#you know a part of him wanted it. it absolutely did... :'^)

[ssa-dado]

30 Seconds

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUT, pre-relationship mutual pining and just a touch of ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: You text the hot swim dad for legal help. He shows up in khakis. You try to behave. You fail. He's accidentally jealous of your date, you accidentally grind on his lap, he finishes in his pants, and somehow it’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to you. Warnings: SMUT MDNI (heavy makeout, dry humping and *sighs* Aaron creams his pants for just that... the title is descriptive enough), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, objectification of the Hotchner body Word Count: 4.9k (damn gurl) Dado's Corner: Based on this request! And... um... full disclosure... I added the glasses part solely because of the cat pic sent by @hotchology, who said this ginger furball is how they imagine Hotch in glasses (LOOK HOW CUUUTE)

masterlist(s)

Everything showers.

A sacred rite of modern womanhood.

Takes minimum two geological eras to complete, consumes half the planet’s fresh water, and must be repeated often to remain an eligible mating partner.

Because that’s the whole point of being a woman, isn’t it? To be clean, hairless, glowing, and vaguely vanilla-scented - just fuckable enough for men who think 3-in-1 shampoo counts as skincare.

The concept of an everything shower is… layered. Part hygiene. Part penance. Part psychological rebirth. A full-body cleanse for the sins you haven’t committed yet.

You’ve done them before first dates. Before almost-dates. Before parties, dick appointments, emotional breakdowns, and that one Tuesday when you just needed to check in on her-

(Her. Down there.)

Once, you even did one before visiting your mother. (Unclear whether that was for survival or atonement. Maybe both.)

But never - not even in your darkest, most masochistic imagination - did you think you’d be doing one because of an eviction notice.

Not until today.

Because Aaron Hotchner - a man who should be both physically and emotionally unavailable due to his very, very, veeeery important job saving the world - is apparently not unavailable.

Not when it matters.

Not when it’s least convenient for your nervous system.

…The irony.

All it took was one stupid text. A momentary lapse in dignity. Something he’d probably refer to as “compromised judgment.”

do you happen to know a very cheap lawyer asking for a friend

And instead of his usual three-to-five-business-days reply time, he hits you with:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): Are you at home now? – A.H.

And now you’re just a bit overthinking… because how does he know that?

Did the FBI install a secret camera in your pothos plant? Does he have access to some satellite heat map of your apartment? Has he been watching your window? A camera in the air vent?

(Has he seen you trying out that new clear dildo in front of the mirror for “science”?)

(The one time you tried doing yoga and got stuck in child's pose for 40 minutes?)

You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

All you do know is that you are currently fully naked, shaving for a man who:

Has no idea he’s being shaved for, while you’re on speakerphone with him, as he gets closer and closer to your building block because he invited himself into your private space and-

Would absolutely turn around and disappear if he ever caught even a hint of cucumber-scented shaving cream (you borrowed from your roommate) and realized you'd… prepared for him.

Because your “just in case” implies premeditation. And premeditation implies intention. And intention? Intention is basically foreplay.

And foreplay is strictly prohibited outside the sanctity of marriage, a psychological clearance form, and at least three signed affidavits from HR.

He would enter WITSEC on the spot. Change his name. Grow a beard.

(Hot.)

“What’s happening? Are you alright?”

He concernedly asks over the phone - totally unaware (definitely unaware) that every time he checks in on you, he’s poking your very well-buried, very latent daddy issues with a stick.

(Or maybe he keeps asking because he’s the one with daddy issues. Very obvious ones. That classic parented-child energy. Raised himself on black coffee, moral obligation and emotional regret.)

What a match, really. You get off on being cared for, and he gets off on taking care of people he’ll never emotionally open up to.

Soulmates.

Anyway-

“So… my landlord is an asshole and I really hope he gets some very painful hemor-”

Mr. FBI has the audacity to call you by your full legal name before cutting you off with, “This call is being recorded. I’d appreciate it if you refrained from making…” he even pauses, searching for the most delicate phrasing. Because God forbid he doesn’t sound like a morally burdened Disney princess. “explicit threats.”

Oh, you’d appreciate a few things too. Like having his actual number and not the one issued by the United States Government - so you wouldn’t have to worry about scandalizing some poor technical analyst who’ll be forced to transcribe this call word-for-word the second they find his body in a ditch and trace it back to you.

(“Exhibit B: She said, quote, ‘I hope he gets some very painful hemor.’”)

…But you’re not as childish as him to complain about that.

“My bad.”

“It’s alright.” (Can he please stop talking like this?)

“Yeah… I-” Your voice trips. Your face is hot. Your entire body is hotter. “The thing is-”

“I’m listening.” Oh, fuck him. (Please.)

“In short: the building’s falling apart. We’ve been emailing the guy for weeks, complaining, begging, threatening – nicely - and either he forgets to reply or says he’ll fix it and then doesn’t. It’s been an eternity and he still hasn’t done a single fuc-”

Recorded line. Recorded line. God forbid the man has a seizure because of you. “-thing.”

You hear a chuckle on the other end.

You hate phone calls.

You’d choke him if he weren’t safely boxed inside a moving vehicle.

“I said threats. You can curse. I’m not ten.” Oh, he’s smiling. You can hear it. The smug bastard.

“Oh, that I noticed.”

You love phone calls.

If he were here, he would've already hit you with one of those signature stares - intended to intimidate, but really just making you want to lick the corner of his mouth out of pure spite.

But look at you. Free. Untouchable. Doing amazing.

“The thing is, I didn’t pay rent this month. Because they’re still ignoring the repairs. And now they’re threatening to evict me if I don’t pay.”

“That’s retaliatory. It’s illegal.”

“Wait… you’re telling me I’m not screwed?”

“No, they are. You withheld payment due to unaddressed health and safety violations. That’s protected under landlord-tenant statutes,” he says, suddenly shifting into full legalese, something-something code 572, subsection blah-blah, tenant rights, lease clauses-

You don’t hear any of it. Actually, the very second he started speaking fluent Law Daddy, , your brain slammed the emergency brake to focus on the real crisis:

What the fuck are you going to wear.

“Document everything-“

Lace? Bold choice, but post-shave? Masochism. Granny cotton briefs? He’ll never look at you again.

“Photos.”

Tight top, no bra? Risky.

What if he hugs you and feels how obnoxiously hard your nipples are?

(He’s not a hugger. He doesn’t seem like a hugger. Right?)

(Right??)

(But what if he is today?)

(What if he walks in, sees you - top clinging, no heating - and suddenly decides: You know what? Now’s the time. Now’s the moment I become a hugger. Just for her. Just this once. Just to pull her in close, pretend it’s chaste, press his palm between her shoulder blades and - oh fuck - realize it’s not.)

(What if he hugs you and feels it?)

(What if he hugs you and keeps hugging you?)

(What if he grips tighter, his hand slides just a little lower, and his voice does too, right by your ear - “You’re not wearing a bra.”)

(“Neither are you, sir.”)

(And what if that hug turns into a grind, into his thigh between your legs, into lift me onto the kitchen counter and show me what else you know about tenancy law.)

“Emails.”

Loose top, skimpy bottoms? Slutty. Strategic. Respectable slutty. He’d stare at your legs all night.

(He wouldn’t. But you’d know. Which is worse.)

You should lather in coconut oil, just in case.

You should lather in coconut oil anyway – hydration is important to avoid ingrowns (and yes, to smell edible too.)

“Timestamps.”

Tight top, no bra, skimpy bottoms? Too much? Too “I can’t pay the plumber, but maybe I can offer something else...”

(Not that you’ve watched those. Obviously. You’re just… aware of the trope.)

(Not because you spent 30 minutes the other night trying to find the perfect one. And then another 10 skipping the plot because it was too unrealistic, there’s no way the plumber just happens to have lube.)

(Not that you wouldn’t do it for him. But you’re also not going to lower yourself to being a badly lit, lazily scripted fantasy for the male gaze.)

“…If you haven’t already, I’d recommend drafting a written complaint.”

“…Aaron, I don’t even know where to start,” you mutter. “That’s why I asked if you knew a very cheap lawyer.”

“I’m the very cheap lawyer.” For some reason he chuckles, probably it’s because of his own joke, “Don’t worry, we’ll do it together, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

He is not there in fifteen.

He’s “there” after fourty-eight minutes - flustered, apologizing, muttering something about I-395 and a jackknifed delivery truck, which is just adorable, really, coming from a man who’s clearly never taken the bus in heels while bleeding through his jeans, juggling three leaking Trader Joe’s bags, and re-evaluating every life decision since birth.

He’s grumbling about “infrastructure,” all furrowed brows and moral outrage. How sweet.

You, meanwhile, are Frenching the entire Department of Transportation.

You are giving gridlock the kind of wet, eye-contact blowjob that wins awards - because, for once in your adult life, the universe delayed a man just long enough for you to become a person.

Thirty-eight glorious minutes to shave, moisturize, hide the evidence of your emotional instability, light a candle, panic about the candle (too much?), blow it out, light it again (fuck it), rearrange your throw pillows, Febreze your loveseat, and clean your floors so well you briefly consider serving dinner off them - or yourself.

(Also enough time to change outfits four times, reject each one violently, and land on something that screams “Oh, this? Just threw it on,” while whispering: “I shaved everything.”)

You’ve never been more grateful for civic failure.

You look good. Your apartment looks good. You know it smells amazing in here. You know it. You can feel the Pine-Sol particles sparkling off the hardwood.

Any second now, he’s going to say something about it.

He’s going to inhale – deeply - and ask what detergent you use. Compliment your lavender baseboards.

You can feel it coming. You’re ready. You smile. You bask.

Aaron sets down his bag. Unclips it. Opens it. Looks up.

“I printed out the tenancy statutes,” he says, already pulling out an aggressively highlighted stack of documents from the briefcase.

And this would be impressive - should be impressive - if he weren’t wearing a plain black T-shirt that is doing things to his arms. And the khakis. Fucking khakis.

The most indecently decent pants in the entire male wardrobe.

They whisper "suburban dad," but scream "accidental bulge in soft daylight."

Speaking of which, unfortunately, your apartment lighting has never worked harder - midday golden-hour haze bouncing off every freshly scrubbed surface, casting soft shadows and sensual gleam until finally it settles on The Situation.

…Shit.

(Do not look at it.)

(Do not acknowledge it.)

(Do not mentally calculate whether that’s just the way his pants fold or if that’s his dick pressed against the zipper like it also has a clause to deliver.)

(Do notice, however, that he still hasn’t said a single word about how nice your apartment looks. Rude.)

“I flagged the key violations and I added notes on a recent amendment that strengthens your case - you can reference it in your response letter.” His eyes scan the room clearing it for hostiles - except all he really sees is your loveseat. Small. Soft. Close.

And you, in a tank top.

He clears his throat. Adjusts the folder. His gaze flicks back to you – quick, sharp, and immediately redirected to something safer, like the floor.

“Where… should we get set up?” he asks, like he hasn’t already mentally measured the loveseat twice, logged its exact dimensions in his brain, and is currently laser-eyeing the very cushion he’s dying – dreading - to sit on.

“Oh, I don’t know… wherever you’re comfortable.”

He nods - just a touch too seriously - then hesitates. Again. Checks one more time, with those painfully polite eyes: Can I...? Is it alright if...?

(…As if you might suddenly revoke loveseat privileges.)

Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the cushion. Perches. Occupies the absolute minimum amount of space humanly possible.

If he still had the joint mobility of his youth, you’re convinced he’d just origami himself into a respectful little one-inch cube and tuck into the far corner.

You glance at his shoulders - very broad, deliciously broad, yes - tense, but more at how hard he’s trying not to brush them against yours. What a funny man.

Especially funny because while he's typing up your official letter - like a good little lawyer - he's also letting the conversation drift into a completely unrelated side street.

Unrelated except for the fact that it's all about you.

Like how he “casually” mentions he hasn’t seen you at the pool lately.

The one where he trains and you sit in a cracked plastic cafeteria chair pretending to wait for your friend’s aquatic therapy - when really, you’re mourning every second you’re not legally tethered to the hot dad at swim practice. The hot dad who doesn’t even know he’s the hot dad. (Him. Obviously.)

You go for your friend. Technically.

Spoiler: she’s got two weeks left.

Which means once her sessions are over, you and Aaron will have absolutely no logical reason to ever speak again. No built-in excuse. No default setting.

And now there’s a looming, mutual thing neither of you are acknowledging.

You’re sure there’s a term for this. Something about large mammals afraid of mice and metaphor.

“Yeah, I was in the lane next to your friend’s the other day…” he starts.

“Really?” You pretend you didn’t get fourteen missed calls from said friend, who - when you finally called her back - didn’t even say hi. Just launched straight into: “Burgundy swim cap guy looked up at your seat three times. Three. He looked so sad you weren’t there I had to explain where you were so he wouldn’t drown in longing.”

