#you will do your fucking job or it will not get done
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dollyyun · 2 days ago
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HOUSE OF BALLOONS ✧ SERIES MASTERLIST
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PAIRING ✧ hyung line + jungwon x fem!reader GENRE ✧ 18+(mdni), reverse harem, eventual poly, romance, adulthood, aged-up characters (enha members are older than reader), morally grey characters, office romance, forbidden romance element, mystery, dark themes, underground fighters!hyung line + jungwon GENERAL WARNING ✧ possessive male leads, obsessions, tensions, angsts, toxicity, explicit themes, profanities, corruption, coercion, perversion, alcohol consumption, violence, blood, graphic descriptions, traumas, tragedy, office/medical/underground fighting inaccuracies, smuts (warnings will be indicated on each part under cut), other k-idols appearances and made up ocs DISCLAIMER ✧ credits to nia (@intromortal) for indulging my enha!boxers agenda as well as for coming up with the idea! not to forget aj, who helped me with the tropes for each member with reader! TAGLIST ✧ open!comment💌below [ageless, blank, minor blogs will be denied]
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SUMMARY ✧ you never would have planned for your New Year's resolution to turn out entirely different than the initial one, because moving abroad and choosing to settle where you grew up had never been on your mind nor have you considered, but heartbreak does wonders to a person. In spite of your unannounced arrival that takes your uncle by surprise, he warmly welcomes you with open arms. He even offers to support you both financially and non-financially while you take your time to settle down and explore your options here, considering your decision to move abroad was done rather impulsively, but you refuse his generous offer. While you remain adamant in your hunt for a job that is relevant to your degree, your uncle makes another offer that you deem acceptable, and that is to work for him. Though his company is relatively small, you find no issues in it as long as you manage to do something productive in the meantime, but the moment you step foot into the building, five highly attractive men pique your attention. They’re older than you and obviously more experienced working in the corporate industry, and that is probably why you're attracted to them, but you can’t deny that there is something dangerous about these men. Your suspicion for them grows when you begin to notice odd patterns in regards to their work shifts as well as the bruises they try to hide under their ironed suits. Maybe you were right to be suspicious, because your taking of preventative measures resulted in an alarming discovery of the underground fighting club, which had been directly underneath the corporate building all this while. Somehow, you have a strong inkling that the illegal business that runs right under your uncle’s nose is meant to be a secret only they share, but little do you know that the owner is the same person you trust the most. Now you are caught in a dilemma where the secret is stuck with you, and you have no idea how to confront your uncle about this. Eventually, the five men catch up to your discovery of their dual life and the underworld, and despite their differences, they don’t intend to let you escape the house of balloons, not when you are their most precious gem. You’re in their world now, and you belong to them.
➤ PROLOGUE
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➤ PART ONE [ EARNED IT ]
SYNOPSIS ✧ Your second week on the job is already unpleasant, all thanks to Park fucking Jongseong. He irks you to no end, constantly getting on your nerves and never missing the opportunity to compete against you despite the fact that he’s the company’s auditor whereas you are the company’s secretary. Duty calls when you are required to work together with him, which means he’ll be glued to your side during office hours, no matter how much you hate it. Surprisingly, you begin to tolerate each other’s presences, where playful banter is often exchanged and the closeness feels rather intimate. His gaze turns into something sultry, as though inviting you to break the professional boundaries, and you do, multiple times, because Jay and his allure are simply impossible to resist. But your suspicion eventually begins on the same day Jay proves that he will always see you as his rival.
PAIRING ✧ jay park x fem!reader GENRE ✧ office rivals to lovers, underground fighter!jay, auditor!jay, company secretary!reader, eventual fluff, jay may be annoying and loves to get on reader's nerves WARNINGS ✧ angsts, toxicity, profanities, corruption, coercion, power imbalance, miscommunication, violence, blood, graphic descriptions, smut, dom!jay, sub!reader, unprotected sex(no!), pet names (baby, angel), light degradation, ice play, nipple play, breeding kink, multiple rounds & orgasms, overstimulation, vanilla sex mostly (jay is lowkey a loverboy),
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➤ PART TWO [ THE HILLS ]
SYNOPSIS ✧ From the moment you first stepped foot into the office, you already knew that Sim Jaeyun would be trouble — the way his eyes constantly fix on you whenever you appear in his line of sight, gazing at you brazenly even after you catch his gorgeous brown eyes, and your presumption proves correct when he finally makes his move on you. Compared to Jay, Jake is more tolerable to be with in spite of his relentless yet harmless flirtatious attempts that you often brush off, but that doesn't mean you are immune to his charms. You know that he is playing around with you, and based on your experience, guys like him are no good news, but you can’t help with your attraction that is growing dangerously towards him, making yourself a fallen victim to his dark, irresistible allure. Little do you know that your intimate involvement with Jake infuriates Jay, which eventually leads to a brutal face-off without your knowledge, or so they thought.
PAIRING ✧ jake sim x fem!reader GENRE ✧ friends to lovers, friends with benefits kinda, underground fighter!jake, business analyst!jake, company secretary!reader, fluffs, golden retriever!jake who is also a major flirt WARNINGS ✧ light angst, eventual toxicity, profanities, corruption, coercion, violence, blood, graphic descriptions, smut, softdom!jake, sub!reader, unprotected sex(no!), dry humping, rough and messy sex, oral (f & m.receiving), pet names (sweetheart, gorgeous), slight degradation, biting, creampies, cum eating, multiple rounds & orgasms, overstimulation, pussy munch jake, he's a huge simp for reader
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➤ PART THREE [ HEARTLESS ]
SYNOPSIS ✧ If you thought Jay was unbearable, then you clearly haven’t met Park Sunghoon, except that you did meet him on the first week of your job, but he hadn’t been making himself prominent within your radar as you notice that he often steers clear of you whenever you are in any part of the building, as if you are the plague. That goes on until Sunghoon begins to make an unfavourable approach towards you — constantly criticising and nitpicking everything you do, his cold eyes glaring at you, showcasing his superiority over you, and just doing everything in his power to remind you that you are undeserving of your position and diminishing your worth in the workplace. There is no doubt that he hates you just as you hate him, and yet you want to understand what qualities you have that incite his hatred towards you in the way he treats you. As the tension intensifies quickly, it's inevitable that both of you will succumb to the temptation, particularly when Sunghoon's desire for you matches his loathing for you. Time will prove to you again that heartless is the perfect word to describe a callous man like Sunghoon.
PAIRING ✧ park sunghoon x fem!reader GENRE ✧ enemies to lovers, slowburn-ish, underground fighter!sunghoon, manager!sunghoon, company secretary!reader, eventual fluff, morally grey!sunghoon (he's mean af) WARNINGS ✧ tensions, heavy angst, toxicity, profanities, corruption, power imbalance, coercion, violence, blood, graphic descriptions, smut, harddom!sunghoon, sub!reader, unprotected sex(no!), rough sex, oral (f & m.receiving), fingering, choking, biting, hair pulling, brat tamer, pet names (princess, red), manhandling, spitting, size kink, degradation, creampies, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, crying
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➤ PART FOUR [ AFTER HOURS ]
SYNOPSIS ✧ Throughout the weeks of complication surrounding the three men, you are more than thankful to have someone who you can depend on for moral support. Yang Jungwon has been by your side since day one, and unlike some other people, he has no malicious intent nor is he intolerable. His amicable approach, as well as his overall amiability, makes the workplace a little less dull. He often offers you guidance and helps you in any way he can, even if you are having a hard time with the office printer. You feel an instinctual safety whenever you are with him, and you trust him the most, but there is a slight problem. You often notice how Jungwon completely detaches himself from you after office hours, and it hurts your feelings as you acknowledge that he will always remain as your work friend. Nothing more, nothing less. You should be grateful that nothing changes in your dynamic with him in the workplace, but you want him to notice you not only as his work friend but maybe something more. So when you finally gain the courage to confront him, it also leads to your eventual discovery of the underworld, where violence persists and normalises, causing a drastic change in your view towards the man who you thought was harmless.
PAIRING ✧ yang jungwon x fem!reader GENRE ✧ friends to lovers, work besties, underground fighter!jungwon, marketing coordinator!jungwon, company secretary!reader, fluffs WARNINGS ✧ tension, light angst, toxicity, profanities, corruption, coercion, violence, blood, graphic descriptions, smut, meandom!jungwon, sub!reader, unprotected sex(no!), rough and messy sex (some vanillas), pure filth, oral (f.receiving), fingering, edging, choking, pet names (doll, bunny), degradation, pwp, manhandling, dirty talks, bondage, squirting, multiple rounds & orgasms, overstimulation, crying
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➤ PART FIVE [ DIE FOR YOU ]
SYNOPSIS ✧ After keeping your promise to retain your discovery of their dual life as a secret to Jungwon, there is an unsettling feeling of both fear and wariness upon having the knowledge that these men are more than capable of killing with their bare hands, and yet there is a sinister part of you that finds them hotter than they already were. Most especially, it is harder to ignore your direct superior, who you will remain working for until your uncle returns from his prolonged overseas business trip, otherwise known as Lee Heeseung. He is by far the most reserved and mysterious man you ever met, and while he is not a man of many words, his dark eyes hold masses of dominance. Though he isn’t exactly as callous as Sunghoon, there is something about him that makes you meekly submissive, unable to refuse his order in any way. Just as you decide to assume the worst of him hating you, he proves your presumption wrong when he breaks the forbidden boundaries, no longer holding himself back and allowing his burning desire for you to consume him. You are prudent to the fact that this man is dangerous and is capable of causing damage, be it in the office or outside, especially after witnessing his fighting element, but you have never felt safer than you are in his arms.
