly. “If you join the Children, they will rally to your side as well.”

You frown. “If it’s just one person, wouldn’t that be overkill?”

“I cannot allow this stranger to approach you if they mean you harm,” Silco says, turning serious. “We will stop at nothing to find them.”

“Maybe we can take care of this ourselves,” you say hastily. “If we can’t, then I’ll ask the Children myself.”

Silco arches an eyebrow at you. “Are you sure? We have many resources at our disposal—”

“Yeah, you’re already doing too much for me, Silco. Which I appreciate!” you say gratefully. “If it’s nothing, then we don’t have to get anyone else involved.”

He strokes his chin thoughtfully, then nods. “Have you given any more thought to joining our ranks?”

“I’m still thinking about it,” you lie. “I’ll let you know after I finish the mural.”

“I must admit, it would be better if you joined the Children sooner rather than later. But I understand that you can’t abandon your work,” he says. “Regardless, our doors will always be open to you. All you have to do is say the word.”

You stop yourself from sighing out loud with relief. Maybe it’s wrong to postpone the conversation you need to have with him, but you want to start putting away the perishables of your haul. When you mention this out loud, Silco grabs the wagon’s handle and asks you to lead the way. 

As you cross the bridge, you describe the list of chores you intend to complete at the orphanage. You remind him that he’s free to leave whenever he likes. When he insists on working alongside you for as long as you need him, the baby bird in your heart flutters again, this time with affection.

You marvel inwardly, wondering what on earth you’ve done to deserve such a good friend like Silco. You both chat and laugh openly during your walk, and you never get tired of his smiles: the triumphant ones when he talks about the future, the mischievous ones when he cracks a joke, and even the sarcastic ones when he talks about Piltover’s undeserved status.

These are memories you’ll savor later. When Silco still counts you among his friends and enjoys your company. He’s walking by your side freely, instead of turning away from you in disgust.

You can’t help but wonder if this is the last time you’ll see him. If he’ll withdraw his offer to help.

Because you’ve resolved to tell him everything tonight.

Even if that means losing him. 

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! My inbox is also open to requests for both sketches and drabbles, or just to chat. Feel free to say hi :3c

Chapter 9

[crack-fic-casey]

Catra captured Adora during the war, and she's tied up in a meeting between Super Pal Trio. She's tied up sexily like she was in the Crimson Waste, and nobody is noticing. Nobody is noticing very, very hard.

Catra hadn't thought about it, of course. Obviously she liked seeing Adora tied up, because they were enemies. And she didn't think about the arrow one being tied up because he wasn't really her enemy, he was just a guy she needed to beat. And if she'd occasionally thought about Princess Sparkle Fist tying her up that was just because she was dangerous and it made sense to plan how to resist an interrogation and distracting her royal highness with--

These thoughts weren't appropriate for a briefing. Catra put aside Glimmer the annoying pink one and looked at handsome Adora again.

Adora especially didn't look handsome tied up. She was kneeling, peeking just over the table to see how the Horde forces were arranged. She shifted her shoulders a little which tightened the ropes across her chest and cricked her neck. Catra smiled and patted her on the head condescendingly. Adora flushed, clearly hating how helpless she looked, and glared at the ground. She didn't move her head away from Catra. She probably wants to take another peek at the Horde plans when she thinks I'm not looking.

Catra put Adora out of her mind. She leaned forwards and pointed to the map. "What's this?"

Scorpia frowned. "A block of wood with a--"

"No, Scorpia." Catra pinched the bridge of her nose. "The thing it represents. Which unit is that?"

"Ha, right, yeah!" Scorpia consulted her tablet, and hummed thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact, I do not know."

Catra blanched. Adora was supposed to see how well Catra was running the Horde, not Scorpia's... Scorpia-ness! "How can you not know?"

"I mean, I didn't want to say anything," Scorpia tapped her claws together nervously. "Because I believe art should be encouraged, but actually. Um. Don't feel bad but all the stuff you made for the different stuff on the map kinda. Looks the same."