“Yes… we talked for a bit. She seems very nice…”

Ah.

Interesting choice of words, considering she told you – verbatim - “I can’t believe someone built like a brick shithouse could be that pathetic.”

(She has yet to understand that that is the whole appeal. Him. And that exact contradiction. Him and that-)

“So… how did… your date go?” he asks, pretending to be casual. He’s polishing his glasses against the hem of his shirt, even though they’re already spotless. (You weren’t even aware he needed glasses. Probably neither is the rest of the planet.)

He keeps at it. Rubs one lens. Then the other. Then back again.

You wonder if he’s trying to distract himself. From the question. From the answer.

Your date.

The one that made you miss your friend's call. The one you actually went on. The one that-

“It went well, actually.” It did. Way too well. And that’s the problem.

Because you keep chasing Aaron.

Despite the very obvious fact that nothing will ever happen between you. Because he’s… well, him. And you’re…

A little too young. A little too broke. A little too you.

(And technically if you do the math, you’re closer to his son’s age than his. Just by a few years, sure, but still. Still enough to justify it to yourself out loud, then say it again. And again. Until it starts sounding like a fact.)

It’s just a harmless crush. A stupid little thing. A flicker. A fantasy. A hobby, really.

You have so many of those - men. Smart, emotionally unavailable, vaguely haunted. You collect them like parking tickets: Useless. Repetitive. Always showing up when you least need them. But you keep them. Stack them in a drawer somewhere in your head.

Just in case.

Still, there’s something about this one.

About him.

Aaron.

Aaron in wireframe glasses, almost making you believe in the higher powers he believes in too. (Hopefully not the United States government.)

Aaron with that voice, that jaw, that posture.

Aaron, who says things like “landlord-tenant statute” and somehow makes it sound better than the poetry in those overpriced, niche little books you only buy for the cover, the ones where the author hits enter every four words so it tricks you into thinking they mean something.

And maybe – deep, deep down – it’s because you want to be proven wrong. That someone like him could find goodness in parts of you you’ve already declared a lost cause. That he could look at all the rot and still see something worth saving. Or maybe it’s just easier. Easier to chase something you’ll never catch than turn around and face the things already standing still, arms open, waiting to love you back.

“I’m glad to hear that,” says Deliciously Four-Eyed Aaron, just a little too tight. Tighter than his khakis, which shift and pull every time he readjusts to keep from getting a flat ass on your loveseat.

(What’s wrong, Agent Hotchner? Not expecting it to actually go well? God, you hope that’s why his jaw looks like it’s about to file for divorce from the rest of his face.)

“I don’t know him well,” he adds, clinically. “But… he seems like a nice guy. He’s good at his job.”

Right. Which is rich, coming from the man who literally handed you the guy’s number. And now he’s playing coy?

So what was that, then? A random act of kindness? A stroke of pity? Was it projection? Was it a fever dream?

Did he just reach into the FBI rolodex and go: “Hmm. You’re not under disciplinary review, you own slacks, and your blood pressure is normal. Here, date this emotionally volatile woman I know and I think you might like - she has opinions and abandonment issues, enjoy!

Because Aaron doesn’t do spontaneous. Aaron does strategic. Aaron does 48-hour surveillance and triple-signed documents.

He’s not the guy who improvises. He’s the guy who rehearses his improvisation.

So forgive you if you’re just a little confused by Mr. Times New Roman over here, trying to mentally trace the logic that gets you from “I barely know him” to “you should definitely let him finger you. Only after marriage, though.”

It’s weird. And yet, somehow, that’s not even the most annoying part.

“Good at his job?” you echo, with a laugh that sounds way too close to a cry for help. (Of course. Of course that’s Special Supervising Whatever-the-Fuck Hotchner’s metric for male compatibility. Not empathy. Not emotional availability. Not even basic social literacy. No, job performance. What a catch.) “What are you going to say next, that he’s a good person because he clocks in early and doesn’t steal breakroom coffee?”

“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses that did not need adjusting, “I can’t vouch for the coffee. But I do see him arrive on time. From my office. If that’s what’s concerning you.”

…Oh. So that’s what this is. We’re flexing now.

Mr. I Have A Window. Mr. I Oversee The Peasants. Mr. Private Office While Everyone Else Plays Hot-Desk Musical Chairs. Mr. Title, Tenure, and a Chair That Supports Both His Spine and His Reluctance to Feel. Mr. I Deserve This Square Footage Because I Ruined My Marriage for the Federal Government.

(You could go on. And on. And on. You won’t. But you could.)

And it’s not even clear who he’s trying to one-up here. The guy he set you up with? Or… you? Both?

Like, “Yes, he’s punctual. Yes, he’s nice. Yes, he’s good at his job. But I define what good is. I’m his boss. Be impressed by me instead. Please. I beg you.”

Okay. Breathe. Relax.

No one invited him to a pissing contest and yet here he is, unzipping his intellectual fly right in the middle of your living room. (Not the fly you wanted unzipped, unfortunately.)

You squint at him. “So what, you show up before everyone else just to watch your little ducklings waddle in behind you? Mother Goose clocking in before sunrise to lead by example and assert dominance?”

He turns toward you. Tilts his head. Makes that face. The one you’ve been craving since the second he walked in.

Eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly open - just enough to spot that one crooked tooth, bless it - an expression that says concerned, confused, and disappointed in your tone, all in one.

“It’s none of that,” he’s dead serious, even if he’s visibly smiling… marvelous. “It’s just respectful to be on time.”

Sure, Agent Hotchner. Tell yourself that while polishing your Employee of the Decade plaque.

“I barely even see my boss at the café. Twice a week, tops. And only after we open.”

Aaron lifts his eyebrows. Shrugs. “I’m not an asshole.”

Then he goes back to typing, pretending he’s not biting the inside of his cheek like the whole thing didn’t get to him.

Like he’s completely unbothered by the idea of some man buying you coffee and making you laugh for two full hours.

Like his knuckles aren’t just a little too tight around that trackpad.

“You know, for someone who just said he’s not an asshole, you sure spend a lot of time trying to prove how much better you are than other men.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he says, softly. Too softly. Like he knows volume would give him away.

And fuck, those eyes.

You can’t look at them too long. You bounce between his face and anything else - your coffee table, the printout, his lap (unfortunately) - because those glasses are giving him four eyes now, and all of them are aimed at your skull, dissecting every micro-expression.

He's a bit suffocating.

“I think what really bothers you,” he says, measured, "is that you’re used to being misread."

You scoff. “Excuse me?” (Bitch.)

"You act like you want to be chased, but only if it feels reluctant. If it's earned. You push people to see if they’ll push back. You turn it into a game because it’s safer that way. If it’s a game, you can pretend you were never serious when they walk away."

Well. Okay. First of all: Rude.

Second of all: Accurate. Horribly accurate.

But also: How dare he.

"And if they don't... if they try to meet you where you are... you push them away first. Just to prove you were right to be afraid" he says - and the bastard even smiles. (Fuck his dimples. Really. Pretentious as hell.) "You punish them for it… and you punish the ones who don’t play, too. Because deep down, you still don’t know which would hurt more."

"Wow," you never thought you'd actually be speechless, and yet - here you are, scrambling for a comeback. Great. "Good thing you said you weren’t trying to prove anything. Otherwise I might’ve gotten confused and assumed you were just showing off." (Good enough. You’ll take it.)

Smarty-pants chuckles under his breath then leans back against your very professional, very structurally unsound loveseat. His knee brushes yours.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends he doesn’t notice you noticing.

"Not showing off, just telling you what you already know."

"Oh, right, because you’re such an expert on me."

"I’m just observant."

"And arrogant." And a fucking hypocrite too.

"And you still looked at my mouth twice." What a who-

Somewhere between your brain screaming full bitch slap, full bitch slap and your hand almost twitching to deliver it… you miscalculate.

You lean in. And instead of bruising his cheekbone, you crash your mouth against his.

Pride - and the stack of feminist books judging you from the bookshelf - insist it’s you who moves first. You believe them. You have to.

Even though his hands are already there - rough and steady, drowning your face in their grip - before you even finish breathing in your half-ounce of courage. Before you really even choose anything at all.

(But sure. Go ahead. Call it empowerment. You’re totally running the show. Girlboss shit.)

You want to bite him. Sink your teeth into that smug, diagnosing mouth. Split his lip. Make him bleed all over the living room he still hasn’t bothered to compliment the smell of. (You’re not petty about it… it’s just an observation.)

But it’s slower instead.

You taste his nerve first, his fear right after.

He’s already halfway to pulling back even as he keeps kissing you - trying to have it both ways - and for a second, you do break apart.

Both pretending you could still undo this. (And also undo all the bullshit he said earlier, profiling you so hard he didn’t even realize he was accidentally outing himself too.)

It doesn’t last.

You crash back into him, sloppier, mouths dragging, missing, gasping, half-kissing, half-clawing at each other as you’re both a little too desperate to land properly.

For a split second, the kiss turns... almost sweet. Tender. Romantic, even.

You could say he’s a good kisser.

You could say he’s a great kisser.

You could say he’s the only man alive who could kiss you stupid and still find a way to remind you to breathe through your nose.

(Like when he notices you getting lightheaded and somehow fixes it without even pulling away... which, not gonna lie, is a little humbling.)

But there’s no time for critical analysis. You’re already shoving him flat onto the loveseat, pinning him down, while he blinks up at you - wide-eyed, flushed, so beautiful it makes your chest hurt.

(And he looks so... concerned. As if he’s realizing just now that there’s absolutely no dignified way to get out of this alive.)

(Good. He shouldn’t.)

There’s tongue.

There’s teeth.

There’s his hands – everywhere - gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, squeezing the backs of your thighs, pushing your leg higher over him until you can feel - Oh. Oh, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard.

There’s a muffled noise from the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like please and you are not thinking about that right now.

And it’s-

God.

It’s filthy. It’s great.

You grind down hard, whimpering shamelessly into his mouth, and he bucks up into you, meeting you halfway with both hands locked around your ass, squeezing so rough you’ll be wearing fingerprints by tomorrow.

(You hope so.)

(You really fucking hope so.)

He helps you move –

Up.

Down.

Slower.

Harder.

Guiding your hips with just enough pressure to make it feel like it’s your idea, finding the rhythm you didn’t know you needed until he gives it to you, forcing you to ride the thick, hard shape straining against his pants-

Just the right angle. Just the right friction.

So perfect it catches your clit every single time, knocks a gasp right out of your throat, straight into his mouth.

You’re soaking through your panties. You’re shaking with it. And it clearly gets to him - God, it wrecks him.

You can feel it - the way he tenses under you, the way his hands clutch harder at your ass, the way his cock throbs against you through the fabric like he’s just barely holding on.

He bites down on your bottom lip, rougher than you expect. Too rough for a man who apologizes when he says fuck.

He holds it between his teeth, sucks it – hard - humming low and filthy against your mouth, so obscene it makes your hips stutter.

Drop.

Just enough to let your soaked cunt drag across the swollen head of his cock.

And when you grind back, slower, tracing right along the thick ridge straining against his zipper, he chokes on a breath.

“God, fuck-”

It tears out of him, raw, as if he’s almost embarrassed by how much pleasure is tangled in it, by how stupidly sincere it comes out of his mouth.

(Also, thank God he didn’t reverse it. If he’d said “fuck, God,” instead, you’re pretty sure he would’ve stopped everything, dropped to his knees, and asked you to drive him to a confessional. Not even a metaphor - actual church. Actual guilt. Actual “forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”)

He tilts his head back, groaning, neck arching against the pillow - exposed, gorgeous - and you completely lose it.

Your tongue drags over his throat, chasing the pulse hammering under his skin, tracing your way back up to his mouth.

He’s so hot. He’s so good. He’s-

…terrified.

"I'm so sorry," he breathes, suddenly sitting up on his elbows. “I-” 

He fumbles. He panics. He stands. Backs away from the couch. From you. Visibly blushing. Visibly mortified.

“I didn’t mean-“

He doesn’t finish the sentence...

…Because he finished in his pants instead.

Poor thing.

You should be a little cruel about it - he was an asshole earlier, after all - but you’re not quite mean enough to kick a wounded 6’2” puppy when he’s already limping. (No pun intended… or maybe-)

"Hey," you murmur, reaching out, curling your fingers around his wrist so he can’t backpedal any further. He flinches. (Not much. Just enough to make you want to kiss him again. Harder this time. Until he flinches worse.)

"It’s okay. It’s-" You almost say sweet - catch yourself just in time, because you’re not trying to get murdered tonight.

"It’s normal," you settle on instead. "It’s flattering. Honestly.” (Also kind of hot. But you’ll take that particular confession to your grave.) “You didn’t... ruin anything."