PAIRING ✧ lee heeseung x fem!reader GENRE ✧ slowburn-ish, underground fighter!heeseung, cheif operation officer!heeseung, company secretary!reader, eventual fluffs, morally grey!heeseung (he appears coldly mysterious and reserved in reader's pov) WARNINGS ✧ tension, angst, toxicity, profanities, corruption, coercion, violence, blood, graphic descriptions, smut, mean & harddom!heeseung (he's unpredictable), sub!reader, unprotected sex(no!), rough sex (some vanillas here and there when reader least expects it), filth, oral (f.receiving), fingering, choking, pet names (love, darling), degradation, dirty talks, praise kink, light bondage, blindfold, spanking, orgasm control, squirting, multiple rounds & orgasms, overstimulation, crying, heeseung is obsessed over reader
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➤ PART SIX [ PARTY MONSTER ]
SUMMARY ✧ Words begin to circulate around the corporate building of your secret affair with Heeseung, resulting in you receiving unwanted attention and scornful stares from your fellow employees, but above all, this incites bitterness from four specific individuals, albeit you have no strings attached to Heeseung that pertain to romance, as he has made it clear to you that you are nothing more than his secretary. In the midst of your predicament, you remain headstrong, refusing to allow anyone to see a glimpse of the brokenness in you, but your wilfulness leads to an adventure that is both thrilling and risky as you venture into the underworld, and choices do have consequences. Yours happen to be the very men who you have been avoiding for days. Little do you know that you are in for a wild ride of the night, or maybe for a few nights.
PAIRING ✧ hyung line + jungwon x fem!reader GENRE ✧ 18+(mdni), reverse harem, eventual poly, romance, adulthood, aged-up characters, morally grey characters, office romance, mystery, some dark themes, underground fighters!hyung line + jungwon WARNINGS ✧ tension, angsts, toxicity, profanities, jealousy, denial, miscommunication, misunderstanding, corruption, coercion, alcohol consumption, partying, violence, blood, graphic descriptions, smuts, dom!hyung line + jungwon, sub!reader, unprotected sex(no!), dry humping, oral (f & m.receiving), fingering, choking, degradation, dirty talks, brat tamers, praise kink, teasing, squirting, multiple rounds & orgasms, overstimulation, threesome, foursome
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➤ PART SEVEN [ LOST IN THE FIRE ]
SYNOPSIS ✧ It turns out that there are still shards of rationality left in you, and it brings a bitter taste to your tongue as you agonisingly acknowledge how scandalous your trysts with these five men have been, betraying the trust your beloved uncle placed in you. Despite their collective assertion and the reassurance, you know that it is for the best to walk away from whatever strings they have with you, even if the weight of devastation weighs heavy in your heart. But you have underestimated their persistence in having you permanently in their lives, even if it means they would have to share you. Unbeknownst to them, problems emerge that involve your safety. Will they be able to get back their beloved gem unscathed?
PAIRING ✧ hyung line + jungwon x fem!reader, GENRE ✧ 18+(mdni), reverse harem, eventual poly, romance, adulthood, aged-up characters, morally grey characters, office romance, mystery, underground fighters!hyung line + jungwon WARNINGS ✧ tension, angsts, toxicity, intoxication, profanities, possessive, corruption, coercion, violence, blood, graphic descriptions, smuts, dom!hyung line + jungwon, sub!reader, unprotected sex(no!), dry humping, oral (f & m.receiving), fingering, choking, teasing, degradation, dirty talks, biting, spitting, praise kink, breeding kink, cum eating, squirting, anal, double penetrations, multiple rounds & orgasms, overstimulation, crying, threesomes, sixsome (if that's even a word)
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➤ PART EIGHT [ SÂO PAULO ]
SYNOPSIS ✧ Things finally work out pretty well between you and these men. After the incident, they have become fiercely protective and possessive over you, fearing that they might lose you again. Despite the violence and unrefined qualities in their nightly job as underground fighters, you are supportive of them, especially knowing that they are the elite underground fighters in all of SoKor, which is why they have been personally invited to the eminent underground fighting club in São Paulo, Brazil. Of course, you will join them in their adventure, not that you are given any choice, but nevertheless you feel excited to venture into this new aspect of your life with the ones whom you can now call home.
PAIRING ✧ hyung line + jungwon x fem!reader GENRE ✧ 18+(mdni), reverse harem, poly, romance, adulthood, aged-up characters, morally grey characters, office romance, mystery, underground fighters!hyung line + jungwon WARNINGS ✧ tension, toxicity, intoxication, profanities, possessive, alcohol consumption, partying, violence, blood, graphic descriptions, smuts, dom!hyung line + jungwon, sub!reader, unprotected sex(no!), dry humping, oral (f & m.receiving), fingering, choking, teasing, exhibitionism, degradation, dirty talks, biting, spitting, praise kink, breeding kink, cum eating, squirting, anal, double penetrations, multiple rounds & orgasms, overstimulation, love-making, eventual sixsome
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PERM TAGLIST:
@ja3yun @yzzyhee @sunpov @vveebee @jiryunn
@nshmrarki @roslayy @machambrx @wonnienyang @punchbug9-blog
@hollyoongs @chicxxy @tunafishyfishylike @norucking @riribelle
@lol6sposts @skzenhalove @reading-wh0re @tinie03 @cyjhhyj
@jungwonsstrawberriesnchocolate @mitmit01 @strxwbloody @woorcve @1309zip
@fancypeacepersona @tsukiflwr @karinaever @wolfhardbby @moonpri
@lucid-sombra @kittylicious-purr @addictedtohobi @lillotus17 @minahaeyo
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callmecoke · 1 day ago
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Thinking of the first time the 141 discover you on a website for Sugar Babies (P3)
cw: sexual content, reader sending nudes, mention of sex work (Sugar babies), NSFW Gender neutral reader
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Thinking about the first time you sent more…risky photos to your mystery account of four men. For the first few months it was going really well for you. You were financially stable enough to
pay your tuition fees and your bills on time. You could finally treat yourself to things you couldn’t previously afford, and the boys love receiving little pictures of the things you buy yourself. Honestly, you were stable enough to quit this and apply for a “proper' Job, but there was a big part of you that didn’t want to leave this all behind. In a weird way, you grew very attached to these strangers on the other side of the world who paid you just to talk to them. They helped you during your toughest moments, even when they didn’t have to do anything. In a way, you were grateful for opening this account on a whim and meeting these little strangers.
And so, you considered maybe it was time to give them a little gift for all they've done for you.
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You knew that a big part of this website was exchanging nudes and dirty pictures for money, but you had never really taken advantage of that specific service before. Infact, the men didn’t even seem to initiate anything sexual with you at all, and were perfectly happy just chatting with you and every now and then getting a cute selfie to tell you how gorgeous you looked. 
But because they weren’t going to ask for more, you decided you had to make that plunge yourself. You weren’t sure if you knew what you were doing. You didn’t go out to buy any expensive costume or underwear for the photo, just stripped down to your cheap everyday undergarments and…posed. Or at least tried to. There was an awkward phase of switching to random positions to try and find one that didn’t look too forced. You weren’t too sure if the photos you took were any good. In fact, your critical mind was telling you that they were horrific. You had picked the one photo that you considered to be ‘less bad’ than the rest and your finger was hovering over the send button as you considered giving in to embarrassment and turning around now. But, you swallowed the lump in your throat and clicked. All that was left for you to do is wait.
Switching to the 141s pov, There was some downtime after completing a rather difficult mission. John was sending a report to lasswell about the details of what went down, reporting back on the intel and the status of their target. Simon was in his corner, per usual, dulling his knife on a block of wood to carve it into shape. Kyle had found a spot on the floor he could lie down in without being disturbed, absolutely buggered after the whole ordeal. And then there was Soap…
The boys decided to rotate shifts on who gets the laptop per day. As of right now, Johnny had it open beside him while he patted dust and sand out of his shoes, not focusing on the screen until a little ‘Ding!’ noise signified you had sent something. He finally looked over and scrolled to your new message, his eyelids shooting open and his mouth hanging open as he releases a very audible “Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” Suddenly he had the attention of all three other men in that room, heads turning in his direction as if a gunshot went off. Johnny rushed to close the laptop in a desperate, possessive attempt to keep his comrades leering eyes of your body. Simon tried to wrestle the laptop from Johnnys, as the latter told him in many colourful words to “fuck off and mind your own business.” 
Between the two tusling each other, Kyle getting up and manoeuvring to see what the fuss was about, and John attempting to break up the fight, the laptop slipped from Soaps hands and on to the floor in front of them, screen open and revealing the entire image to all four of them.
Any “Flaw” You had perceived in the photo was entirely nonexistent when it met their eyes. They stood and stared at the picture for what felt like hours, just admiring the form they had only seen in their imaginations. The soft curves of your uncovered chest, outlined by the stray light of the window making you look like an angel from heaven. Their eyes traced down your chest to your abdomen, down to your clothed core that you displayed with shyly spread legs to them. They didn’t even notice, nor care about the cheap piece of cotton; too enamoured by the outlined imprint of your sex against the fabric that they swore was calling their name.