Catra gaped. Scorpia twitched nervously. That twitch was enough to break the tablet she was holding, but Catra had budgeted three more for her to go through. "It does not!" She snapped. "Look, this one has a turret on top, so it's the tank platoon."

"I got that," Scorpia said. "I'm not dumb." Her tone brushed up against annoyance, but immediately shied away. "I mean, if you think that then whatever but my point is that, it, like--" she pointed to a second tank. "All the tanks look like all the other tanks."

"They do not!" Catra snapped. She picked one up. "See, I carved a little Lonnie one this one. That's her platoon."

Scorpia squinted. "Oh, I see! I thought that was Entrapta."

Catra sputtered. "Why would Entrapta be out here?!"

Scorpia held her claws up placatingly. "I don't know! I thought they were decoration!"

"She doesn't even look like Entrapta!"

Adora frowned. "She's got wires coming out of her head."

"That's her hair!" Catra snapped. "It's the-- rope thing that her hair does."

"You mean dreadlocks?" Adora asked.

"I know what they're called," Catra said derisively. She hadn't, and that was even a very cool-sounding word. "It's not like I care. I just did it so you can tell them apart from Kyle."

Adora's gaze swept the map, along with Scorpia. "...So which one--"

"THIS ONE! Obviously!" Catra grabbed it and pointed it at Adora's face. "See, it's got his dumb face."

"Oh," said Adora. "I thought that was someone's head exploding." She considered this. "Though that's probably still a good representation of Kyle."

"It's not," Catra growled. "The one I made is a good representation. That's why I made it."

Adora nodded. "Bow says the same thing," she said, smiling guilelessly. Catra really should have noticed how suspicious Adora's guileless smile was, but she was not on her game. "Bow says that making figures is really cool, no matter what Glimmer and Mermista say."

Catra digested the fact that she had something in common with the latest member of the princesses. Adora kept going. "His figurines are so detailed! And painted, so everyone looks like themselves."

"Psh," Catra said dismissively, because she was a cool person who didn't care. It wasn't a big deal that he'd found paint that stuck to wood; Catra could have made the paint she'd scrounged up from the mechanics work if she wanted to. She just didn't care."That's a waste of time," Catra continued. "Who needs that?"

Scorpia hesitantly raised a claw. Adora matched her by raising an eyebrow. Catra's patience fell. "Well, you paint them then!" She snapped. "I'm busy winning the war."

"Are you winning?" Adora asked.

Catra smacked her face with her tail. "Why wouldn't I be," she asked her pet PRISONER pointedly.

Adora shrugged, which made the rope on her chest move in a way Catra wasn't interested by. "You haven't actually attacked or anything yet," she pointed out. "So all the land is still in the same place, so the Alliance is still winning."

"But they don't have She-Ra," Catra sneered. She poured contempt all over She-Ra, letting overflow into the next sentence. "What good are they without you?"

Adora blinked, apparently surprised. "Gosh, you really think I'm that special?"

Again, the 'gosh' should have tipped Catra off. But this wasn't Catra at her most focused. "Wha- NO!" She snapped. "Obviously!"

"So you aren't winning yet."

Catra gave Adora her best glare. Adora looked stupidly back, letting her brain stay smooth so that the glare passed right through. "We. Are. Winning." Catra growled. "Obviously."

"You keep using that word," Adora said. "I don't think it means what you think it means."

Catra closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "You are that important," she reluctantly admitted, "to the loser princesses and their loser kingdoms. You aren't important to the Horde, because the Horde has me."

Adora didn't say anything. Catra opened her eyes and was rewarded with a crestfallen look on Adora's face. "Yeah," she said. "I wish I'd known that before. I'm sorry."

Every neron in Catra's brain locked up at hearing Adora admit she was wrong. Every part of her brain sent a message to her mouth with instructions on how to respond. All of them arrived at the same time and there was an extend scuffle. After an eternity had passed, Catra managed to say, "It's too late to switch teams now."

It's not. Say the word and I'll make you my number one. I'll overthrow Hordak if you want to stay, if you appreciate me, if you say I'm right just one more time I'll--

"You're the reason the Horde is a threat," Adora continued. "If you joined us, then they'd collapse."