He still doesn’t look convinced. At all. In fact, he looks like he might apologize again, maybe even draft a formal statement and notarize it.

You scramble. “It’s not a big deal, seriously. Who cares if it was-” (You hesitate for half a second, fatal mistake.) "-like, 30 seconds? Could've been 29, right?!”

…Right.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

(I might've missed someone this time, pls tell me in the comments if your name got lost AAAA sorry in advance)

Little reminder that the requests for fleabag!reader are open!! Ok.. I'll go now. Bye.

[alchemistc]

Inspired by Lou mentioning that we're getting B**** f*********

"Tell me about your old captain," Bobby says. It's not a question. It's not a suggestion - or if it is, Tommy doesn't have the ability to view it as anything but a demand.

Bobby's eyes catch the bob of his throat as he swallows.

They're in Bobby's office. Tommy's pretty sure he's been in this office twice since Bobby took over - he doesn't do things in any sort of official capacity, seems to hate the four walls and the door like a man with experience stuck in tight spaces.

"Off the record, of course."

Tommy's a grown ass man who's been through more Captains and Sergeants and other miscellaneous authority figures than Bobby can count on fingers and toes.

There's just something about Bobby that makes him feel wrong-footed. Like he's simultaneously the most comfortable he's ever been and the most terrified he'll ever be. Like he has to get this right.

"Sir?"

Bobby tosses a balled up piece of paper at Tommy's forehead. That's fair. That's absolutely fair. Tommy blinks, and the nerves sort of just... fall away.

"He was a homophobic, racist, misogynist prick and I still hate that I followed along like a little duckling."

Bobby purses his lips. Widens his eyes with brows raised.

The silence and the eye contact stretches.

Eventually, Bobby steeples his fingers, leans his chin on them. Stares. "We can circle back to the second part in a moment. I'm asking because I sent in your transfer papers last week."

There's that fear crawling right back in. He'd never even fucking tried it, under Gerrard. Too afraid to watch him crush that dream, too afraid to make a move for himself.

He'd mentioned flying offhand, a month and a half ago, a second serving of roast melting on his tongue while Howie stole potatoes off his plate.

Two days later Bobby'd pulled him aside and told Tommy he'd reached out to Harbor - that Harbor had an opening in air ops and he'd asked them to hold the position internally for an extra day or two. In case Tommy wanted it.

("I saw the way you look when you're talking about flying, kid. If I overstepped, tell me to shove it, but the 217 could use a man like you."

Tommy's had the words 'man like you' running on a loop in his head ever since.)

"Did they fill the spot?"

He hasn't let himself get excited about it. Hasn't told a soul other than Bobby that he's even thinking about it. He never would have done it without that push, and he's already gearing up to make himself not resent Bobby for even putting the thought in his head.

Bobby smiles. "They did."

Tommy would love it if the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

"Their newest pilot is going to be Thomas Kinard. Pending my approval, of course."

His heart does something strange in his chest. A squeeze, a jump, a flurry. He's gonna be in the air again. Going to have to use whatever's left of his mind to learn new birds, to teach someone else, one day. That's not as daunting a task as it would have been, a year ago.

Tommy squints, because Bobby looks entirely too pleased with himself for nearly giving Tommy a fucking heart attack. "What does that have to do with Gerrard?"

Bobby tips his head side to side, fidgets with a pen. Tommy never knows if that's a nervous habit or if he's so committed to the "fucking with you" bit that he's adopted a bunch of other people's tics.

"He tried to block it," Bobby tells him, a little solemn, finally. Tommy can feel his teeth clenching. His body tightening. His arms are crossed over his chest and he doesn't remember the act of raising them from the armrests. "I told him, respectfully, where he could stick it."

Bobby has this insane ability to ease a thousand worries with just a turn of phrase, a tone of voice. Tommy can feel the ire melting right off. "You already did it?"

Bobby huffs a soft laugh. "Professional disagreement. We don't see eye to eye on your talents. Harbor was fairly easily convinced, once I started listing them."

The lump in his throat makes it a little difficult to forge ahead. "Why'd you ask about him, then?"

Bobby's soft grin turns to a full on smirk. "Because I thought, given that this is your last week here, you might want to get it off your chest, Firefighter Pilot Kinard."

[suuuupernovaaa]

obsessed

Pedro has been dating you in secret for a while, but can’t hold it in any longer.

MASTERLIST

The joy is radiating off of him in intoxicating waves. It fills the studio, effecting everyone there to watch him.

The host asks in a light hearted way, the question everyone wants to know - is the Pedro Pascal still single?

He runs his hands a little nervously down his black pants, and adjusts the buttons on his shirt, letting out a booming laugh.

“No, no,” he says, still laughing.

“No as in - you’re not single?” the host says, leaning forward eagerly. Pedro’s team had not prepped him for this possible answer. The ratings flash in his eyes.

“That’s right. I’m uh, locked down,” Pedro says, feeling a little silly putting it that way, but the pride in his voice is evident.

The crowd absolutely erupts, loud cheering and screaming, and Pedro waves them off with yet another laugh.

“Tell us about her! Who is she?”

When the studio quiets down, Pedro says, “Well, she’s someone… special. And smart. A writer, novelist, really. Beautiful and kind and too good for me.”

He means every word. Pedro is always sincere, but the admiration he feels for you is so evident in his voice as he speaks.

He loves you. He’s obsessed with you. He can’t hold it in any longer.

When he leaves the stage, he has a text from you.

Well, did you spill everything?

He grins as he replies.

I just told them the truth, that you’re amazing and I love you. I decided to leave out the part about your ass.

Your reply comes quickly.

Plenty of interviews left where you can talk about my ass, no worries. Love you baby, come home.

He can’t wait to do exactly that.

[aurelia-which-means-sunrise]

In Germany I am pretty sure only the organisers of the election can track who has voted, and those records are kept secret. The votes are counted, and of course those numbers are published, including how many people voted in which district. But it's definitely NOT public knowledge to know who voted!

My dad tells me back before the Wall fell, in Eastern Germany there were supposedly free and secret elections. Though the vote you had was either accept the voting suggestion, yes or no. The voting suggestion was a list with every candidate deemed okay by the ruling party and the minority parties. (There was a law to keep the same percentages from the first election after the second world war, I think. Just the personell changed.)

So. Because you could only vote yes or no, many who wanted to show their loyalty did not use the voting booths, but proudly made their cross at "Yes!" For all to see.

My dad did use the voting booth. He voted no.

Everyone knew. But because the election was formally secret, no one could tell him "Comrade, you are disloyal."

He said he had lots of fun watching his superiors trying to talk to him about if he was unhappy with anything without alluding that they knew his vote.

I think history like this is in part why we are very conscious about our privacy. Only as much data collected as absolutely necessary.

Federal election in six days guys. Time to actually look up the sixteen billion tiny parties and figure out which ones are white power christofascists employed by billionaire mining magnates and which ones aren't.

[nottsstar]

SUNDRESS. theodore nott 𓍢ִ smut 18+ MDNI

THE MALFOY MANOR was a perfect place for pool parties. Though it was dull and dark, the pool area (let’s pretend there is one) was perfect for a small party. I mean, Mr and Mrs malfoy probably didn’t even mind. Well, that’s what Draco told everyone.

The day was perfect for some pool fun. The weather was nice with no clouds covering the bright sun. The whole group, including Theo was invited for the holidays as vacation to the Malfoys. Nobody swam today. Not even Pansy and Blaise were swimming today. They all planning do sunbathing under the scorching heat.

Though, right now everybody was inside. Except for you and Theo. You both weren’t friends-friends. Just friends of friends. But sometimes you both talked. Theo had found interest in you somewhat. He thought you looked gorgeous. With your sharp features and body, you could captivate anyone. Even Theodore Nott.

But you? Oh boy, you had a major crush on him. And throughout the whole vacation you had been ogling at him. Though that was a huge secret. Not even Pansy knew this crush of yours. And she knew almost everything about you. The only person or more rather thing which knew was your diary. It would always star with a ‘dear diary...’ and end with a small ‘<3’. It had been your secret since the first time you saw him. If staring at Nott was a job, you’d be rich enough to by at least six whole planets already.

All you did not know, was that Nott had found one of your ripped pages. The most important one yet. The one that was ao secret you were planning on throwing it away. Though, that never happened because the next moment you opened your dear diary, the paper was nowhere to be found. You assumed you must have already threw it away somewhere. But nope, Theo had gotten to it before the dustbin. And he was pretty surprised with it too. Exactly how you would be when you found out he had seen it.

dear diary . . .

oh goodness gracious god, did Theo look great today. He had a white button up on. I could ogle at him for days, weeks, months, even years. And guess what? He talked to me today! He asked me if I was enjoying my stay. And I obviously said yes. Though, what I really wanted to say was more than that. His hair was a little bit more disheveled today. Oh how I wanted to smooth it out with my own fingers. Okay, back to his white button up. Do you know how hot it made him look? Sexy even. His chest was practically seeping through. I could see it so well. I almost melted. I wonder how they’d feel under my touch and...maybe I shouldn’t write the remaining

<3

and that’s all that was wrote on the ripped piece of paper to Theo’s dismay. Some bits were missing though, the parts he needed to know were there. And you wouldn’t believe it but—

Today, theo was wearing his normal pool outfit. A buttoned one with a normal striped yellow and blue pattern. His shirt is fully unbuttoned though, revealing his chiseled chest bare and exposed. Exposed to your eyes. You had been staring at him all day. All day, you swore. And he was honestly no better than you.

You had been wearing your sundress today. Your sundress that came up to your mid thighs. And funny enough, you aren’t wearing any underwear either. And the dress exposed a good amount of neck too. With black sunglasses on, there’s more you can do than protecting your eyes, theo had managed to stare at you or rather your legs without you noticing. They were exposed. Fully on display. And he could stare at them for hours. You’d probably melt if you knew that.

And currently, you were bouncing on his dick. It’s just how it went. Believe it or not, his hands were on your thighs as you rode him. You were moaning out his name while he was moaning out absolutely nothing. What were the risks of getting caught? You both could care less. I mean, if you both were caught it would be bad and awkward but right now your minds were circling with emotions.

“you’ve wanted this for so long huh? Bet you’re gonna write about this in your diary too.” he manages to say through all the pleasure. Your face flushed an even deeper red at that, if that’s even possible.

“oh shut up.”

“that’s no fair, you don’t shut up about me in your diary.”

You groan at that, scowling at him. He smirks seeing your expression. He’s enjoying giving you pleasure and getting you all pissed at him. He knows the pissed expression will go in no time.

His hands that were on your hips shift to your shoulders, he lowers you down with almost a feather light touch. He chuckles to himself. As you lower down to meet his face with yours, his dick twitches inside of you. Causing you to let out a sof whimper, to Theo’s pleasure of course.

With a bold move he captures your lips with his, locking them in. Your hands are now tangled in his soft brown hair. And he doesn’t pay any attention to it until you tug on it. He lets out a shaky groan into your mouth. His tongue licks your bottom lip as in asking for access to your mouth. And you let him, already in his game. If you’re in, you can’t out. His tongue explores your mouth inch to inch. He even lets out a small ‘mm’ for some reason. Of course, withyour brain fogged you don’t know why.

Once he lets go of your mouth, you go back to your original position. Which is straddling him with his cock buried deep in you. Your hands almost automatically fly tp his chest, stabling yourself. Like you wrote in your diary, his hard abs felt great under your touch. You wanted to skim your hands over them. But there was just no time in this pleasure to it. Maybe next time? Definitely next time. His hands are now on your hips as before, gripping them enough to leave two red handprints. You don’t mind though. Did you? Nah.

“oh fuck Theo...‘m gonna...” no more words come out your mouth before you’re spilling all over his thick cock. You get up from it, still dripping in what not. Though, you’re still on him. His cock is now arched towards your chest as he runs his hand up and down, closer and closer to his release. And it’s not long before thick ropes of cum shoot at your chest, splattering all over your tits covered by your sundress.

“hope you got what you wanted cara mia.”

And that’s the last thing he said before he ordered me toget up. And I obviously did. Hopefully this isn’t the end just yet. But can you believe it? I had sex with him near the pool while there were ninety nine percent chance we’d get caught! I enjoyed it though...

<3

reblogs and feedback are always appreciated!

wc: 1184 😦

(What the hell? I dunno how this turned into a fic. Help.)

[halfadiamond]

💍Friend’s Dad💍

💎CW: MDNI, brief acts of sex mentioned (blowjob (small gag reference), mating press), you didn’t meet the guys until you were an adult, age gap, the men are single💎

💎Price x Reader, Ghost x Reader (Separate Scenarios!)💎

Part Two Part Three

Price

When Price’s daughter comes back from college with you in tow. Price remembers meeting you when he was moving his daughter into her dorm room to which you introduced yourself as her roommate. Price didn’t mind the extra mouth with him all alone in the house, the more company the merrier.