On your side of the world, you were thinking yourself into a stupor as the little “seen” status appeared on screen but no one was saying anything. So much anxiety coursed through your veins that you had bitten your nails until there wasn’t much left of them. You wondered if maybe you made a mistake. Was it too far? Did you potentially ruin the few people who cared about your day and your only source of income? 
Just as the thought of deleting your account and getting a one-way ticket to another country out of embarrassment started to play at your mind, the laptop pinged. Messages popped up on your screen. Four, exactly.
“Jesus christ you are a proper sight to behold.” (Gaz)
“The things I’d do to those pretty fuckin’ thighs of yours if I got the chance…” (Soap)
“Fuckin’ Gorgoeus.” (ghost)
“You’ve caused quite a stir here, love. Never seen the boys this pent up before. Can’t say I blame them. You’ve got me a little stiff here as well.” (Price)
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moon-of-curses · 2 days ago
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You are on the moon. You have a job to do. That job requires the other Guy, so it would really fuck things up if you killed them with a rock.
1-2 players.
The task is simple: go out and fix something. You’ve done it before, and if you make it through today, you’ll never have to do it again. That is to say, you’ve been out here for six months already and if you spend another second with this Guy you think you might snap. 
You have a task. The progress of this task is represented by a d12, starting at 1. When this die reaches 12 the task is completed and you get to go home.
You must maintain your cool. Your Cool is represented by a d6, starting at 6. If this die ever reaches 1, you snap and kill the other Guy with a rock. Please avoid killing the other Guy with a rock.
Every round, both Guys roll a d6. If both Guys roll less than their current remaining Cool, the Task Progress increases by 1. If a Guy rolls more than or equal to their current remaining Cool, their Cool is reduced by 1.
I was going to title this "If There Were Two Guys On The Moon", but I thought that having the intro paragraph be the full title was funny. anyway I don't know if anyone else took you up on the concept back when you suggested it, or if anyone else has done it here, but I did it a while back, never posted it, saw this, and then edited down to 200 words.
the original included an event table to roll on every round, but the main mechanic was always the frustration-induced/feeding death spiral, so I pared it down to just that. there is a small amount of the original humor still there, but mostly I'm glad I could keep the intro paragraph and "Please avoid killing the other Guy with a rock".
I am ok with this entry being archived off-site.
200 Word RPGs 2024
Each November, some people try to write a novel. Others would prefer to do as little writing as possible. For those who wish to challenge their ability to not write, we offer this alternative: producing a complete, playable roleplaying game in two hundred words or fewer.
This is the submission thread for the 2024 event, running from November 1st, 2024 through November 30th, 2024. Submission guidelines can be found in this blog's pinned post, here.
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creamflix · 1 day ago
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cw: mentions of sex & reader menstruating, nothing detailed or explicit [for nsfw].
read part one here
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three years.
three whole years of loving each other in your own chaotic way.
but when the anniversary actually rolled around, you felt like someone had hit the reset button on your social skills. standing in the kitchen that morning, you blurted out, “it’s our anniversary. we’ve been together for a long time,” as if that wasn’t blatantly obvious.
sukuna blinked at you from where he was tying his tie, raising an eyebrow like he couldn’t believe what just came out of your mouth.
“no shit,” he deadpanned, though his lips twitched like he was holding back a smirk.
you huffed, crossing your arms. “i’m just saying. it’s... a big deal, y’know?”
“yeah, yeah,” he muttered, brushing past you to grab his keys, but you caught the way his gaze lingered for a moment longer than usual.
truthfully, neither of you were handling it well. anniversaries weren’t exactly your forte. it wasn’t like you didn’t say “i love you” to each other, but those words carried weight between the two of you — too much to just toss around casually.
and now, faced with the unspoken expectation to do something, both of you were stumbling like teenagers on a first date.
sukuna spent the entire morning at work distracted, fidgeting with his pen and snapping at his coworkers more than usual.
am i supposed to plan something? he thought. i was the one who proposed, does that mean it’s my job? the pressure was getting to him.
finally, he decided to keep it simple: your favorite takeout from university, a nostalgic callback to the start of everything.
meanwhile, you spent your day spiraling in a completely different direction. romantic gestures weren’t exactly your specialty, but the thought of doing nothing felt worse.
so, you left work early and dove into something utterly out of character — a full-on romantic dinner, complete with candles, music, and a dish you’d only ever made once before.
by the time the evening rolled around, both of you were a mess. sukuna trudged through the door first, looking disheveled in his wrinkled work clothes, seven plastic bags in hand, each one stuffed with takeout containers. he didn’t even bother taking off his shoes before stepping into the living room.
“yo, i got —” he started, but froze mid-sentence when he saw you.
you were standing by the dining table, decked out in an outfit that screamed special occasion, with your hair done and everything. the table was set like something out of a movie: a full spread of homemade dishes, soft lighting from the candles, and an awkward tension hanging in the air because, honestly, what the hell were the two of you doing?
“...what the fuck,” sukuna finally said, his voice soft with something you couldn’t quite place.
you shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “i figured... i’d try something different.”
he stared at you for a beat, then down at the bags in his hands, then back at you. “you made all this?”
“yeah.” you shifted on your feet. “thought it’d be nice. but uh, if you don’t wanna eat it, we can always —”
“shut up,” he cut you off, a grin breaking across his face. “you’re insane, you know that?”
“takes one to know one,” you shot back, but your cheeks were burning.
he dropped the bags unceremoniously on the counter and crossed the room in a few quick strides. before you could say anything else, his arms were around you, pulling you into a hug that was somehow both firm and gentle.
“you’re ridiculous,” he mumbled against your hair. “but you’re my ridiculous.”
you rolled your eyes but melted into his embrace. “yeah, yeah. happy anniversary, jerk.”
he laughed, low and genuine, and for a moment, the awkwardness faded. the food didn’t matter. the plans didn’t matter. just being here, in this little apartment you called home, with him holding you like the world didn’t exist outside these walls — that was enough.
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even after three years together, the idea of using the typical, sugary nicknames made you both cringe harder than nails on a chalkboard. no “babe,” no “sweetheart,” no “love.” for some reason, it just didn’t fit.
instead, you’d toss out things like “dude,” “bro,” or, on particularly annoying days, “boy,” just to get under his skin. the way sukuna’s eye would twitch every time you called him that? priceless.
but sukuna wasn’t innocent, either. his repertoire of names for you was a mix of creative insults and borderline threats, delivered with just enough affection to remind you that he didn’t actually mean them.
“woman,” “brat,” “shit for brains” — those were the classics. and when he was in an especially foul mood? let’s just say the creativity really started flowing.
the funniest part? even in public, neither of you switched it up. at restaurants, when a waiter would ask for your order, you’d say, “he’ll have the steak,” and sukuna would fire back with, “she’ll take the fish,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.
no “my love” or “my darling.” just “he” and “she,” like a couple of reluctant coworkers at a team lunch.
the one time you tried something different, it didn’t end well.
“what’ll it be, babe?” you’d asked one night, trying to suppress a grin as you glanced at him over the menu.
sukuna lowered his menu just enough to shoot you a look so disgusted you swore you could taste lemons in the air. “what the hell did you just call me?”
“babe,” you repeated, forcing the word out like it physically pained you.
he grimaced, his nose wrinkling. “don’t ever do that again.”
you’d burst out laughing, and from that moment on, the unwritten rule was solidified: no “cute” nicknames. not unless you wanted to ruin the meal for both of you.
and yet, despite all of that, there were moments when the truth slipped through. when you were out with friends, you’d proudly call him “my man,” as if daring anyone to challenge the claim.
and sukuna wasn’t any better — he’d talk about you to his buddies like you were the most important person in the world, casually dropping “my lady” into conversations like it was nothing.
but back home? it was business as usual. “yo, dude,” you’d yell from the kitchen. “did you put the laundry in the dryer?”
“hell nah, woman,” he’d yell back. “do it yourself.”
sure, it wasn’t the most conventional display of affection, but it was yours. no sickly sweet terms of endearment, no over-the-top romantic gestures — just you and sukuna, trading insults and sharing a love that, in its own weird way, felt perfect. would you trade it?
absolutely not.
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you and sukuna had never been the type to ooze affection. no heartfelt “good lucks” or mushy “come home soon” texts.
instead, your love language was passive-aggressive threats with just enough bite to keep things interesting.
“don’t fuck it up,” he’d said before your job interview, leaning casually against the counter with a smirk that hid the way his eyes lingered on you a second longer than usual.
“look who’s talking,” you shot back, adjusting your jacket in the mirror. “aren’t you the guy who choked on his coffee before his last one?”
“watch it, brat,” he muttered, grabbing his keys, but his lips twitched.
underneath the snark, though, there was always something unspoken. a silent, shared understanding that you were rooting for each other, even if neither of you would ever outright say it. and during that waiting period — the nerve-wracking limbo between interviews and callbacks — the usual jabs quieted.
it wasn’t a truce, exactly, but you both found yourself going easier on each other. sukuna would make sure you had coffee in the mornings, leaving it on the counter without a word. and you’d restock his energy drinks without him asking, slipping them into the fridge while he wasn’t looking.
when the calls finally came, first for you and then for him, the celebration was as understated as your relationship. no grand hugs or squeals of excitement — just a knowing look exchanged from across the room, a rare, genuine smile curving both your lips.