Catra half of Catra's brain crashed into the other half. Rage that Adora wouldn't give everything up for her wrestled with the fact that Adora correctly placed Catra at the top of the food chain.

In the absence of Catra sharp wit, Scorpia attempted to make do. "Hey!" Scorpia snapped. "Just because we weren't really making any progress before doesn't mean we couldn't now! Entrapta's fixed all the science stuff that used to suck! So now it's a fair fight."

The wit of a brick does have a sort of edge around the corner. Adora glared at her. "Well, what good will that do if you can't read Catra's map?"

"I can read it!" Scorpia snapped. "I just don't understand it!"

Catra's thoughts began to flow again. "Scorpia, shut up. Adora, you're not helping."

Adora shrugged. "I'm not really trying," she said.

Catra stared. Adora smiled, and Catra finally noticed it turning into a smirk around the edges. "This is nice, chiming in from the side," Adora continued. "Is this how you feel all the time?"

Catra hissed. The smirk grew. "And, hey," Adora said. "You're doing a great job of being me."

[ddejavvu]

I think anakin loves head and like I know that men in general love head but like he takes it to another level. This man would want to be sucked 24/7. and honestly no problem for me cuz I would give that man the sloppiest head in existence 😩

send me anakin thoughts/requests !!

this post is 18+, minors dni.

so the thing is that he just wants his dick sucked 24/7, you're so right. and it's not that he expects it from you, he knows it's not like you owe him or anything, it's just that.. if the urge hits.. he's gonna ask. he's got zero shame. he's not gonna try to take a cold shower (unless he has other, more important things to do, which is rare), he's not gonna try to muscle it down, he's just gonna be upfront and ask if you'll suck him off. 'cause like.. you do it so well. and why would he put himself through mediocrity, or even disappointment altogether when you're on the couch and you might say yes to helping him? you don't look tooooo busy, he'll just ask :)

once he gets into this routine of asking every time, you'll probably tell him he doesn't even have to ask. it's not necessarily a structured free use contract, you're just hearing 'angel can I please have your mouth' 86 times a day so you shrug the 87th time and say 'you don't have to ask, ani. i'll do it whenever you want.'

boy does he take that and run with it!!! you're relaxing on the couch sipping tea and reading and he comes rushing in from his workshop already undoing his buckle. you hear it and it's like you're pavlov's fucking dog, your mouth practically waters and you scramble to bookmark your place before it gets jostled. sometimes he straddles your thighs on his knees on the couch for easy access, sometimes you just slouch a little bit on the cushions and he holds your head to the side to stick his dick in your mouth. it's abrupt sometimes, you don't always get much warning, but you don't care, it's worth it. you'd suffer a thousand lost places in a novel or even another shattered holopad (he'd gotten a little too eager to fuck your face and had jostled the couch cushions so much that it had fallen face-down onto the floor) if it means you get anakin's dick stuffed into your mouth.

is he a little rough sometimes? yeah! do you walk away with a little bit of a sore neck? yeah! are you gonna decline his request next time? no! cause if you complain to him all whiny that he fucked a crick into your neck he'll lay you out flat on the bed on your stomach and massage it for you, which means he has his hands all over your skin, which means he's gonna offer to give you a full back massage too, which means his hands are gonna be really close to your ass, and.. well..

sometimes (a lot) it happens in the shower, 'cause he sees you naked and well.. not much he can do to stop that. he's a little enamored by you. which means you're kneeling on the slick shower floor with his hand tangled in your wet hair and water streaming into your eyes and sometimes blocking out your airway through your nose while you suck and choke and gag on his dick. You always come out of it a little out of breath, but you'd rather suffocate down there than stop.

god there's something so ridiculously sexy about the thought of just. existing. just chilling. and all of a sudden anakin's hand is on your face, hand cupping your jaw as he turns your head to the side. he's already got his dick out, it's in the hand that isn't holding your face, and he just feeds it right into your mouth. fuck whatever you were doing before that, it's not important.