So what Price thought you were absolutely gorgeous? So what Price knew that he shouldn’t be looking at you in a way that a man looks at his lover? He had been single for so long that he was desperate for a warm hole to fuck and you? You fit the bill and it didn’t help that you seemed like the perfect woman.

It was after dinner, where you offered to help wash the dishes (he pretend that he didn’t need the help but gestured you to follow as he told his daughter to scram but lovingly as he told her to go take a quick trip to the store). That you two were alone, it was there that you guys conversed. From him asking about school (and if his daughter caused you problems) to you eventually admitting that you came with his daughter because of a bad breakup that’s when Price knew he had to take his chance. Price said the words that he knew would make a woman swoon, swearing that a woman as beautiful as you didn’t need a boy, you needed a man.

Price cornered you at the sink as he continued with his words and gentle touches. He urged you to find someone better than that boy and who knows maybe what you needed was an older man who knew how to take care of a lady. And you agreed with him.

That’s what led you to where you were now.

On your knees, eagerly sucking him off (slurping his cock like it was the most delicious thing in the world), Price gives you a small praise as he grabs your hair and forces you to take him even more (he enjoys the sounds you make as you gag) and he can’t help but think of two things.

1. How soon he can get a ring for you (do they even offer expedited shipping?)

2. How awkward the next family dinner will be when his daughter sees the ring on your finger (and if Price is lucky maybe even you’ll have a slight baby bump)

Ghost

Ghost already knew you… well he’s heard of you, it started when his daughter was talking about her coworker that she loved working with. Then one day, his daughter said that you would be coming over to watch a movie. Personally, Ghost didn’t care, he simply nodded and said he will be off at his office and to keep quiet.

But once you came and he got to see you in person? Ghost swore that he was over love that dealing with his daughter’s mother for the rest of his life was enough for him. But you? You were gorgeous and he knew that he had to at least see if you give little old him a chance. His daughter looked on in confusion when Ghost sat at the couch, and said that he’ll watch the movie with you guys. But hey. His daughter always urged him to date again, she never said who he couldn’t date. Even if Ghost was bored to death watching Barbie: 12 Dancing Princesses, he’d endure it just to see if he had a chance.

And he did. When the movie ended, and his daughter encouraged you to stay the night (well more like told you) and led you to the guest room, Ghost quietly thanked his daughter. It was when Ghost was sure, that his daughter was asleep that he headed off to go see you and lucky him you were still awake, fetching some water in the kitchen.

Ghost wasn’t exactly sure how you guys ended up in his room but he didn’t really care not when he had you. Ghost has your ankles up to your ears as he fucks you like an animal. He can hear your cries as you clutch onto his bed. But Ghost is quick to muffle your moans with his hand, and when he sees your pretty eyes looking at him in confusion. He gives you a small smile and whispers.

“Wouldn’t want her to hear your pretty moans now would you?”

[jeonscatalyst]

I normally don’t involve myself in the politics of this fandom, but everything that has unfolded over the past few days has left me utterly dumbfounded.

Anyone who refuses to acknowledge that this fandom has always treated Jimin differently is either extremely obtuse or simply unwilling to accept what is right before their eyes.

Before these AMA nominations, Namjoon had been nominated for numerous fan-voted awards, yet this same fandom never bothered to lift a finger for him, forget about awards, they don’t even care to stream Namjoon’s music. Now, they claim they want to rally behind Namjoon because they already “gave” Jimin a Daesang….but let’s be honest here.

Back then, Jimin was never the chosen one. The so-called agreement was that the fandom would rally behind whoever had the highest chance of winning and it just so happened to be Jimin. Even then, the majority of the fandom was against voting for him. During the TMA Popularity Award, when both Jimin and Yoongi were nominated and had the highest chances of winning, this same fandom chose to vote for Yoongi and were angry when Jimin emerged as the winner. So, my question is: when has Jimin ever truly been the fandom’s chosen one?

Let me be clear-I have no issue with people wanting Namjoon to win. He absolutely deserves it. He has deserved so many wins in the past that the fandom failed to show up for.

Where I take issue is with the sudden urgency this fandom has now found and, unfortunately, it is not driven by pure intentions. Eighty percent of the people rallying are not doing so because they believe Namjoon deserves this win; they are doing it because they do not want Jimin to win. I can bet my last dollar that if Namjoon were up against any other member even Jungkook or Taehyung who are part of the maknae line, we would not be seeing this frenzy.

There’s another fan-voted award happening right now where Namjoon is losing. If this push were genuinely about supporting him, they would be rallying there too. But they’re not because Jimin isn’t competing in that category.

Namjoon winning this award would be a beautiful and deserved moment. For years, he carried BTS on his back, shielding the group and members even when he himself was just a kid. His music style may not be the most crowd-pleasing, but he is undeniably talented and gifted. He deserves this win and many more to come.

Jimin deserves a win too. And if only people knew how to recognize that both are deserving without throwing shade at either, we would be in a much better place.

The reality is: winning for Namjoon would be wonderful, but the intentions behind pushing for his win are tainted. If you are only trying to get someone to win because you want the other person to lose, are you really doing it for them….. or for yourself? And the danger of acting out of spite is that you lack true commitment and passion.

I had to chuckle when I saw certain solo fandoms suddenly rallying for Namjoon. It’s honestly laughable because everyone including Namjoon-biased ARMYs and solos…..knows those other solos couldn’t care less about Namjoon.

The only reason they are participating is because they share a common hatred for Jimin. They don’t truly care whether Namjoon wins or loses…they only care that Jimin doesn’t win.

Any other winner would make them just as happy. Don’t even be surprised if some of them pretend to support Namjoon publicly but then cast their votes for any of the other groups or artist in the same category. It’s truly pathetic behavior.

Some might ask: what did Jimin ever do to this fandom to deserve this treatment, as if he were the fifth member of Blackpink?

The short answer is: NOTHING. He never did anything wrong.

Their real issue with him is that he exceeded the expectations they set for him. Had you told most ARMYs years ago that Jimin would perform the way he does today, they would never have believed it.

The problem with this fandom is that it moves like a cult….and not in a good way. They are rigid and resistant to change. Once they accept a narrative, they refuse to let it evolve.

For instance, it’s widely accepted that Hobi is the best dancer in BTS, and even the members acknowledge this. That’s perfectly fine. But it should never be a reason to harass those who think Jungkook or Jimin or others are better dancers.

People have different tastes.

I personally think Hobi is an incredible dancer, but I prefer Jungkook’s dance style the most, with Jimin as a close second. Does that make me any less of an ARMY or a Hobi hater? No. And for the record, Hobi is one of my top three favorite members….he’s my bias wrecker.

This fandom spent years labeling Jimin as only the third most popular member because they cling to their narratives, refusing to allow space for growth. When Jimin surpassed their expectations, they resented him for it, because they had already assigned him a place, and they didn’t want him to step beyond it. To them, he already has more awards than they ever thought he should have….so now they believe it’s their job to ensure he doesn’t win any more.

It’s truly sad.

I see some people saying that Jimin-biased fans are being weird or acting like antis because they’re upset at how things are unfolding.

I’m not speaking for solos here, but I think the real issue for Jimin-biased fans is not that people want to celebrate Namjoon but that they are only pushing for his win because they don’t want Jimin to have it.

That’s what frustrates me and many others.

And let’s not even start on how shady people have been toward Jimin especially those proudly yelling “we gave him a Daesang” when they didn’t even vote for him in the first place.

It’s perfectly fine to rally behind Namjoon and give him the win he deserves but let it be because you believe in his talent and contributions, not because you want to stop someone else from winning. Otherwise, your motivation is hollow and ironically, it only pushes Jimin-biased voters to work even harder, if only to ensure that Namjoon doesn’t win either.

I know change doesn’t happen overnight, but this fandom needs to stop behaving like a cult and start allowing people to think and act for themselves.

We can be united and support all the members while recognizing that not everyone has to see or do things the same way. Disagreeing with the majority doesn’t make someone an anti of the group or of any particular member.

[moon-ttokki-x]

Heya there 🤠 Hope you're doing well! If it's good with you, can I please request something ispired by this - https://www.tumblr.com/moon-ttokki-x/777609369726681088/ ?

I think all of the guys would always take their 9th member as plus one on those events so... how do you think it would be like to go to events like that with each member?

I hope this isn’t too confusing 😭 I'm not good at writing 😕

i already did chan's ver. so here's the rest of the members hehe . . .

₊✩ ot8!skz x plus one! 9th member reader ✩‧₊

pairing: ot8!skz x 9th member!reader

summary: skz find out you're coming with them as plus one to an event.

genre: idol!au, 9th member!au, hints of mutual pining, mentions of eating and drinking, kind of groupmates to lovers thing ig, nervous minho awww, jeongin tries to be cool, changbin's is the sweetest ever. literally just fluffy, like tooth-rot worthy fluff. literally no other warnings i'm pretty sure . . .

a/n: i feel like it's been ages since i wrote smth tbh :/ div by @dollywons

skz masterlist | chan's ver.

Minho who is an absolute gentleman. is rather quiet on the ride there but that's only bc he's a little nervous himself (and also bc he's sitting next to you; do you even know how good you look??). has to stop himself from constantly reaching to hold your hand when you both step out of the car, but he can't resist offering you his arm. he's not one for much physical affection, but there's a small part of him that wants you close. shields you from the cameras if the flashing is making you uncomfortable, and introduces you smoothly to people once you're inside the event. literally stays by your side the whole night, glancing sideways every few minutes to make sure you're okay.

Changbin who is the literal king of comforting you. he knows you're a little apprehensive about attending the event, but he distracts you and makes silly jokes to ease the tension floating around your head. if you're worrying how you look, he'll literally drop to his knees and flatter you. he can't believe you're not sure whether you look good or not; rest assured, he'll be reminding you for the rest of the night. locks his pinky with yours as you both wander throughout the crowds to reassure you. he couldn't be prouder of his little maknae attending their first major event, and makes sure to congratulate you and then treat you to something delicious afterwards.

Hyunjin who insists on wearing matching colours and outfits; throws a playful tantrum when you refuse to let him pick the colour. you both spend almost two hours bickering over what to wear, but he gives in and lets you choose anyway. is almost knocked over by the blinding lights of camera flashes once you two arrive at the event, and he waves people off before turning to check on you. leads you through the crowds with a gentle hand on your lower back, and makes sweet, subtle comments to you throughout the night (in front of and away from people; he couldn't care less if anyone else hears him). you're the most stylish duo at the event that night.

Han who whines about having to go to the event before he finds out you're supposed to go with him. literally shoots out of his chair and insists on getting ready (even though the actual thing isn't supposed to start for at least a few hours). promises to help you with interactions and nods encouragingly when you move to approach people at the event. stands by your side, nodding and gently prompting you to talk, shooting you a cheeky wink when you give him a subtle nod in thanks. normally tries to escape these events early, but stalls for as long as possible (partly because he's actually enjoying himself, and partly because he wants to keep admiring you).

Felix who refuses to leave your side and insists on having some part of his body touch yours as you both watch the event start. whether it's his shoulder brushing yours as he shifts a little, or his hand 'accidentally' skating over your thigh, the comfort is far more enjoyable than this event could ever be. isn't actually as invested in the goings-on of the show like he usually is; all he can think about is you. for once, he's too shy to talk to the other people at the event; he makes a mental note to thank the company once he gets back. he quietly begins planning a way to bring you to these outings more often.

Seungmin who initially rolls his eyes and brushes past you when he finds out you both have to go together; softens up when he sees you all dressed up and even offers you his hand when you get out of the car. is bored, as per usual, but he puts on his most convincing facade and steels himself throughout the night. lightens up a little when you lean across to whisper a snide comment to him, and he throws one right back, trying to fight the slight colour rising on his cheeks. thinks about the proximity to you for the rest of the event, and can't seem to get rid of the strange, warm feeling in his stomach. oh well. must have been something he ate.

Jeongin who immediately puts in 200% effort into trying to impress you. dresses up well and makes himself look amazing, makes sure he smells good, and even practices a few english sentences in the mirror to avoid stuttering like he usually does. in a bid to show off a little, he talks to people he normally wouldn't have and is sick of the english language by the end of the night (though he doesn't complain bc that's not cool). succeeds in his attempts to impress you, and doesn't realise how much he talked until he's called into the office the next day. is confused when he's told that he somehow managed to network with every single person at the event.

a/n: skz just one chance pls take me with you

ttokki's taglist: @emilywhyyy @galaxy4489 @hyuneskkami @justsomekpopstuff @wavetohannie @strayingawayy @its-stayville-forever @batty-barty-crouchjr @wickedbutlovely @headfirstfortoro @lov3yv4mps @possum-playground @bear8585 @astraystayyh @m-325 @gnabnahcbby @mbioooo0000 @akindaflora @tsunderelino @hhwangsmoon @crazyforthatbangchandude @bluebellsringinghereandthere @ladylexis @tillaboo @geni-627

send a dm, comment under the taglist post, or send an ask to be added !