“guess you didn’t screw it up,” he teased as you set your phone down, but his voice was softer than usual, the edges rounded out by pride.
“guess you didn’t either,” you replied, tossing the comment back at him with a grin.
and maybe — just maybe — there was a fleeting kiss in the mix. something quick and almost shy, as if lingering too long might make the moment too heavy.
“don’t think this means you’re off the hook,” he muttered afterward, trying to play it cool, though his hand rested on your waist a beat longer than necessary.
“wouldn’t dream of it,” you quipped, leaning back just enough to meet his gaze.
this was just the start, the first step in what would be your new life together. and even if it wasn’t wrapped up in the typical trappings of romance, it felt right. because with sukuna, love was never about the obvious.
it was in the things left unsaid, the quiet gestures, and the stubborn refusal to admit just how much you cared — though, deep down, you both knew the truth.
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you still remembered the first time sukuna kissed you.
it wasn’t some grand romantic setup or a scene out of a cheesy romance flick — it was just… sukuna. blunt, stubborn, and perfectly him.
it was after graduation, a so-called “first date,” though neither of you called it that. he had taken you to the same drive-in you’d always gone to during halloween, the one with the faded screen and popcorn that tasted more like cardboard than butter.
but this time, they weren’t showing the usual campy horror flicks you two loved to make fun of. no, this time it was la la land.
you’d raised an eyebrow when he mentioned it. “really? la la land?”
“what? you’re too good for musicals now?” he shot back, pulling into the lot like he wasn’t questioning himself at all. but you caught the way his grip on the steering wheel tightened just a bit, like he was bracing for you to laugh at him.
“no, just didn’t know you had a thing for jazz hands,” you teased, grinning when his scowl deepened.
the movie started, but naturally, the two of you barely made it through the first twenty minutes without bickering. the popcorn bag was snatched back and forth between you, each accusing the other of hogging all the caramel-coated pieces.
“you’re eating all the good ones!” you snapped, clutching the bag protectively.
“you’re imagining shit, woman,” sukuna retorted, leaning over to yank it back.
in the heat of the squabble, with your faces inches apart and insults ready to fly, he kissed you. just leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, all sharp and sudden, like he had decided there was no other way to shut you up.
you froze, your brain short-circuiting for half a second, before he pulled away with a smirk that made your blood boil and your heart race all at once.
“what the hell was that?” you demanded, staring at him.
“you were being annoying,” he said, like that was the most logical explanation in the world. but his smug expression faltered just a little when you glared at him, lips parted like you were about to really let him have it.
“you don’t just kiss someone and then pull away like that, you asshole,” you huffed. and before he could reply, you grabbed him by the collar and kissed him back, pouring every bit of your irritation — and maybe a little something else — into it.
the second kiss was different. softer, slower, and entirely mutual. neither of you pulled back this time, and when you finally did, both of you were slightly breathless.
“still annoying,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
“still an asshole,” you shot back, crossing your arms, though your cheeks burned so hot you were glad for the darkness of the car.
after that, there wasn’t much attention paid to the movie. there was a lot more kissing, though, a lot more bantering between each one. and while neither of you would ever admit it, kissing him made you feel like a stupid, giddy teenager. like you wanted to kick your feet in the air and giggle, even if the thought made you cringe internally.
it was ridiculous, it was messy, and it was entirely the two of you. just the way you liked it.
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your relationship with sukuna had always been a clash of opposites.
back in your college days, he was infamous for his revolving door of women — never the same face twice, always someone new on his arm. sukuna, the loud, reckless heartthrob who could charm his way into anyone’s bed.
and then there was you: exclusive, reserved, someone who didn’t let just anyone close enough to even try. while sukuna’s name was tossed around in gossip, yours carried a quiet weight, a mix of intrigue and admiration.
it wasn’t that you were some saint — far from it. you weren’t a stranger to sex, but you didn’t hand it out like candy at a parade. your friends teased you about your “dry spells,” but you’d always brushed it off. you had standards, that was all.
meanwhile, sukuna? standards weren’t exactly his thing, or so it seemed.
so, when the two of you somehow transitioned from bickering frenemies to a full-fledged couple, there was an unspoken tension between your histories. you knew who he was, what he’d done, and he knew exactly how tightly you held your walls up. still, you worked together, two stubborn halves of something that somehow clicked.
until one night, when things heated up unexpectedly.
it started innocent enough — if “innocent” was a word that could ever describe sukuna. a clumsy makeout session in his dimly lit apartment, his hands tangled in your hair, your breath mingling with his as he pressed you against the couch. it wasn’t your first kiss, far from it, but this one was different. there was a weight to it, a hunger neither of you had acknowledged until now.
“you’re terrible at this,” you muttered against his lips, though your shaky breath betrayed you.
“yeah?” he shot back, his voice low, teasing. “seems like you’re still here, so what does that say about you?”
you rolled your eyes, but before you could quip back, he kissed you again, harder this time. his hands moved to your waist, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
it escalated quickly, too quickly. his mouth moved to your neck, and you felt the scrape of his teeth against your skin. a shiver ran through you, your hands gripping his shirt to ground yourself. this was sukuna — your sukuna — and yet, this was a side of him you hadn’t faced before.
you froze slightly when his hands wandered lower, testing the waters. for a split second, you weren’t sure what to do.
your mind raced with contradictions: the part of you that wanted to pull him closer, to let yourself get lost in him, and the other part that wanted to smack his hand away and call him out for moving too fast.
“seriously?” you blurted, breaking the kiss and glaring at him. “do you ever not act like a horndog?”
he smirked, cocky as ever, though his hands eased up. “what? you didn’t seem to mind a second ago.”
“maybe because i was too distracted by your terrible kissing technique,” you shot back, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.
“you’re full of shit,” he said, leaning back with an exaggerated groan. but there was something softer in his gaze, a flicker of hesitation that wasn’t usually there.
“look, if you’re not into it, just say so. i’m not gonna —”
“shut up, sukuna,” you interrupted, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him back down. your lips crashed against his, and this time, there was no hesitation.
it was messy, passionate, a clash of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless. every time you thought you’d had enough, he’d kiss you in a way that made your head spin, and you’d find yourself pulling him closer all over again.
maybe you’d slap him later for being an overconfident ass, but for now? for now, you let yourself get lost in him, in the way he made you feel like you were the only person in the world he’d ever want. and, as much as you hated to admit it, you didn’t regret a second of it.
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sex with sukuna was its own breed of unique — a stark contrast to the wild stories he carried in his history. where you once expected a whirlwind of dominance and filthy words, what you got was something raw and unexpectedly tender, the kind of connection that made your chest ache in the best way. it wasn’t the slow, candlelit romance people wrote songs about, and it wasn’t some grand kink-fueled adventure. it was quiet, comfortable, and somehow, so deeply you two.
sukuna had his reputation, sure. tattoos, a sharp tongue, and an aura that practically screamed i don’t care about your feelings. in his youth, you imagined he’d been the kind of guy who thrived on power plays in the bedroom, leaving women weak-kneed and breathless for all the wrong reasons. hell, he probably relished in it, back in the day.
but that wasn’t what you got.
instead, he was gruff, but not in the way you’d expect. it was the kind of gruffness that came with holding back, with trying to temper himself into someone who could make you feel safe and seen. when he leaned over you, his usual arrogance was softened by something quieter, something he didn’t say out loud but you could feel in the way his hands traced over your skin.
“this okay?” he’d grumble, his voice low, trying to sound nonchalant, but you caught the way his eyes searched your face for any hesitation.
you’d nod, a little too bashful to form words, and he’d pause, eyebrows raising just slightly. “i asked if it was fine, not if you could sit there like a scared rabbit.”
“sukuna,” you’d groan, slapping his shoulder. but your face would heat up anyway, and he’d smirk like the cocky ass he was, though his hands stayed steady, patient.
if you didn’t answer quickly enough, he’d ask again, his actions slowing to a near halt. “hey,” he’d say, leaning down just enough so his lips brushed your ear, “you gonna tell me, or do I have to stop?”
“don’t stop,” you’d finally mutter, voice barely above a whisper, and he’d let out the most obnoxious chuckle, something halfway between pride and amusement.
“thought so,” he’d say smugly, resuming his movements — but gentler than his tone suggested, always so much gentler. it wasn’t about control or ego, though you knew he liked to push you just enough to make you squirm. no, it was about making sure you were there with him every step of the way.
it was new, this side of him that catered to you, the way he’d catch your gaze when he thought you were feeling shy or uncertain. sometimes, you wanted to throttle him for the way he’d tease you, like it was a sport. other times, you wanted to melt into him for the way his hands would guide you, steady and secure, like he had all the time in the world for you and no one else.
but your favorite part? it was always the aftercare.
where sukuna usually thrived on chaos and crudeness, after sex, he was different. softer, quieter, almost dazed. he’d hold you like he was afraid you’d slip away, his arms wrapped around you a little tighter than usual.
“you good?” he’d ask, his voice gruff but quiet.
you’d nod, and he’d huff, pressing his chin to your head. “drink some water,” he’d grumble, even as he was already reaching for the glass on the nightstand.
he wouldn’t joke as much, at least not in the way that made you want to kick him. instead, he’d run his fingers absentmindedly through your hair, muttering about how you’d better not go passing out on him. he’d press lazy, almost featherlight kisses to your temple, your cheek, anywhere he could reach without moving too much.
and if you curled closer to him, burying your face in his chest, he wouldn’t say anything. he’d just hold you tighter, his fingers tracing slow patterns on your back, grounding both of you in the moment.
sometimes, you’d laugh to yourself, thinking about how this man — this loud, sharp-edged, unapologetically rough man — had turned into a vanilla sap just for you. and other times, you’d bite your lip and blush at the thought that he was yours. completely and utterly yours.
you’d never admit it out loud, but the way he took care of you? the way he toned down all the bravado and just was with you? it made you love him more than words could ever say.