if he's kneeling over you on the couch he'll fuck into your mouth with a hand on the back of your head, grunting and groaning and moaning and hissing while you gag a little on how far his cock is being repeatedly shoved down your throat. he revels in the way your face scrunches, the way your eyes well up with tears as he hits the back of your throat. if you manage to look up at him his breath will stutter in his chest at the sight of your red-rimmed, teary eyes staring up at him, and he'll heave out a 'kriff, angel.' or grunt, 'shit'

some other grunts and groans you might hear from him are things like 'oh- so good, so good, so-good-so-good-so-good!' 'babe. baby, i'm gonna- mmf! I'm gonna cum, now, baby, I'm gonna cum!' and 'good. kriff that was- so good. thanks for letting me have your mouth, angel.'

[mooshlovely]

Nein Again Episode 9

"Wessek the Trim" Nott: "We have the same middle name" iconic (20:31)

I love that Caleb is constantly looking for ways to scam people (26) Also Fjord sitting back and just watching it happen

Yeah Fjord really is the voice of reason. Telling Molly that they won't be going to go rob random people (32)

Molly: "We're also always big fans of underbellies, especially if there's an underbelly with a heart of gold" Jester: "Especially one if it's furry and you can pet it" (47)

I loved the Gentleman plot line on my first watch. Especially because everyone who warns them away just makes them want to investigate even more (49)

Fjord coaching Beau on compliments and smiles "You're really attractive" with an absolute grimace. One of my favorite reoccurring jokes (54)

They're so fucking nosey. Is this secret meeting at all relevant to what they're doing? Probably not. Are they immediately consumed with investigating? 100% (57)

Also wow this meeting does such a good job of setting up the conflict in the empire. The disconnect between the people and the government, the pervasive level of discontent and distrust for the Cerberus assembly. Matt knew what he was doing

Beau's absolute disbelief in Jester's mom makes so much sense in hindsight. (1:19)

"Families missing in Nogvurot! Crick kidnappers steal them away in the night" God the foreshadowing is so fucking good. That would be the anamnesis (1:28)

This is the moment when Caleb starts thinking about running again. He's so concerned with staying under the radar and remaining hidden and just when he was starting to settle into this group, the rug is suddenly pulled out from under him. I didn't realize the first time through how much of an impact this interaction likely had. (1:32) Also Fjord again keeping the peace

Nott really does have a cut and dry sense of morality lol. Absolutely no gray area. I don't like them, therefore they are evil (1:57)

Caleb "I don't want to stick my neck out, but anything that is a thumb in the eye of empire, I am all for" Beau clocks this so hard

Actually Beau has a good point, it is kind of funny that both Nott and Caleb have an element they aren't a fan of. They just need two people with air and stone trauma to complete the set (2:34)

Wow you can see how this interaction kind of enforces the image that Nott is child-like. Teaching her how to swim like a baby, joking about giving her a sticker (2:40) Really helps her hide her real backstory cause its so far off what they expect

You know I think Molly's insistence on truth was one of the things that bothered me the first time round. Even before it's clear how much he's lying, it feels hypocritical. Also the insistence on truth when it's clear that the others have good reasons for not sharing. You can't just demand honesty before you've earned it (2:43)

It's actually pretty funny how the rest of the Nein treat Yasha's reticence to share her past in comparison to the way they interrogate everyone else. Turns out the trick to keeping your secrets is to give one word answers and look super uncomfortable about sharing them (2:44)

What towns can Molly not enter??? (3:01) It's like he wants the vibes of Ashton but doesn't have the backstory to make it work. Also again, he pretends to be an open book while lying out his ass. Unless the circus really fucked up some shit, there's no way he's been around long enough to have fucked up that much shit

Jester being remarkably clever and manipulative again while looking innocent (3:04)

Actually kind of wild in hindsight that gated communities have dispel fields. On one hand, good for them, but also I feel like there's a lot of rich people who want to keep their secrets.

I got so much second hand embarrassment watching this scene the first time. I thought Jester was deluding herself thinking that her mom would just send her money after she wasted all of her own (3:17)

The continued insistence that Caleb just clean up and get a nice coat. I also was confused about why Caleb refused to dress nice but the poor man just absolutely does not want to be recognized. (3:29)