[prettydaisygirl]

after reading your fratjames potter x reader work it did something for me! And it made me think of angsty idea

May I request a modern au where the reader and James are already in an established relationship ship

And because of a bad friend of James they have misunderstanding and some incident happen and reader happens to be present at the wrong time and because of that the bad friend spread misinfo and James believe that friend ....so it kinda leads to James hurting readers feelings

Pls feel free to ignore if i couldn't get my idea across ❤️

Hi, lovely! Thank you so much for your request! It also spawned another idea in my brain so there's another James fic coming soon also inspired by you! I hope this is what you were looking for, I appreciate you taking the time to send me a request. Much love <3

boyfriend!James Potter x fem!reader who disagree about Peter ✿ 927 words

cw: fem reader, Peter is the worst, misunderstanding, angst, open ended.

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

part 2

You really, really try to like Peter. He’s the only member of James’ group that you don’t consider a good friend. 

It’s not that you think Peter is a bad person. But sometimes he says things about people that you think are… harsh. Sometimes even cruel. And usually these things are said behind the targeted person’s back. You don’t like that.

Every time you bring it up to James, voice whispered and hesitant so you don’t rock the boat, he tells you that he and the other boys have just learned not to listen to Peter’s cruel words. 

“But how can you just… let him sit there and say things like that?” You’ll argue, though your tone is soft and your fingers will brush over his chest like they belong there. Because they do.

James will take a heavy breath and meet your eyes, barely able to see the glint of your pupils in the darkness of the bedroom. “After a while… you start to realize that the things that Peter says are true.” Silence will fill the air for just a moment and then, “He usually just says a meaner version of what everyone else is already thinking.”

So you put on a smile, and you tolerate Peter. 

You sip your glass of wine, eyes moving over the restaurant’s fancy decor. The tall ceilings and shimmering chandeliers do nothing to aid the awkward silence at the dinner table. 

For whatever reason, James had agreed for the two of you to go on a double date with Peter and his new girlfriend. She sits across from you, typing away on her phone without a care in the world. James had just stood up to go to the bathroom, leaving you and Peter in awkward, tense silence. 

Your eyes land on Peter when he clears his throat, a smirk appearing on his lips. You hate the way it makes your skin crawl. 

“Don’t you think James is a bit obnoxious?” He asks, and you’re sure anyone else would laugh out loud at the face you make. 

“What?” You ask, disbelief and offense dripping in your tone, “Of course, I don’t!”

Peter’s eyebrows raise and the corner of his lip turns up even more like you said exactly what he wanted to hear. His girlfriend’s eyes raise up from her phone long enough to look between the two of you before lowering again. 

“Oh, come on,” Peter encourages cruelly, “You don’t really buy that whole teddy bear, lover-boy act, do you?” His eyes roll, “I’ve known James for years, and it’s always the same. He finds a girl he really likes, absolutely fawns over her until he gets bored, and then he finds another one. Simple as that.”

Your stomach churns, your ears ring and you’re sure if looks could kill Peter would already be six feet under. “That’s not true.”

“It is, and you know it.” Peter tilts his head condescendingly and you wish you’d pretended to be sick instead of coming to this stupid dinner. “He’s going to find someone new and leave you in the dust. Like clockwork.”

“Stop.” You try not to let his words get to you but he seems to know every single soft spot in your armor. Your worst fears that you’ve never even spoken out loud to James himself. 

“It’s only a matter of time,” Peter continues, swirling his own glass of wine before taking a long sip. “It could be tonight. Maybe one of the wait staff will catch his eye.”

“Listen, Peter,” You break, eyes dialed in on the man sitting across from you. If you can call him a man. More like a rat. “I have always thought you were cruel and disgusting. You invited us to dinner, and I came because James asked me to. But I won’t do this anymore. You’re an absolute weasel of a man and I hate you.”

But Peter doesn’t look upset by your words. In fact, he looks delighted, almost like a happy schoolboy. You realize why when you hear James’ voice behind you, your name stated in a cracking tone full of disbelief and hurt.  

You turn in your chair to look at him, guilt taking over your features. 

“James-” You try to say, the hurt look on his face making your chest physically ache.

“How can you speak to one of my friends like that?” He asks, eyes dark and voice low. He doesn’t sit back down at your table. “I know you don’t like Peter, but calling him names and saying you hate him? That’s cruel.”

You can feel your world crumbling around you, and Peter doesn’t even bother hiding his glee. In fact, it radiates off of him. His girlfriend looks like she’s enjoying the show now, phone in her lap. 

“I don’t know what has gotten into you lately, why you are so hateful and full of anger.” James grabs for his jacket and you reach for it too. He shoots you a look and you pull your hand away, feeling utterly shamed and scolded. You want to tell him that this is all a misunderstanding, that if he heard the things Peter said about him, he would agree with you. 

But you can’t. Because Peter is standing then, too, and so is his girlfriend. James sends you a look, and when he leans down to kiss you he only presses a chaste one to your hair, not one to your lips like usual.

“I’ll call you.” He says. 

And you wonder if he ever will. 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[bestruction]

hii could you make gojo x wife!reader. Reader is itadori's older sister. A special grade sorcerer and incharge of second years. She holds very strong cursed technique like psychic manipulation or she's a vessel of a cursed god (whatever you prefer it's your choice)

Could u please make angst/comfort oneshot. Reader help gojo in fighting against sukuna, they won but at the cost of reader. She went into a coma. She also had saved Nanami during Shibuya so nanami is also present. (Gojo is alive)

You can also show how everyone reacted specially Satoru and Yuji and recap of the memories they share.

Please let me know wheather your interested in doing it or not!!!!!!!

please don't mind my grammar. English is not my first language................

Warnings: none Notes: Thank you for your request. I had a lot of fun writing for Gojo and ended up with a few scenarios ideas for him in the store. Also, your grammar is fine <3 Don't worry (Plus, english is also not my native language so high five)

The hospital room smelled too clean. After so long, the usual white walls felt infuriating. Gojo hated it. The sharp scent of antiseptic, the way the light filtered too harshly through the blinds, and the flowers on the windowsill made the place feel like a shrine rather than a room where someone lived, breathed, and existed.

He sat slouched in the stiff chair by your bedside, one leg stretched out, hands dangling between his knees. The blindfold was shoved carelessly into his pocket days ago. He hadn't worn it since the moment they dragged him here, bleeding and laughing and terrified because you had fallen and you hadn't gotten back up.

"I told you not to fight," he muttered for the thousandth time, voice low, fraying at the edges. He raked a hand through his messy silver hair, tugging at the roots until it hurt. "But nooo, you had to be a hero. Had to throw yourself into the fire because you can't stand seeing me in danger."

Sukuna was gone, the Jujutsu world was finally returning to its tracks but he couldn’t care less. He met you while you worked as a teacher. He thought you were…infuriating at first. You had a special kind of cursed technique that allowed physics manipulation through your vital energy. Of course, something so powerful would have a high price. He lost count of how many fights you two had because he didn’t want you to get involved in missions anymore. He wanted you to work training the students and preserve yourself because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. 

Did that stop you from jumping into the fight against Sukuna the moment you saw him bleeding? Absolutely not. You would throw yourself in fire and turn into ashes before seeing something or someone you love disappear without doing anything. But being so damn stubborn was part of the reason why he fell in love with you. 

The monitors beeped softly, the only sign that somewhere, deep beneath the broken surface, you were still fighting. Gojo slouched forward again, reaching out to brush your hair back from your face with trembling fingers. You looked so peaceful, it made him furious.

“You better wake up soon,” He said, his words low as he tapped the back of your hand with his fingers “I miss you telling me to ‘shut up’ already” 

You didn’t move. He waited, watching your eyes, your fingertips, and nothing. He scoffed a bitter, fond sound. 

A gust of wind stirred the flowers on the windowsill, filling the room with a sickly sweet scent. Gojo's lip curled. He wanted to throw them all out. Rip the damn stems apart with his hands.

"They keep bringing flowers," he muttered. "Yuji, Megumi, even that moron Panda. I hate it. Makes it feel like I’m visiting your grave." His thumb brushed lightly over the back of your hand, seeking something—anything. "You’re not dead," he said fiercely, teeth gritted. "You hear me? You’re not. You don’t get to leave me like this."

Silence.

Outside the window, the city kept moving. Inside the room, time had stopped.

Day after day, night after night, Gojo stayed. He slept half on the bed sometimes, sprawling over the chair like a thrown-away doll, refusing to leave even when Shoko threatened to sedate him.

He told you stories. About the students, about how Nanami actually cracked a joke once (he didn't, but Gojo knew you'd tease him if you ever woke up to hear the lie). He told you how Yuji cried the first time he came in and saw you, how Megumi stared at your hand for half an hour without saying a word.

Gojo hated this helplessness more than anything — the sheer, brutal truth that for all his limitless power, he couldn't lift you out of that bed, couldn't force your eyes open with sheer will, couldn't heal what your soul had sacrificed. He was used to winning, to bending the world around him, to standing above fate itself. But now he could only sit there, every day, whispering his dreams into your sleeping ear like prayers he wasn't sure would ever be answered. 

Some nights, when loneliness wrapped too tightly around his chest, he told you about the future he had started to imagine — a small house tucked somewhere quiet, far from the blood and curses and endless wars. 

"I’ve been thinking about quitting," he confessed, his thumb stroking slow, trembling patterns along the back of your hand. "The kids can handle it now... Yuuji, Megumi, Nobara. They don’t need me hovering anymore or you." His voice softened, almost bashful. "We could get a place out in the countryside. Grow tomatoes, or whatever old people do. Maybe have a kid or two. You'd hate the names I've picked out, by the way. Like... 'Soichiro,' or 'Tamaki.' Imagine calling for them at dinner." He laughed — a hoarse, broken thing — because he needed to believe you would wake up just to roll your eyes at him, to punch his arm and scoff that he was an idiot. Needed to believe that somewhere inside the quiet shell of your body, you were still there, smiling, waiting to come back to him.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead — a soft, lingering thing like a vow — and when he pulled back, he saw the imperceptible flutter of your lashes. For a moment, he froze, his heart slamming hard against his ribs, his mind reeling, terrified that it was just another cruel trick of exhaustion. But then your hand twitched weakly against his, and your voice — raspy, barely a breath — broke the silence.

"I like the name... Soichiro."

Gojo stared at you, wide-eyed, breathless, his whole world tilting sideways. For a split second, he genuinely wondered if he had finally lost his mind, conjured you with sheer desperation. But no — your warm eyes found his. Your lips curved into the ghost of a smile. You were there.

A laugh — broken, beautiful — tore out of him, and before he could stop himself, he was kissing you again: your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth, frantic, reverent, as if anchoring himself to the reality that you were here, awake, alive.

"Breath, Satoru," you croaked out, your voice barely above a whisper, your hand weakly trying to push his chest away. "I need to... breathe."

He laughed again, wet with tears he didn’t even realize were falling, and rested his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your cheeks like you were made of spun glass.

"Sorry, sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking with a happiness so raw it hurt. "Just... don't go back to sleep, okay? Not yet. I’ve got a whole list of terrible baby names to tell you.’ 

[hbatfam98]

AU where none of the JL know about the batkids for a while. But they recently have found out that  Bruce Wayne is the batman. So honestly... none of them are that surpised when they realise just how many batkids there are because ... Bruce Wayne gets around yk? Might have been cruel of him to force all his kids to be vigilantes with him but it's the Batman what are u going to do?

The batkids realise that the JL thinks they are all Bruce Wayne's bastard (/polite) children. And all of them (except Damien) are so happy to play along with it

Dick: *casually walking into a JL meeting with a sword impaled into him* Bruce, Damien is trying to kill me for the inheritance!

Bruce: ... medbay. Now.

Jason answering some of the question the JL had about them: yeah so he just hides us until he gets annoyed enough with the current Robin. Then he kicks them out and starts over with the younger sibling. *everyone turns to look at Batman in horror*

Bruce: That's  not -

Jason: and he only acknowledges you as his child again after you do something impressive enough. ... it took me becoming a crime lord for him to un-disinherit me.. :(

Bruce: No-

Jason: Why else do u think i have a grave at Wayne Manor? He said I was dead to him until I buck up.. :'(

Bruce: *walking away. Cannot handle this.*

Steph: Oh why do we all look so different? Did you really think Brucie would limit himself to a single type??