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the first real fight wasn’t the playful sparring you and sukuna usually indulged in. it wasn’t the sarcastic quips or half-serious insults that usually left both of you laughing by the end. this time, it was different.
the argument started small, something inconsequential, but quickly spiraled into a storm of raised voices and sharp words. sukuna’s tone was harsh, and your stubbornness was just as sharp. you were used to challenging each other, but this felt heavier, like neither of you was willing to back down.
“you’re not even listening to me!” you snapped, your voice breaking in frustration.
“yeah? and you’re so damn perfect at communicating?” sukuna shot back, his words biting.
the tension was suffocating, the air in your shared apartment thick with unresolved emotions.
and then it happened — he grabbed his jacket, slammed the door, and left.
the sound of the door shutting echoed in your ears, and you froze, your chest tight. sukuna didn’t just leave. not like this.
he left home.
it wasn’t just an apartment. it was the place where you built something together, where you shared quiet mornings and loud, chaotic evenings. it was the place that held laughter, tears, and everything in between.
and now it felt unbearably empty.
you wanted to scream, to throw something, to lash out at the ache in your chest. but you knew that chasing him down with your usual fire would only pour gasoline on the flames. so you swallowed your pride, slipped on your fuzzy slippers, and bolted out the door.
you spotted him a few blocks down, his tall figure unmistakable even under the dim streetlights. his pace was fast, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. he looked pissed, but there was something about the way his shoulders hunched slightly that made your heart clench.
“sukuna!” you called, your voice louder than you intended.
he didn’t stop.
“dammit, will you stop walking for one second?” you yelled again, jogging to catch up to him.
when he finally turned around, his expression was a mixture of anger and surprise. “what the hell are you doing?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “it’s late.”
“yeah, and whose fault is that?” you shot back, before taking a deep breath. no, not this time. no more yelling.
“look,” you started, your voice softer now, though your chest was still heaving from the sprint.
“i’m sorry. i mean it. not the sarcastic, biting kind of sorry. a real one. i shouldn’t have — ” you paused, struggling to find the right words. “i shouldn’t have made it about winning. i was wrong.”
sukuna stared at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. the silence stretched, and you felt the sting of tears prick at your eyes.
“...dammit,” he muttered, his shoulders dropping. “i was a dick too.”
you blinked, surprised. sukuna rarely apologized, and when he did, it was never straightforward.
“yeah, you were,” you replied, a small, tentative smile creeping onto your face.
he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “you don’t make this easy, you know that?”
“neither do you,” you shot back, stepping closer.
he sighed, his hands leaving his pockets to pull you into a hug that was as awkward as it was comforting. “you’re lucky i didn’t get too far,” he grumbled into your hair.
“you’re lucky i chased after you,” you countered, though you clung to him just as tightly.
and just like that, the tension broke. it wasn’t perfect — there were still things to talk about, wounds to mend — but in that moment, wrapped in each other’s arms on a dimly lit street, you both knew this was home.
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sukuna would never say it outright — hell, he’d rather swallow nails than admit it — but he had your back when it came to that time of the month.
he tracked your cycle like a tactical mission, not because he was obsessed with you or anything (his words), but because it was easier to prepare than to deal with the aftermath of being caught off guard.
“what, you think i like listening to you whine about not having your stupid chocolate?” he’d grumble, dumping a bag of your favorite snacks onto the counter with an air of exaggerated suffering. but there was no mistaking the care behind the gesture, no matter how much he tried to play it off.
medicines? stocked. pads and tampons? stocked. heating pads? ready to go. hell, he even had a backup stash of painkillers tucked into his drawer at work in case you ran out at home.
he wasn’t perfect, of course. sukuna had zero patience when you were in one of your mood swings, snapping at him for breathing too loudly or sitting “wrong.” but he’d weather it, rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath.
“you done yelling at me, or you wanna go another round?” he’d ask, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe.
but the moment you started crying — whether it was over a sad commercial or pure frustration — his entire demeanor shifted.
“hey, hey, cut that out,” he’d say, pulling you into his chest despite his grumbling. “you’re not allowed to cry over dumb shit while i’m around, alright? i’ll give you something real to cry about.”
when you were touch-starved, he’d let you cling to him, even if it meant sitting through a three-hour movie you’d already watched ten times. when you were touch-repulsed, he’d keep his distance but stay close enough to hand you water or make sure you were comfortable.
and when you were too tired to shower, he’d step in without hesitation, grumbling all the while. “can’t believe i’m doing this,” he’d mutter as he adjusted the water temperature and gently washed your hair. “you owe me a massage or something after this.”
he’d change the bedsheets without complaint, tossing you one of his oversized shirts afterward. “don’t stretch it out, or i’ll kick your ass,” he’d say, but you both knew he didn’t mean it. he even kept a corner of his closet stocked with clothes he didn’t mind you ruining — shirts and sweatpants that were practically yours at this point, though he’d never admit it.
“don’t get used to this,” he’d say, watching as you shuffled into the living room in his clothes, burritoed in a blanket. but the way his gaze softened as you curled up on the couch, finally comfortable, betrayed him.
for all his rough edges, sukuna handled you with a quiet kind of love — grumbling, sarcastic, but steady. he might call it “dealing with your bullshit,” but deep down, you both knew better.
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it wasn’t a night you’d easily forget — not because of the celebration itself, but because of what came out of your mouth when you were deep into a rum-induced haze.
the bar was alive with the thrum of music and the clang of glasses, laughter and shouting merging into a chaotic symphony that somehow suited you and sukuna. the two of you had ridden in on bikes, looking like a mismatched pair of rebels — him towering, tatted, and menacing, and you just as fierce but smaller, less overtly intimidating.
"you know," sukuna drawled, leaning against the bar with a lazy grin that had been charming women for years, “if you weren’t already mine, i’d be trying to pick you up right now.”
you rolled your eyes, though your own grin betrayed how much you enjoyed the rare moment of his playful charm. “you’re an idiot,” you shot back, taking another shot and wincing as it burned down your throat.
but then, in the lull between his next teasing remark, you blurted it out. “i love you.”
the words landed like a hammer.
sukuna froze, the smirk slipping from his face. the rowdy atmosphere of the bar seemed to fade into static as he stared at you, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly, as if he was trying to gauge whether or not he’d heard you correctly.
"what?" he asked, voice lower than usual, his usual bravado stripped away.
you blinked at him, too tipsy to care about the weight of what you just said. “i love you, stupid. don’t make me say it again.”
and just like that, it was as if someone had pulled the rug out from under him. sukuna, the guy who had once been a whirlwind of hookups and no-strings-attached chaos, was sober in an instant. not because he didn’t like what he heard — no, it was the opposite. it was because those words had been lodged somewhere deep inside him, waiting for the right moment to claw their way out, even if he refused to admit it to himself.
he didn’t say anything right away. instead, he paid the tab, his movements oddly methodical, and threw his leather jacket over your shoulders.
“c’mon,” he muttered, voice gruff as he guided you to the door.
“what’s the rush?” you slurred, stumbling slightly as he helped you onto the bike.
“the rush is you’re drunk and saying shit you don’t mean,” he snapped, though his tone lacked its usual bite.
you didn’t protest after that, leaning into him as he drove the two of you home. by the time you reached the apartment, he was practically hauling you inside, grumbling about how you were a lightweight.
as he set you down on the couch and pulled a blanket over you, the words escaped him, unbidden and softer than he’d have liked.
“i love you too, idiot.”
he thought you were out cold, your breathing slow and even. but the faintest smile tugged at your lips, and a quiet mumble escaped you:
“heard that.”
he froze, a flush creeping up his neck. “shut up and go to sleep,” he barked, but the gentleness with which he tucked you in betrayed him.
you didn’t say anything else, and neither did he, but the air between you felt lighter, warmer. it wasn’t perfect or grand, but it was yours — messy, stubborn, and just enough.
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dadbodbuck · 1 day ago
Text
could it shine down here with you?
Rating: G | WC: 1.7k | Pairing: BuckTommy
Loosely based on this post by @loulovingho!
Summary:
Tommy doesn't realize until later that he already asked for Thanksgiving off.
Read it here on Ao3 or continue below!
Tommy is five, or maybe six, and he doesn’t like Thanksgiving. His dad is screaming at his mom because the turkey isn’t thawed. He’s calling her a lot of words that Tommy thinks are really mean. Tommy’s dad yells a lot, but it’s rarely this bad. Tommy’s mom usually waits for it to blow over, but this time, Tommy watches from the living room entry as her face crumbles and she shoulders past Tommy’s dad, breezes by Tommy, and flees into their bedroom.
Tommy wants to follow her, but his dad grabs his arm, too-tight, and tugs Tommy away towards where the half-thawed turkey is laying on the ground, cold and slimy. When they get there, Tommy’s dad hands him a garbage bag and a roll of paper towels and says “Your mom needs some time alone to think about what she’s done. Clean up this mess.”
It’s okay, because later his mom comes out of the bedroom and kneels down, her eyes red and puffy, and she tells him, “I’m so sorry you had to see that, honey. You did a good job cleaning the kitchen. It’s okay, we can still have dinner, even if I messed up the turkey,” and she makes Stovetop stuffing, and takes cranberry sauce out of a can, dishing them up on a plastic plate for Tommy, and a glass plate for her.
Tommy’s not sure where his dad went, but he’s glad it’s just him and his mom for a little while.
Tommy is twelve, and he hates Thanksgiving. He hates most holidays centered around football, actually. It’s a double-edged sword—his dad gets drunk, and his dad gets riled up, and he’s either too loud and happy, or too loud and mad. The Superbowl is Tommy’s least favorite time of the year. Especially when the Rams are playing.
The Rams aren’t playing this year, but that doesn’t mean Tommy’s off the hook. Tommy brings his dad beers when his dad calls for them, doesn’t say a word to his old man, carefully doesn’t flinch when his dad yells angrily at the screen.
For the most part, Tommy sits alone in his room and looks at the picture of his mom. It’s her high school graduation, she’s gleaming in her cap and gown. Tommy misses her.
Tommy knows that his family isn’t normal. That it’s fucked up. But he also knows how to deal with his dad, especially now that his mom isn’t around to instigate anymore. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen if he gets sent to foster care. He doesn’t want to know.
Tommy also knows, somewhere, that it’s partially his own fault. Maybe if he was a better kid—someone his dad could be proud of, this wouldn’t happen. He was always doing something to incur his father’s wrath. Plus, it’s not like his dad doesn’t love him, in his own way. Tommy loves his dad, too.
Tommy makes his own Stovetop stuffing and cranberry sauce from a can. His dad doesn’t eat it, but Tommy doesn’t care, because at least he survived Thanksgiving without any more bruises.
Tommy is eighteen, and twenty-three, and thirty-one. Thanksgiving is in a shitty barracks at the base, a tiny studio in downtown LA, and the 118 firehouse. It’s spent wolfing down an MRE, trying to figure out how to get his horrible stove to work, and eating Stovetop stuffing and cranberry sauce and praying that the alarm doesn’t go off. There are the other soldiers, and Tommy’s rescue cat Teddy, and Howie.
The MRE is as it always is. You get used to the weird textures and instant coffee and chemical heat smell of the food warmer. The funny thing about Iraq, the thing that will keep Tommy awake for years and years, is that it gets cold during the winter. Tommy knew before he shipped out that he didn’t know what much about the country, but now that he’s here, he’s stuck with sick realization after sick realization. The people here are scared, and the Army isn’t helping. Tommy looks at the other soldiers in a way he shouldn’t. Civilians are dying. War is messy in a way that allows people to excuse inexcusable violence. Tommy cannot speak the language, of either the Iraqi citizens or the people he was told would be his brothers. Iraq gets cold during the winter.
Teddy is an orange beauty, with long fluffy fur and a penchant for mischief. Tommy didn’t ask for Thanksgiving off, but it’s a holiday at the Academy, apparently. So, he’s here, listening to the click of the gas range as it tries to light. Teddy watches from the tiny countertop with uncharacteristic judgment in his eyes. When the flame finally catches, Tommy laughs victoriously, and gets to work making stuffing and cranberry sauce for the first time in years. It’s not gourmet by any means, just the Stovetop and the canned stuff, but it feels like his mom. It feels like he’s talking to her again. Tommy wonders if there’s a universe out there where his mom got help before it was too late. He eats his food in the camp chair that furnishes his pathetic living room, with Teddy invading his personal space and trying to sneak a bite for himself.
Tommy keeps the tradition of making himself Stovetop and canned cranberry sauce. He keeps it the year Howie shows up at the 118 and immediately proves himself braver and stronger than Tommy ever could be. While everyone else is busy whining about missing their grandma’s mashed potatoes, Tommy scrapes together his sacred traditional Thanksgiving feast. While Tommy’s not looking, Howie steals half of it.
“Mm!” Howie sighs, “That childhood nostalgia fakeness.”
“Hey! That was mine,” Tommy says, without any real heat. He hasn’t been able to muster anything beyond mild irritation for Howie since he saved his life.
“Oh, because you were going to eat all of that in one sitting,” Howie scoffs, “I’ll pay you back your dollar for my half if you really want.”
“No, it’s fine,” Tommy huffs, scraping out the other half for his own portion. They sit at the table and eat together, and it’s the closest Tommy’s ever had to spending Thanksgiving with someone.
It’s not until they finish eating and the bell rings that Tommy realizes Howie’s the only one who hasn’t asked Tommy if he’s sad he’s missing out on the holidays.
For the most part, his Thanksgivings after the 118 are spent much the same way, but at Harbor, and alone. He gets to put his leftovers in the fridge and eat off them for a few days. Thanksgiving (save for deep fried turkey incidents) is a relatively tame holiday. No fireworks, at least.
Then, Evan.
A lot of things change for Tommy when Evan crashes into his life, all legs and a blinding smile. Evan is a whirlwind and the most beautiful man Tommy has ever seen. Evan is kind of everything.
When Tommy realizes he’s falling in love, it makes him sick to his stomach. He remembers loving his dad enough to excuse his anger, loving his mom enough to let her slip away, loving a country enough to enact its violence, loving the sense of belonging at the 118 enough to allow the kindest people he’s ever met to suffer. Tommy doesn’t love right. He can’t let Evan get tired of him and leave. He can’t poison Evan until he turns into something cruel. So Tommy breaks up with him. Evan asks him to move in, and he can feel the iron jaws of a bear trap closing around his throat, so he breaks up with him.
Tommy doesn’t realize until later that he already asked for Thanksgiving off.
(Thanksgiving came up between them for the first time when Evan asked if he wanted to do their own thing or go over to the grand 118 Thanksgiving Feast.
“I don’t know,” Evan has shrugged, “I mean, I want to spend it with you. I don’t want to pressure you into a big thing if you don’t want to, or if—if you’re used to smaller Thanksgivings. What does your family do for Thanksgiving?”
“Um,” Tommy had said, a little caught off-guard like he was every time they brushed up against the topic of family, “We didn’t really celebrate Thanksgiving. I usually just get a box of Stovetop stuffing and a can of cranberry sauce and call it a day.”
Evan had scoffed, mock-offended. “Well! In that case, we’re going. Mark your calendar. You’re going to cream your pants when you try Bobby’s turkey.”
Tommy had smiled and thought maybe. Maybe this will be the year.)
Tommy sighs and opens the box of Stovetop stuffing. His water and butter are already boiling, so he pours the mix in and watches it saturate. He stirs it and takes it off the heat to sit. A strange, painful sadness claws at the inside of his throat. It hurts. It hurts worse than it usually does.
He doesn’t think about Evan and Bobby’s allegedly orgasm-worthy turkey and Howie introducing Tommy to Jee-yun and how close they had all seemed at the hospital for Denny. He walks over to the mantle above his fireplace, with a small, framed pawprint inside, and Teddy 2021 written underneath.
Five minutes passes slowly without anyone to distract him. Tommy tries and fails not to think about every holiday he’s spent alone, or wishing he was alone. This is the first holiday he’s wished for someone in particular who wasn’t his mom or Teddy.
Tommy eats stuffing and canned cranberry sauce at his kitchen table. Somewhere, Evan is in a house warm with love. Somewhere, Evan is loved, wholly and unconditionally. Tommy’s glad people love him. He deserves to be loved.
Tommy doesn’t like watching football on Thanksgiving, so instead he puts on Mean Girls. After his stomach settles, he’s too tired to do anything but crawl into bed and sleep until his shift in the morning.
When Tommy gets to work, he’s surprised when Lucy says, “Delivery for you in the fridge, Kinard, you better eat it before I can get my hands on it.”
Inside the fridge is a glass Tupperware container wrapped in a plastic Chinese takeout bag. There’s a sticky note attached to it that says Bobby’s turkey is even better the next day.
Tommy texts Evan and asks about it. Evan doesn’t say anything back.
But he does get a text from Howie, and the timing is too quick to be coincidence. When you’re reheating it, remember to put half a teaspoon of water in the dish so it doesn’t dry everything out in the microwave.
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euthymiya · 1 day ago
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you want to change my mind (and maybe you already have) — ft. wriothesley.
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art credits: rana_co_co on twitter
synopsis: november 23rd comes and goes just like every year. wriothesley looks at you in his bed, curled under his sheets—pretty. soft. kind. a gateway to a cushy sort of life he never envisioned for himself. this birthday, he finally realizes that neuvillette sending you down for weekly compliance checks at the fortress was the first time celestia had ever favored him
word count: 8.7k — this was truly agonizing. just know that
before you read: female reader ; reader works at the palais ; work relationships ; fuck buddies who clearly are smitten ; newly turned duke wriothesley ; my own personal headcanons about his childhood and past (spoilers for his backstory ahead!) ; mentions of murder and child trafficking (his canon backstory) ; mentions of serial murders and disappearances of women (the canon missing women’s case so major fontaine spoilers if you’re not done) ; very lightly implied sexual comments about reader made by an inmate ; violence, injuries, and blood descriptions (wriothesley defends her honor) ; blow jobs ; cum eating ; semi public office sex ; exhibitionism ; wet dreams + male maaturbation ; cunnilingus ; unprotected vaginal sex (he pulls out) ; fluff and getting together
commentary: a little late, but here’s my birthday fic for my birthday boy who owns my whole heart <3_<3
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“Duke,” you say as soon as you walk into his office, making Wriothesley want to hide in the corner, “You’re late.”