JL: ... checks out. Yeah

JL: *getting very concerned now* Hey kid, so.. Where's ur mom *surely she will be the safer choice*

Tim: Dead. *walks away no explanation*

JL: *are all their mothers? Does Batman? ... are we ok with teaming up with a mom murderer just because he's smarter than us?*

JL: *still not fully convinced. walking up to Oracle doing cool Oracle tingz (also slightly illegal tingz, so she's slightly worried they're here to tell her to stop)* ... so Batman's not ur dad right?

Barbara: *fully aware of where this is going and finds it hilarious so just for the jokes says:* yes he is.

JL: but we thought-

Barbara: *who was the one to teach Dick to be the absolute Drama Queen he is, has tears welling up in her eyes at will, sniffling* why would you say he isn't? You think just because I was never a Robin he doesn't want me as much-

JL: No no *oh god they made Batman's kid cry* But ur last name is Gordon?! As in Commissioner Gordon??

Barbara: .. yeah? He's also my dad? You got a problem with that? ... I'm gonna tell Bruce. Rainbow Batman is gonna kick ur ass. *switches on comms with Batman who is fighting an alien rn* Bruce, you've got to hear what ur friends are saying

Cass: ... *wants to be a part of the joke but the JL is still too afraid of her to approach her*

JL: ...

Cass: *walks up to them* Batman is not dad.

JL: oh?

Cass: He's mom. *walks away. High fives Tim*

JL: *Trying their luck again because one of these kids has to have a mom right?* Hey kid, so is ur mom still u know..

Duke:...

JL: is she still alive?

Duke: yeah of course she's alive

JL: *collective sigh of relief* oh so where is she?

Duke: in a mental asylum. *walks away*

...

Finally, they have to come clean when someone in the JL sees DickxBabs or StephxCass PDA (well it probably wasn't meant to be public) and freaks out because that's your half-sibling!?!

...

JL: So Robin, what happened to ur parents to make Bruce adopt u?Damien: he didn't have to. *kind of smug* I am his blood son

JL: oh cmon kid, they already told us about the joke ok? U don't have keep it up

Damien: Wha- No, I'm not lying!! They were but I'm not! I am a Wayne!JL: .. sure kid sure..

Also yes in this hc it's all of the JL just going as group from one kid to the next trying to figure this shit out

[colorlessjay]

Epic the musical and Supernatural mesh together so well, it's ridiculous -

Personally I've always imagined it as Cas trying to escape the empty to get back home to Dean, and he has to face a bunch of trials along the way, like confronting Circe (Rowena), finding the blind prophet (Pamela or Kevin), so on and so forth, meanwhile Dean and Jack are back on earth holding out hope he'll come back-

There's more but I don't wanna dump all this on ya' lol, I just saw you mention it in a post and saw an opportunity to give my 2 cents :p

-Jukebox 📼

Jukebox, look at me

I have a vision. I need to communicate telepathically

Remember the Demon Dean arc? Mark of Cain? All that carnage?

You know the Itheca Saga?

Imagine this:

Dean's been having his summer love with Crowley, when he hears word about demons going after Sam. Instead of being apathetic and dismissive, Dean looks into it only to find out that someone within Crowley's circle has somehow found an entrance to the bunker. A way to slip in.

And I want this to be at least two years since Dean disappeared.

He hears about what's happened to Sam, and his instincts to kill kick in. Like how he went after the Frankenstein family after they killed Charlie? Yeah, that energy, but with Sam, because that makes just as much sense. And honestly, if the show wanted more carnage, they should've started here, BUT ANYWAYS

Blah blah plot, that's too many details for me. Cut to the bunker, the demons are out hunting Sam, destroying the bunker room by room in the process

Cue the song "Hold Them Down" as the demons mock Crowley's fondness for the Winchesters and talk about how they will be the ones to take them down.

And just as it hits the last lyrics, the demons are in the library, absolutely desecrating ancient knowledge, an angel blade fucking launches into the back of one Demon's head and kills it

Cue the song "Odysseus" as Dean stands at the archway of the library, gun in one hand. The line "I have had enough" is said before Dean shoots at the ceiling, and the whole bunker goes dark for a second, the lights of the lamps flickering before it all goes out

Carnage

A full massacre happens as Dean hunts down every demon, closing off the bunker so no one can get in or out. Meanwhile, Sam tries to deal with the ones who were still after him. Even with a broken arm, he's holding his own, but they outnumber him

And I need Sam to watch as Dean lets the demon in his take over and protect his brother

After the chaos, we cue in "I Can't Help but Wonder" as Sam and Dean reunite. Fuck you, power of love and brotherhood WINS. I need Sam to just tell Dean how he never stopped trying to find him again, that he's not making the same mistake like when Dean got sent to purgatory. How he always hoped Dean would come home again.

Dean saying he's proud of Sam, that Sam grew into his own hunter, that he's been doing good, and that he did miss him, he just didn't want to come home a monster. But he's back now, and they hug, and it's sweet

And Sam says he has to go tell Cas

And then we cue to "Would You Fall in Love with Me Again"

Cas gets the call that Dean is back, as Cas was already driving back to the bunker when he got the SOS

The bunker door opens

Dean says Cas' name

And Cas can't help but stare as he walks down the stairs hesitantly. Cause he sees Dean's demon form, but he can still see remnants of his soul in there too

"Is it you? Have my prayers been answered?"

Cas is looking Dean over, trying to see past the demon while Dean gets a look at Cas' true form for the first time

Dean says he's not the righteous man Cas knew. That he's not the same man. That his sins run so much deeper now than ever before, and he's beyond who Cas can even consider a friend

Cas asks what he's done, and Dean just tells Cas about every regret and pain he's had. How he feels irredemable before he doesn't feel bad about everything he's done. How a part of him left and did it for his family's safety. And he asks Cas if he'd still take Dean back

words words that someone smarter and more literate than me will figure out

Cas tells (confesses) to Dean that he'll love him over and over again, no matter what. That he's still the same person. He'll always be Dean, and that Cas has been waiting for him to come home

Cinematic rotating shot of their POVs with Cas' true form and Dean's demon form wrapping around each other as their physical bodies hug, forehead to forehead

Dean "How long has it been?"

Cas "Too long"

And then Sam is waiting in the kitchen, waiting for them to finish

fuck this was badly written. No one read this

[illuminetic]

Some thoughts about Mel King, Kingdon, autism, and sexuality under the cut.

So I can't help but get a little peeved by this because it's personal for me — as an autistic woman who loves sex yet often gets infantilized by people who know me in real life because I'm supposedly so 'cute' and 'pure' — but GOD. I cannot stand when I see comments from people about Mel King being so 'sibling coded' with Langdon. And the thing is, I understand not everyone will ship them, and that's not a problem at all. I have a life outside of the internet so I don't really care in that deep a way lol. And I don't even entirely blame people who say they're like siblings, because Patrick Ball DID said he felt that way about Taylor and that was how he kind of conceptualized the Mel/Langdon relationship to begin with. But at the same time, I just feel like a lot of the 'omg they're so siblings!' chat is based in the belief that Mel can't be sexually desirable to a man who is traditionally handsome in the way Frank Langdon is. Or people are uncomfortable imagining Mel might have sexual desires or a sexual life at all, with Langdon involved or otherwise.

And then also there's this fine line too of some people saying they head-canon Mel as asexual and/or aromantic — and it's like. I'm not necessarily pissed at that or think it's a problem, because we all want representation and project our own traits onto characters to better understand ourselves or draw comfort. And again — I've heard that apparently Taylor Deardon said that's a valid interpretation of the character. And it is! But it's also like. Oh. So we're completely de-sexualizing the autistic girl. Cool. That makes sense — she's a little socially awkward and nerdy so of course she's not interested in sex! And even if she was interested in all that icky stuff her handsome coworker would never be into sex with her omg that would be so weird they're so siblings coded!!

Idk. This is nuanced — because again, if you're asexual I would never want to say it's wrong to conceive of Mel that way. We're all just playing barbies in our heads with our blorbos, I get it. I'm literally projecting my own sexuality onto Mel because I relate to her, so I guess I've actually just entirely talked myself out of being angry at all lol. So to any and all asexuals who headcanon Mel that way, keep doing you.

It's just a personal annoyance for me more than anything to see comments that imply Mel is a non-sexual being, as someone who sees myself in her a lot and also happens to really like sex. I feel like, because of the social cues I miss sometimes, and the way I am at work and in my personal life with friends and stuff — I am constantly fighting against the belief that I'm somehow 'innocent' or 'naive' when it's like. bud. I've literally had the kinkiest sex. I go to a sex club fairly regularly where I have sex with and/or in front of strangers. In fact, I'd argue part of the reason I like sex so much — and particularly kinky sex — is BECAUSE of the autism. I've noticed, from my time being in the community, that the kink world is filled with people on the spectrum lol. Makes sense — kink is all about rules and structure, controlled and safe (yet intense!) physical sensation. All things that attracted me to the lifestyle because I'm autistic, and the straightforwardness and clarity of communication about sex in the kink community felt like such a god-damned relief to me after struggling to have a sex-life out there in the neurotypical world.

Anyway. Long story short I'm just saying it's absolutely Frank who is the vanilla one in the Kingdon relationship. He's been married for years to someone I assume was probably his college girlfriend. 'Kinky' for him is breaking out the fuzzy hand-cuffs for anniversary sex or something, maybe some light spanking thrown in idk.

To end — I need someone to write a fic where the Pitt-crew plays never-have-I-ever during a night out, and Mel gets shit-faced and has to put down all her fingers before anyone else because there's so little she hasn't done. People keep throwing out more and more outrageous things, eyes going saucer-wide, and Mel's ears are burning but also she just keeps putting fingers down, throwing back shots, and raising a scornful eyebrow at anyone who dares to doubt her or make some comment like 'but Mel you don't seem like that type at all!!'

And Frank is. Sitting there quietly vibrating. Horny as hell. Having some thoughts and feelings about the fact that he knows Mel owns a strap now.

[accio-victuuri]

“last two days in shanghai”: A completely fake series of events typed up by a cpf. 🤡🤡🤡

well, i think the title of this post is disclaimer enough as it is. lol. i’ve initially talked about this here and here. this will be about the events that happened after the second link. so it’s the morning of the race and there are videos of wyb and xz here and there. i am actually slightly changing my stance on xz’s intention. i think he wants us to know that he is there. enough to be photographed leaving his hotel and nothing else. the usual plausible deniability card he and yibo are so good at.

so let’s start with a run down of events: we all know yibo won. by 5:00 PM we had videos of WYB’s win already. it was a happy affair. then around 8PM we received news that WYB is nominated for Huabiao Awards. after that, we got some talk of XZ attending Stefanie Sun’s concert at around 9:30. this was later confirmed by videos and XZ posted about it himself so much later in the day. please note that the 9:30 time when was the news made it to the internet, when it actually happened was earlier.

now here comes the clownery-interpretation.

no one knows where xz is after he left his hotel. yibo already won by 5PM, tho there was still time in the podium. so was that enough time for him to attend Stefanie Sun’s concert? absolutely. please see below:

so proximity wise. it’s very possible. there are also talks of how xz came in late. some attendees said he was there during the 3rd part of the concert, and was seen leaving the audience section before the program ended. well, i’m thinking he might have already been there, backstage or whatever VIP section earlier. people only learned he was there when he came out and stefanie mentioned him. this is his idol and his fandom lol so i would imagine that he wanted be there on time. tho being a bit late is okay too cause he still had to spend time with his champion racer boyfriend 🙄🙄🙄😤😤😤 there is a repo from a concert goer that he left around 9PM. yibo on the other hand was seen leaving the track at 9:30. so coordinated!

xz was again spotted returning to his hotel at around 11PM. so it is possible that xz watched wyb’s race, watch the concert and they still had time to go celebrate. 🎉🎉🎉🎉

XZ being spotted at a concert is the perfect alibi of sorts. he can say he was there to attend the concert. but if you look closely and observe the time, there is a huge window that is unexplained. Of course i’m not removing the fact that XZ did want to go. this specific concert is to celebrate her 25th year anniversary as a singer so it’s really special and any fan would surely want to watch. but it also happens to line up perfectly with bobo’s race.

now i’ll quickly run down a few cpns floating around……

first is how the caption is formatted, it’s so similar to yibo’s birthday post

the photo of the nutcracker that he shared was during the song 真的 ( really ). maybe he just liked how it looked but the song itself is pretty telling. if we are talking about this and interpreting it in the CPN context. that weekend specifically, they both had to go through a lot to spend time together. but they did. love is not always easy!

⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️

i love his caption for the concert but i have a feeling that the last part was for someone else. for his racing win and the awards nomination.

I fly forward, fly across a sea of ​​time, and the best youth is you. I wish you happiness every day! Forever!