He saw it coming, really. Knew it would be the first thing you’d point out as soon as your shoes would thump against his quiet, peaceful office floor. Well, peaceful until now—now you’re here to disrupt that tranquility with demands that he’d like to politely ignore. Unfortunately, because Celestia have never exactly favored him, that’s not an option.
“Ah, my favorite babysitter. Whatever do you mean?” He smiles at you innocently. He knows exactly what you mean, of course—and he knows you know it, too, because you stare blankly at him before rolling your eyes. But there’s still a small hint of fondness underneath the staged irritation. He can’t help but throw you a little playful wink as he notices it.
As far as babysitters go, you’re not bad, exactly.
That’s how Wriothesley likes to think of you. His weekly babysitter. You come in once a week, keep an eye on him, check and make sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to and following all the rules, tattle on him if he does anything wrong, and you force him to do his homework.
Neuvillette likes to call it an administrative compliance audit. You make sure Wriothesley is keeping things at the Fortress running smoothly, get an update on how the standing situation is, report back to Neuvillette so he stays informed, and make sure that no paperwork is submitted or completed past the expected deadline. 
Wriothesley says babysitter, you say compliance officer. Tomayto, tomahto. 
“You’re late to sending in the quarterly reviews of the most recent batch of prisoners,” you hum, jotting that down in your convenient little notepad that is the bane of Wriothesley’s existence. You return his cheeky wink with one of your own. Every time you pull it out, he knows he’s about to get a write-up. Every time he gets a write-up, he knows a letter from Neuvillette is coming with a lecture about his responsibilities and how seriously he should take them.
Fighting back a groan, he rubs his face tiredly as he mumbles, “I’m getting to it.”
“Yes,” you agree, “You are. It’s not exactly optional—the sooner, the better, of course.”
“You love pushing my buttons, don’t you?” He looks up at you petulantly. 
One thing about Wriothesley is that his rugged, almost tactless demeanor only adds to his charm. He wears formal wear only because he has to—which, to be fair, his outfit choices are considered formal by a very loose definition as is. He keeps his tie knotted loosely and borderline informal. He has a rather sarcastic and playful way of speaking professionally. 
All of these things should scream that he's a misfit for this position, but you think they almost make him the perfect candidate. In an odd sort of way, he’s not as stiff as a board and at risk of using his position to his advantage. He’s down to Earth enough that you can trust him not to take his role too seriously and run the Fortress like his own personal military grounds. 
Grinning, you walk over to him, seating yourself on the armrest of his chair before tracing a finger along his bicep as you lean in and murmur against his ear, “C’mon, they’re not so bad. If you finish it up, you might even have a nice little reward waiting for you after.”
He swallows thickly for a moment before reconstructing his carefully crafted composure. Raising a brow, he gives you an amused—although shaky—smile as he hums, “Oh? Is this some sort of incentive?”
“You could say that,” you bite your lip to keep from letting out a giggle. “Incentive. Reward. Compensation. Whatever you want to call it.”
 “Can I pick what I get?”
“Perhaps if you’re lucky, I’ll let you have your way,” you tease.
Neuvillette sends you from the Palais to the Fortress to make reports about the Fortress of Meropide after observation. It’s imperative, of course, that during this weekly assignment, you stay fair and unbiased. That seemed easy enough when you took on the job.
That is until you met Wriothesley. 
It happens by accident. One second, you’re letting him walk you around the underwater prison that he calls his home, taking notes of the way prisoners do their jobs and how they're compensated. (The name credit coupon still makes you giggle sometimes, but you keep it to yourself for the sake of avoiding his glare). The next second, you’re slipping on leaked water from a burst pipe and heading straight for your demise of a face-first fall onto the hard metal flooring of a tunnel. 
Wriothesley catches you with ease. Effortlessly, his strong arms wrap around you to catch you against his chest before you have a chance to fall any further. It’s cliche, you think—how this weird difference between professionalism and personal attraction gets blurred more and more every day. How it all started with your body being pulled flushed against his for the sake of avoiding a rather painful injury, only to have both of your lips be mere inches away from each other as your wide eyes bore into each other. 
You never knew who kissed first. It never mattered. All you know is that you’ve been kissing in the comfort of his office ever since. Sometimes in his bed, too. He tries to convince you in riskier, less-than-appropriate spots, too—but luckily, between the two of you, one of you has a sense of proper risk calculation. 
That person would not be him.
“Would you do me the honors and make me a lucky man today, then?” He asks sweetly, blinking innocently before his arms wrap around you, pulling you from the armrest of his chair to his lap, comfortably perched for him to have easy access to your lips. 
“I’ll have to see if my schedule allows it,” you say slyly, pretending to look at his clock as you add, “I’m a busy woman, you know. They demand my time underwater and above land. Can you believe the requirements they have for me?”
“Sounds like you’re severely overworked,” he nods in faux sympathy, shaking his head as though he really feels for your predicament. You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands firmly grip your hips.
That’s the thing about Wriothesley. It’s just so easy to be charmed.
“I am,” you murmur, leaning in.
He closes the gap as he mumbles, “I can think of a way or two to take the edge off.”
With that, your lips meet. It’s not the first time, and the Gods certainly know you hope it’s not the last. Your mouth slots against him perfectly enough that it feels like sunlight on water—warm, bright ripples of light gliding along the surface that waits for them to make their home against it. 
He brings you closer, dragging your body up his lap as he kisses you deeper, groaning lowly into your mouth as your fingers tug at the roots of his hair. You feel it between your bodies—the proof of his arousal is clear and so hard to miss that you can’t help but reach a hand between your bodies to get a better feel.
 “Already?” You grin, pressing your hand over his hard, clothed cock. He grunts, glaring at you as he stiffens in his chair at the way your hand offers limited friction to a rather delicate issue. “I’m flattered.”
“Great,” he hisses, “Why don’t you do something about it, then?”
“Here?” You gasp dramatically, “In your office? What if someone walks in?”
“No one would disrupt the Duke without knocking first, sweetheart,” he gives you a smug, self-assured wink. You snort before shaking your head, slowly climbing off of his lap before sinking between his legs onto the floor. His breath hitches—sure, you’ve taken him in your mouth before. But it’s never been here and not there. Never in his office and at his desk instead of the bedroom that's just a few feet away. 
It feels more intimate there. He almost misses that sort of atmosphere. But there’s something filthy enough about watching you unzip his pants and slowly free his cock just enough in his office that almost makes his brain short circuit too.
So beautiful, he wants to tell you. Because you are. And he thinks he will, but just as he opens his mouth, his door interrupts him with a knock, vibrating through its metal surface. You pause. He almost curses under his breath.
“Your Grace?” A voice comes from behind his door. “There are urgent matters I must report to you.”
“Not now,” he grits, fighting back a groan as you take this opportunity to throw him a sly, almost evil grin before wrapping a hand around his cock, leaning in to run your tongue along the slit and get a taste of his pre cum. “I…I’m busy.”
“But Nurse Sigewinne has insisted we tell you immediately.”
Well, fucking hell. It’s not like he can exactly ignore that—and you seem to know it, too, because you blink up at him with innocently expectant eyes. So, gritting his teeth, he gently shoves your under his desk and rolls his chair to cover himself under the open leg space where you’re cramped. 
He clears his throat. “C-come in. I’m late on documents to the Chief Justice, so it better be quick.”
You hold back a snort at his convenient excuse that happens to consist of papers he’s really in no rush to get finished at all. He fights back the urge to glare at you, instead peeking up as soon as the door to his office opens and a guard steps in. 
“You’re Grace,” he nods politely. Respectfully. A small part of Wriothesley is still not used to being addressed so…seriously. So formally. So importantly. “The head nurse would like to bring to your attention that a group of inmates have been ganging up on others. This has been the third fight this week, and the infirmary is busier than usual from flu season for her to properly handle such constant injuries.”
He’s only half listening. It’s hard to pay attention when your lips are wrapped around his cock, sucking slowly as you move your head up and down his length. Warm. Hot. Tight. Your mouth feels obscenely good—he can’t help but let out a low groan of pleasure. 
The guard flinches slightly at the sound. “I apologize for springing this on you while you’re so busy, Your Grace. The head nurse insisted I tell you as soon as possible for things to be handled properly.”
It’s clear the guard is oblivious to the way Wriothesley is hardly holding onto his thinly kept composure. Your tongue traces that heavy, thick vein along the side of his cock. You take him as far as you can, bobbing your head up and down impressively well along his length for being stuck in a tightly cramped place like under his desk. 
He grabs the edge of his desk, gritting his teeth as he lets out a sharp inhale when your hand reaches to fondle the delicate, sensitive sacs of his balls. 
“Your fault,” he hisses abruptly. 
The guard shrinks back, furrowing his brows in confusion as he stammers, “Y-your Grace?”
“I mean,” he clears his throat, barely fighting back a low moan as your swirl your tongue around his tip, “I-I mean it’s…it’s not your fault. That’s all.”
If relief was an expression, it would certainly be the cowering guard’s expression in front of him. Deciding it's time he put both of them out of their misery, Wriothesley barely grits out, “I’ll be done with this report for Monsieur Neuvillette shortly. It’s very—v-very time sensitive.”