He specifically mentioned this song 尚好的青春 that she did not sing during the concert. but of course it’s important to him and yibo cause this was the song he performed during the 11.11 concert where WYB was supposed to introduce him 😭😭😭😭

https://youtu.be/B2cF9NzGO0Y?si=pB_aOWI0jkkELQR2

i’ll stop here and there’s probably some more if you clown hard enough 😋😋😋 you can also add him talking about being a “shining adult” and how that related to Chen Shuo.

Moving on —Sunday, was another race day and sadly, yibo couldn’t continue competing. he made it in time to attend Huabiao Awards. XZ then went back to Beijing and was spotted around 10PM. again. so much time in between for XZ to watch Bobo again!

what a great weekend in shanghai 😉😉😉

lastly, i wanna address the cpn about the black tent. some are saying that it’s a possible place for xz to be in there but was later was said to be where tires are stored. others are saying that for sports like this, the emergency contact should be present. i was holding off talking about that cause when cpfs are hyped up, we tend to over interpret. and that’s dangerous. we all fall for that one way or another, and i think it takes time to be more discerning. all cpn pieces should be taken as what they are — cpn. made up. fiction. i don’t know how i can make people understand that xz being there is not a fact. it’s not a matter of what “evidence” was there or whatever “washing” was done. the default fact is that xz wasn’t there.

so i hope people will not be too glass hearted when a different explanation for cpns comes up. this is all fiction. we won’t know. just enjoy the fandom! don’t take it too seriously. 💛💛💛

-END.

[imaginingmanyfandoms]

im fucked, i know - roy kent

warnings; swearing, smutty references, angst, accusations, fightings

summary; an article is written about some of the soft things roy does for you, and he assumes you're at fault.

a/n; first time writing for this beauty. considering a smutty part 2 if y'all want it :)

"Tell me the truth," Roy said, "Did you go to the reporters to tell them all about our homelife, huh?"

"For the last time, no I didn't."

You refused to react, because you really hadn't gone to the paps. You wanted your privacy as much as Roy did, maybe even more than Roy did, on account of never being famous and never wanting to be. But you loved him, and sacrificing a little piece of your anonymity was worth the love and and joy he brought you.

You were not, however, feeling love and joy right now.

"Well then how the fuck did they know all that, eh?? This article has shit that only you would know."

You were backed into the counter, his arms of either side of you, gripping the ledge of the granite, in a way that would normally excite you, and well still not intimidated or scared, you weren't exactly feeling good about it. Your arms crossed tightly across your chest.

On Saturday morning, an article had been published about 10 things the public didn't know about retired football legend, Roy Kent. Small things, like he liked being the little spoon, how he was hoping and praying for a little girl of his own soon, how he was absolute enchanted by you, willing to cater to your every whim. It made him look so soft, which he was, but the whole fucking world didn't need to know that.

You'd fought all Saturday, then slept as far apart as possible in complete silence, before fighting again all day today, but it was worse, it was like he was trying to force a confession out of you.

"Yeah that's my fucking prerogative, I waited until we dated for five full years before I went and blabbed to a bunch of fucking reporters telling them about how you like to be the little fucking spoon."

"Fuck!!" He shouted, pushing off the counter and turning around, hands rubbing harshly across his own cheeks.

"I'm going to bed," you said, "I think you should sleep in one of the other rooms tonight. The way you're accusing me, and talking to me... I just don't want to sleep next to you."

Roy looked over your face, noting the way your lip quivered. He was torn, his instinct said to grab you and pull you close and apologize and beg to come to bed, but his rage, his frustration, told him that you'd done the one thing he hated most, crossed the boundary most precious to him.

"I'll do you one fucking better," he said, picking his jacket up from the back of a chair, and leaving the house, slamming the door behind him loudly.

When you heard his stupid car start, your shoulders dropped from their defensive position, and the tears rolled quickly down your cheeks. You hadn't done anything. You'd been in all Friday while Roy went to the pub with the team, drinking and celebrating freely for the beginning of the off season.

Usually this was a time of bliss for the two of you, Roy allowed himself two full weeks of time devoted to the relationship before carrying on with off season training. Normally at this point, the two of you would be shamelessly rolling around in bed, and when you were panting, sweaty and recovering, still wrapped up in his arms, you'd discuss where to spend a weeks vacation. Because you, being the ever supporting partner, took the same vacation time.

You phone beeped with a text from Roy.

Lock the fucking door before you go upstairs. Goodnight.

You sighed, wiping the tears off your cheeks before locking the door, and dragging yourself to your room. Stripping off your clothes from the day, you pulled on one of Roy's shirts, and sobbed into your pillow, chasing a nights sleep that would surely evade you.

"Let me sleep in your fucking house," Roy said, staring at a confused Jamie, who didn't say anything but let Roy in anyway. He could've gone to his sisters house, but she would've asked a million questions. And he didn't want Pheobe to see him at this level of mad. "Fuck," Roy mumbled, checking his phone again to see if you said goodnight back.

You didn't.

"Alright, Royo?"

"If I was fucking alright would I be in your fucking stupid house asking to sleep in your stupid fucking guest room and not- stop fucking looking at me with that stupid fucking face!"

"We can talk tomorrow," Jamie said, "you are not regular grandpa mad right now you are just beyond."

"Fuck off," Roy said, checking his phone again.

Did you see the text? Did you lock the door? Should he call and check?

"Unless you want to talk now? I can put on-" Jamie was cut off by a glare he'd never seen before, it made him want to cower away from it. In all their years training and hating each other and becoming friends, he'd never seen a glare quite like that before. "Okay, night."

As Jamie scurried off down the hall, door closing with a little more force than intended, Roy let his face drop.

Was he wrong? What the fuck was going on? He couldn't imagine a world where you called up the paps and told them how he can't sleep without hearing you say goodnight first. About how he can't truly get comfortable at hotels until he knows you're safe in bed from whatever you were doing that day. Not that you couldn't be out or like he had any say about that but just... he liked to know when you got home after. But no one else knows that shit, that's his personal shit, shit he only shared with you.

Roy wandered over to Jamie's couch, not caring enough to make it to the guest room, and kicked his trainers off, flopping onto the furniture without even taking his jacket off.

Still no text.

After debating calling you to make sure you had stayed in and gone to bed, and saw his text to lock the door, he decided not to. Not that it could, but he didn't want to risk things getting any worse. Was bad enough, really.

Instead, he scrolled back in your messages, looking for a video you'd sent him while he was at the last away game.

But he wasn't after any of the ... intimate ones. He needed a certain one. A specific one, and when he found it, he played it over and over until he could trick his brain into falling asleep.

A simple video, you holding your phone on your face, saying "Goodnight love, miss you. Can't wait to see you tomorrow, and I love you!!"

He played the video until his phone died.

In the morning, Roy woke up to Jamie tip toeing around his kitchen. Roy groaned, his knee fucking aching from the stiff position he'd slept in, for the few hours he even managed to sleep.

"Oh," Jamie froze, "sorry didn't meant to wake you but I'm starvin," he mumbled, "Hungry?"

"No," Roy grunted, stretching out his leg and trying to hold in his grunts of pain. Fuck this couch.

"You want to talk about it?"

"Why the fuck would I want to talk about it with you?"

"Jesus, relax geezer. I figured if ya girl couldn't make you feel better I could at least try. What happened? You guys fight?"

Roy grunted, nodding slightly. Roy weighed his options... go home and fight again, or see if Jamie could help.

"Was it about the article?"

Another grunt. Another nod.

"Awh, mate. Don't take it so hard, everyone makes mistakes. I know she's a private one, was she mad?"

Roy scrunched his eyebrows together. "Why would she be mad?"

Jamie looked confused, "Dunno, cos she hates attention like tha?"

"If that were true she wouldn't have fucking told everyone that shit," Roy mumbled. He realized choosing to talk to Jamie about this was stupid, what does Jamie know about privacy? What does Jamie know about fucking anything?

"Erh, Royo..."

"Fuck this," Roy grunted, standing up but grunting as his knee gave him trouble. He started jamming his feet into his trainers.

"Coach listen," Jamie started again, but Roy just grunted, ignoring him.

"She'll tell the truth today and say sorry, sure of it, hates sleepin' alone."

"Wait, listen to me, seriously." Jamie said, standing in Roy's way when he moved for the door. "Did you guys fight because you were mad at her?"

"No shit," Roy said. "She crossed a boundary that I'd made very fucking clear when we started."

"Erh, I dunno how to say this but..." Jamie took a breath, "wait let me uh," he took a few quick steps back, safely out of Roy's reach. He took another deep breath. "You told them reporters all tha'."

"Fuck off," Roy said, face covered in anger. "Like I would ever do that."

"No really," Jamie said, bouncing his weight between both feet as if warming up to flee Roy's rage at any given moment. "Me and Isaac tried to fuckin' corral ya'at the pub but you were drunk, talkin' about 'er all excited to anyone tha' would listen. An' when we tried tellin' ya that you were talkin' to a pap you told us to fuck off. An' we were drunk too so we did."

"No," Roy said, finally. "That's not what happened."

"Call Isaac if you're sure but like... that is what happened."

"No."

Jamie looked sad. "Were ya mean to 'er?"

Roy wasn't even sure if he believed Jamie. Yes, maybe he got drunk enough that Keeley and Colin had to drag him into the uber. And maybe it was the first time in a while that he'd woken up with that bad a hangover. And he wasn't sure how he even got from the car to the bed, but he was in pajamas and you'd made him a big breakfast. And his car had been back in the driveway even though he'd left it at the pub and... he could vaguely remember talking to random people that night. He remembers telling the boys it was ready to get the ring out, and that he was feeling particularly in love with you lately and...

Oh.

Oh no.

Roy sat back on the couch. Right on the very edge, and put his head in his hands.

"Please," he mumbled, with an air of vulnerability that made goosebumps shoot up Jamie's arm. "Tell me you're joking."

"Sorry," Jamie answered. "But 'm not."

"Oh fuck, I'm fucked." Roy didn't move an inch, sat like a stone statue and Jamie didn't know whether to leave him in it or move closer. Jamie stayed perfectly still, worried about making any move.

"I'm so fucking fucked, fuck!"

And suddenly Roy was on his feet. Checking his pockets for his keys, which obviously weren't there, and he cursed and swore and muttered frustrated nonsense as he searched the couch cushions for his keys. And where the fuck was his phone? Ah, forget the phone. Didn't need the phone, needed the fucking keys.

Where the fuck were his keys?????

"Coach?"

"What!?"

Jaime was pointing the leg of the couch, where the keys were poking out.

Roy grunted grabbing them and rushing towards the door. Jamie had to nearly jump out of his way. Before he left he glanced back at the living room, cushions and blankets severely out of place.

"Sorry."

"All good."

Roy moved to leave again but stopped. He looked over his shoulder at Jamie, shirtless and stupid, and Roy muttered, "thanks."

"Anytime, granddad."

When Roy got home, he parked like shit and raced into the house. He was frantic, calling out your name and looking for you. It was still pretty early, but if you had a shit night like he did you'd probably be up. He threw his coat on the floor and slammed the door behind him, harder than he meant to.

"Babe?" he called, taking the stairs two at a time and ignoring the pain in his knee.

But you weren't in the bedroom, or the kitchen, or the bathroom, or the back deck. You weren't here. Roy sat on the floor in the hallway, head buried in his elbow, and knees drawn up to his chest. The ache in his knee didn't even fucking compare to the one in his chest, the one fueled by guilt and regret and remorse, fuck he was such a fucking idiot.

Of course you didn't go blabbing to reporters. Why would you have done that? You've more than proven your loyalty to him, and your relationship. Not that you'd ever needed to prove anything to him. You'd always been there, supporting him when coaching made him nostalgic and sad. Always patient with him when he was being a dick because he was at a different stage in his life.

And you did it without ever making him feel like you were putting up with him. You made him feel like you were just feeling it with him, like you were loving him through it. And then at one sign of trouble he'd turned it at you, made it ugly, didn't let you explain anything, made it nasty.

He had been so, so awful.

And you hadn't deserved any of it.

He blamed you for him getting drunk and telling strangers how much he loved being the little spoon.

At the sound of the door unlocking, Roy's heart skipped a beat, and he was up on his feet quickly, rushing down the stairs to meet you. You were in casual athletic wear, sunglasses covering your face and hair in a ponytail that was sticking out the back of a baseball cap.

"Hi love," he mumbled, throat closing at the sight of you. You didn't smile when you saw him of course, but weren't frowning either. Your face gave away nothing. But when you took the hat and glasses off, he saw what he caused. He saw the red, puffy eyes from too much crying and too little sleep. Saw the cheeks rubbed raw from wiping those tears away.

And he felt sick. What kinda partner had he been?

A really shit one.

"Morning, Roy."

"You weren't here, fuck, got so scared you'd left."

And while yes, you had left the house, you knew what he meant. He meant thought you'd left him.

"After all this time you should know well enough I wouldn't just cut and run from you without trying first." You weren't trying to be mean, but you were just exhausted. You'd slept like shit. "I texted you that I was going for a walk in case you came home."

Roy didn't know what to say to that, he never did find his phone at Jamie's and just left without it. He was dying to pull you into a hug. Desperate to feel you in his arms, feel your heartbeat against his. But he had no right, not until he told you the truth.

"It was me," he said suddenly. "On Friday when I was drunk I was talking to some reporter. I didn't know I did that, and I was shit to you. I was so fucking shit to you and I'm so sorry. I'm so so fucking sorry, you didn't deserve me berating you for one fucking minute and I did it for a whole weekend. And I wasn't listening to you and I was a shit partner and I'm sorry, love, I'm so sorry. Couldn't fucking sleep proper after fighting and it just made my temper worse and Jamie kept looking at me with that stupid empathy face and..."

"Roy, you've gotta take a breath." you said, putting your hands on his arms, the first time he'd felt you touching his skin in days, made him shut up and frown, just looking down at you.

He took a few deep breaths. And instead of talking more he just grabbed your hips, pulling you into him. You let out an 'oof' as you were pushed into his chest. His lip trembled as he held you, trying not to let you see it, but you just knew he was close to crying, could feel his fingers trembling as his hands spread out over your back.

"We'll talk about it, love."

"No, don't please..." Roy sighed, "please don't be nice to me, be mad at me."

"I can be nice and mad at the same time."

Roy huffed, squeezing you tighter against him for a second before pulling away gently, just enough to look down at you again. The sight of you, light pout on your lips, eyes hurting from his actions, made his heart feel like it was imploding in on itself.

"I'm really sorry," he said, voice a soft and gentle whisper.

"We'll figure it out," you said, "We have two weeks together, I'm sure you'll pull together some grand gesture to make me feel better."

"The grandest. So grand you'll be embarrassed of it. They'll write a movie about it."

You laughed, softly and not your full, happy laugh. But enough to give Roy enough sense to know things will be okay.

"I'm going to shower," you said, "maybe when I get out we can have tea together and talk about it, okay? Maybe they're will be a chocolate croissant from that place I like..."

"Chocolate croissants, got it, yes, there will be." He grabbed you cheeks, kissing your forehead, then both temples, then both cheeks, then he splattered a barrage of kisses from the cheek to your ear, trying to convey all his love and apologies and affections with the sweets pecks.

You laughed again, a laugh closer to your real one, and pushed him off, slipping out of his arms and walking towards the stairs to shower.

Before you could get to far Roy called out to you again, and you looked at him. "We'll be okay, right? You and me?"

"Of course we will," you said, "If we broke up just because you were an idiot we wouldn't have made it one week."

Roy laughed.

He bought ten croissants from that place you like.

[lilgarbitch]

Noah Sebastian Alphabet Head-canons

Thot Tags: @theanarchymuse95 @dontwantthemoney @chey-h @badomensgoodomens @bloody-spades @blade-dressed-in-red @xmads-omensx @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @thatchickwiththecamera @tosoundlessdarkistare @lacy1986 @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @death-ofpeace-ofmind @fadingangelwisp @heyyoplayer @super-btstrash-posts @bluehairpunklol @geminigirlfromfinland @lovesick-evangelist

(If you don’t want to be tagged in headcanons lmk)

18+ !! MDNI below the cut

A- Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Will definitely need a moment to calm down after, which you have no problem with, but he will always help clean you up. If he went too hard, he will carry you to the bathroom if you need it. He’s running to grab you a wet towel the second his mind is working again, wanting you to be as comfortable as possible, and clean so the two of you can cuddle as soon as possible.

B- Body Part (Their favorite body part of their partner)

He’s definitely a tits guy, but it’s more just how much he enjoys being able to grab onto you with his big hands. Whether it’s a full handful of boobs, ass or even thighs, he just wants to be able to get a good grip on you

C- Cum (Anything to do with cum)

Probably worries too much to cum in you unless you two have had a deep talk about it, and then he’s completely obsessed with filling you up. But if not, he absolutely loves painting you. Something inside his brain short circuits when he’s sees your ass or stomach covered in his cum. When you agree to let him paint your face, he practically cums there and then. He can’t explain why, maybe some claim over you, or just how sexy you look in the moment, but he is obsessed with it.

D- Dirty Secret (Hidden kinks and fantasies)

100% into hentai but never talks about it.

E- Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s definitely experienced. He probably went a while just doing things for his own pleasure, but once he realized how hot it was to get a girl off, he did his research. He knows how to take his time to learn what positions make you feel best and what parts of you are the most sensitive.

F- Favorite position (Self explanatory)

Likes missionary so he can watch your face contort in pleasure. But my god, he loves having you on top. Being able to hold you and bounce you on top of him. Watching your tits move with each thrust. And the look on your face when he holds your hips and pounds into you from below could send him right over the edge by itself.

G- Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment or are they willing to joke around with their partner?)

Definitely laughs during sex. With arms and legs too long to take control of, he’s knocking things off nightstands and misplacing a knee or elbow and losing balance, but it never ruins the moment. Sex with him can switch between mind-numbing and hysterical in seconds, but neither takes away from the other.

H- Hair (How well groomed are they?)

Doesn’t pay much mind to it. Clean shave if it’s unruly. Trimmed when he wants to put in the effort for you. Has nothing against letting it grow out but will absolutely take care of it if you mention it, even in passing.

I- Intimacy (How romantic can they be in the moment?)

If he wants to make the night extra special for you, he will do everything he can. Even going overboard. He’s the type to set up rose petals around the bed, even though you laugh at how cheesy it is. He will happily take his time telling you every single part of you that he loves and why. Placing kisses over each inch of skin as he whispers his appreciation and adoration to you.

J- Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Has nothing against a quick jerk off sesh. Doesn’t see it as a “I can’t have her right now so I guess I’ll do it myself.” Sometimes he just needs a quick release without bothering you. But he’s absolutely staring at pictures of you. Even if you’ve never sent him any nude photos, if theres a picture where your tits are just looking a little too good, he’s staring at it, imagining they’re right in front of him. And he definitely has an active imagination for moments like this. He can play out an entire scene of the two of you in his head, imagining his hand is yours as he brings himself closer and closer to the edge.

K- Kink (One or more they’re open about)

Loves hair pulling. Loves to be able to slide his fingers into your hair and grip as he fucks you into the bed. Loves holding your hair as a handle as he uses your mouth. And he won’t say it out loud, but you immediately make a mental note that he loves it too when you get a good grip on his hair as he’s going down on you. The instant moan that leaves his lips as you absentmindedly tug at his roots to ground yourself. The way his eyes flutter if you slip your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck when he’s fucking you.

L- Location (Favorite places to fuck)

Definitely the bedroom. Couches don’t fit his body and showers are too risky for someone as tall and lanky as him. Is absolutely down for a car fuck as long as you ride him. He’s also not against bending you over anything he can if he really needs you. Is also not opposed to sitting you on the kitchen counter and doing you there.

M- Motivation (What turns them on/ gets them going?)

Anything you. You could just be looking really cute and happy and he just needs to show his love for you. You could be wearing a tight shirt and the way your cleavage is on display makes him hungrier than ever. He could simply be thinking about you and a thought of previous nights flash through his mind and he has to have you. He just gets turned on by you. The only other thing that gets him going is knowing that you’re the best medicine when he needs to get his mind off something. If he’s overworking himself or something is just really bothering him and nothing can be done, you’re his favorite distraction.

N- No (Turn offs)

He’s not that kinky. Not into anything that has to do with bodily fluids and isn’t really into the thought of purposely harming you. He’s willing to restrain you if that’s what you enjoy, but other than pressing you into the mattress or lightly choking you, nothing more really turns him on. Somno could be something he’s into if you expressed your interests long beforehand, but CNC would probably make him uncomfortable.

O- Oral (Preference on giving/receiving, skill, etc.)

Munch!Noah always lives in my head rent free. He knows how to get you off and fast. He just usually uses his fingers, too. Why would he only use his mouth when he can watch the way you overstimulate with his fingers inside you and tongue working your clit. When it comes to receiving, he’s just happy to be there. Unless you let him know that you want him to take control and use you, the second your mouth is on him, every thought in his head is gone. He may hold onto you to guide your speed or to pull you off if it’s getting too much, but he’s happy to let you take control and just make him feel good.

P- Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)

Noah can do both. Definitely depends on his mood. Quickies and hot nights lead to him absolutely fucking you into the mattress, wanting nothing more than to bring you the pleasure you so desperately deserve, but he absolutely adores the nights where he can just feel you. Where the two of you can take it slow and take in the feeling of being pressed against each other. Where he can show you how much he loves and adores you with his actions. Gentle kisses and slow movements letting him take his time to really appreciate you.

Q- Quickie (Their preference on quickies, how often, etc.)

Like I said before, he’s not opposed with bending you over anything he can if he really needs you. If you ask, he’s more than willing to sneak off to a private bathroom and bending you over the sink. He’s also extremely good at slipping his hands down your pants in places you don’t want to get caught, getting you off real quick and then going on with his day like nothing happened. It’s not usually a common occurrence, but when it’s tour season and he’s busy running around, practicing, setting up and losing his mind, he wants nothing more than to pull you somewhere and let off some much needed steam.

R- Risk (Are they down to experiment with their partner? Do they take risks?)

The most risk he’ll take is location wise. He already knows what he likes in bed, so he sticks to that unless you really want to try something, then he’ll give it a chance. But he’s completely down with hiding behind a low traffic corner and taking you right then and there. If a door doesn’t have a lock, he’ll just fuck you up against it so no one can come in. He’ll continuously remind you to stay quiet so you don’t get caught in the back of a tour bus with the door wide open, never knowing if someone’s going to step in and catch you.

S- Stamina (How many rounds can they go? How long do they last?)

He lasts long enough to only need to go one round, if that’s what you’ll even call it. He loves getting you off, so by the time he even fucks you, unless it’s a quickie, you’ve probably already cum at least once or twice. He learned that girls needed foreplay and absolutely ran with it, building you up and preparing you for as long as he seemed fit before finally taking you. Once he’s fucking you, he may even get you off twice then, too, depending on how badly worked up he is. If he’s desperate to cum, he may not last long, but he still makes sure you at least join him.

T- Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On just their partner or on themselves, too?)

He isn’t opposed to using them on you, but even after one night with him, you know you don’t need any. Maybe he’ll bring out a vibrator just for some extra overstimulation, but between his hands, fingers, and mouth, there’s not much more that you need. He probably wouldn’t have anything against using a cock ring if the two of you wanted to try out something new, but he doesn’t need anything more than you or his hand.

U- Unfair (How much of a tease are they?) 

Not a tease to the point where he’ll turn you on and leave you hanging, but he likes taking his time with you. He enjoys building you up, listening to the noises you make and the way your body reacts to his touch. He loves to hear you beg for more, to tell him what you need so he can make you feel good.

V- Volume (How loud are they? What sounds do they make?)

He isn’t loud, but he’s not one to hold himself back. If something feels good, he’ll let it be known. The closer he is, the more moans and whines you’ll hear. And if you get on his ‘bad side’, there’s no stopping the grunts and growls he’ll let out. Depending on his headspace, the more vocal he is. If you really pissed him off, he’s letting you know. Telling you to take it. Bossing you around and calling you names. But he’s probably the most vocal when he’s absolutely lost in pleasure. Complimenting you and telling you how good you feel. Whining and begging you to cum with him.

W- Wild Card (Random headcanon I have) (Nicknames they have for their partner)

Even if you are the farthest thing from girly, he will give you the sweetest and most adorable nicknames. Princess. Angel. Baby Girl. But My Love becomes a big one once he feels comfortable saying it. It almost becomes your new name. It’s how he’ll get your attention. How he addresses you to others. It’s the first words to come to his head every time he sees you.

X- X-Ray (What’s happening under those clothes?)

Well above average. That man doesn’t have a single part of his body that isn’t long. It’s not thick, but it will hit all the right places with more to spare.

Y- Yearning (How high is their sex drive? How badly do they need their partner when they’re turned on?)

Definitely not insanely high. He works out a lot, is always moving around and wearing himself out in many different ways. Like I mentioned earlier, he has nothing against a quick jerk off sesh, so he doesn’t always necessarily need you, but if you’re near and he’s turned on, there’s no stopping him. He’s doing everything he can to make it known, being extra touchy and cuddly. But if you’re not catching on or just busy, he’s trying to slide his hands down your pants or pressing himself against you until you can spare him a single moment.

Z- Zzz (How quickly do they fall asleep after)

Unless it’s a quickie, once the two of you are in each other’s arms, he’s out like a light. Your warm skin pressed against his and his arms wrapped around you tight instantly send him into a dream-state. He couldn’t feel more content and safe than in that moment.

Will be doing the rest of the boys soon‼️