You let out a quiet snort that only he hears at that. He nudges you warningly with his knee. 
“As…as soon as I am, I’ll drop a visit to the infirmary and have a chat with the group involved,” he continues. “J-just…fuck…just give me a few minutes.”
The guard rushes to insist a panicked, “No, no, no! No rush! Take your time, Your Grace. I’ll leave you to it—just wanted to get the message across as the head nurse wished.”
“Thank you,” he hardly manages to keep a straight face. A slight grimace of a smile is all he can offer before the guard nods and hurries out as if trying to avoid whatever wrath he thinks he’s conjuring up by being in the Duke’s office any longer than he should be. 
Wriothesley thinks that’s a habit of most guards he needs to correct: assuming that being anywhere near him is a quick to be punished sort of behavior. But for now, he’s too worried about sliding his chair backwards and letting you crawl out of his desk’s enclosure as soon at the door shuts closed and the guard is gone. 
Finally. Fucking finally. 
“You’re a piece of work,” he glares down at you, watching as you suck on his cock innocently. Your lips look so wet. So sticky. So swollen parted around him that he almost wants to pull you off for just another taste. “You know that?”
You only hum around him, the vibrations forcing his head back against the chair as he moans low and drawn-out. Freely this time that no one’s here, but still quiet enough in case anyone’s outside the door. 
One more swirl of your lips around his thick, swollen tip, and he’s limp in his chair, groaning into his hand as he tries to muffle the sounds while cums down your throat. You can feel every twitch of him, hot, thick seed painting your throat white with his release. 
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, completely lost in his own world of pleasure. You watch him like that. It’s pretty. You’re a little too used to it—a little too dependent on the routine of watching his face break over the devastation of pleasure like that. 
When you pull away, making a show to swallow everything you can, he groans and rubs a hand over his face as he mutters something about trying to kill him. 
“So,” you wink with a cheeky, sly little smirk. “See you next week?”
“If I make it alive long enough,” he says tiredly. “You might kill me before that. Or these damn prisoners and their shenanigans.”
You laugh, standing and dusting yourself off before leaning down and pressing a small kiss to his lips. He tastes himself on you. Something about that makes him swell with more pride than it should. 
“You’ll be fine,” you hum softly. “I’m sure of it.”
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Wriothesley never earned the title of Duke—not at first, anyway.
You’ve heard the story.
He was supposed to be released from his sentence a few months ago. Except, by some stroke of bad luck, the warden at the time was nowhere to be found in his office the day of Wriothesley’s release. So, as on-brand as ever to his nonchalant, carefree attitude, Wriothesley signs the papers himself and effectively crowns himself with the title of Duke. 
He’s been running things down at the Fortress ever since. And pretty well, too—you’ve heard that things have improved rather drastically in prison for inmates. Free meals once a day. Better regulation of currency to exchange for benefits. A system of rules that keeps them in check and prevents them from behaving like dogs.
You’ve heard it all. 
But hearing everything means you hear the snide whispers, too: not everyone thinks he’s earned the title enough to keep it even if he’s done good—he’s a murderer, they gossip. We can’t have someone like that running the Fortress! That’s an outrage! Neuvillette has received enough formal complaints on the matter that you’re the product of a compromise—weekly audits done by a relatively impartial member of the Palais who doesn’t necessarily ignore his stained record but doesn’t particularly deem it as an irrefutable reason why he shouldn’t be Duke. You accept under the agreement of a slightly better paycheck for your troubles of making the trip to the Fortress and a little extra vacation time for the added paperwork to your usual responsibilities. 
Under the Palais and court rules, you take an oath to honesty and promise to offer, to the best of your abilities, the truth of what goes down in the prison and how its warden runs it. 
But, well…Wriothesley grows on you. A lot. It’s not that you ever have to lie about him—he really is a good Duke. But you like him enough that you’re starting to wonder if you could keep your honest streak if it really came down to it. You like him enough that you can’t claim anymore that the once sexually charged tension is just that: sexual. Because it’s not. It’s more complicated than that. Coming down and seeing him every week, finding your way in his sheets, getting to know him through a tangle of sweaty bodies and bantered pillow talk only makes you human. With feelings. Feelings for a man who’s more good than he’s not—you learn that pretty quickly. 
Wriothesley is a good person. Murder be damned. He did it to save people—sure, it’s a sin all the same. An extreme all in the name of justice, but it was to save people. He’s not a cold-blooded man. And he cares about the prisoners, too. That much is palpably abundant with the headaches he takes on to better the quality of life for convicted criminals.
No one believes in second chances like Wriothesley. No one has put as much work into offering people second chances like him, either. You think, despite initially earning his title or not, he’s certainly earned it by now.
So, when you watch him get pulled off of the limp body of a beaten prisoner by a handful of guards, you’re more than a little shocked by the almost feral, heartless look in his eyes as he snarls at the crumpled body on the floor in disgust. 
This is not the Wriothesley that you know. This isn’t the Wriothesley who runs the Fortress. The Wriothesley that you know doesn’t tolerate violence within his walls, and he certainly doesn’t instigate it. 
“What happened?” You ask quietly as you bandage his knuckles. It’s a deadly tone. He doesn’t answer, choosing to stare at his desk instead as he sits and lets you disinfect the broken skin. “Wriothesley.”
“He was being an asshole,” he grumbles vaguely. 
You raise a rather unimpressed brow at the juvenile response. He doesn’t seem to miss it either—even if he doesn’t meet your gaze to see it, the way he wilts a little is a hint enough that you know he’s aware. “Being an asshole,” you repeat. “That’s your sound logic for pounding someone into a bloody pulp?”
“Oh, please. He’s fine—”
“Really? He has a cracked rib, Wriothesley, for crying out loud!”
“So he’s fine,” he snorts almost bitterly. “In my time here, I’d have considered that lucky.”
“That’s exactly why you’re still here even though your time is over,” you say, the anger in your voice almost palpable as you throw your hands up and look at him in disappointment. “You’re supposed to be here making sure something like that is not the standard for luck anymore! Not upholding it.”
Wriothesley exhales sharply, his jaw tightening as he leans back in his chair, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. He looks like a stubborn, moody teenager being scolded. You have to take a deep breath and remind yourself his teen years probably didn’t consist of a lot of patience, so you try to keep yourself calm for both of your sakes—the storm brewing in his icy eyes is far from calm.
“You just wouldn’t understand,” he says, his voice low and strained, “Things are different down here than up there.”
“Then explain it to me,” you challenge, arms crossed as you stand your ground. “Help me understand why the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide—the one who’s supposed to set an example—decided to act out like a rowdy delinquent.”
His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, it almost looks like he’s going to lose his temper, the same temper that’s already rather thinly composed. His hand clenches into a fist in your hold, the faint wince that follows indicating the pain in his injured knuckles. “He said something,” he mutters finally, his voice barely above a growl.
“Something?” you glare, your voice doing pretty much nothing to hide the frustration that’s mounting. “Wriothesley, I’m going to need a lot more than that. You realize I have to report this, right? To Neuvillette? People already have tons to say about your position as Duke at the Palais—we’re supposed to try and change their minds! You’re telling me you threw the progress away because some asshole said something you didn’t like?”
“Yes. He said something he shouldn’t have said,” he mutters vaguely, voice low but laced with a dangerous edge. It’s almost like he’d do it all over again if it called for it. 
You pause, narrowing your eyes. “Okay, then let’s hear it. What did he say?”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away, his gaze fixed on the faint bloodstains on his knuckles. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Wriothesley.” Your tone is sharper now, more insistent. “Tell me.”
“He said something about you,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the room like one of his well-practiced uppercuts to a jaw. 
“About…me?” you frow, crinkling your brows in confusion. “What about me? Because of my job? Who cares—they’ll realize soon enough that I’m not here to harm the Fortress rather than help it. You didn’t need to—”
He clicks his teeth as his gaze drops to his legs, unable to meet your expectant gaze as his jaw works while he tries to force the words out. “Not like that. Something…disgusting. Something he had no right to even think, let alone say out loud. So yeah, I broke his rib. I could’ve broken more, but he got lucky.”
The ferocity in his tone leaves no room for doubt—he means every word, and he’d do it again if you let him. Maybe even worse without the intervention of guards dragging his body off the limp figure. You chew your bottom lip as you process what he’s telling you, the almost tangible way he’s so…so what? You stop to think. So protective? What exactly is it that he’s making you feel that has your anger washing away so fast? So respected? Perhaps he respects you enough to fight for your dignity, but that’s not quite it.
You know that. 
You know that really, at the heart of things, it’s so easy to stop being mad at him when there’s real proof that he cares. About you. Sure, you have faith in Wriothesley’s ability to be a respectable man to the ladies—you doubt he’d accept someone talking about any woman that way. But it’s clear that…well, he cares enough to take it this far because it’s not just a woman. It’s you.
You.
“Wriothesley…” you start, slow and careful. It’s like you’re approaching a cornered animal in a cage you trapped yourself. 
“I know what you’re going to say,” he interrupts, his tone softer now, almost resigned. He slumps back in his chair almost petulantly as if he’s accepted that this is a lecture he can’t avoid. “That I need to be better. That I need to think before I act. That there’s a lot riding on my behavior and all that nonsense about proving to some assholes in a chair that I deserve this title and so on. And you’re right—I know you’re right,” he sighs.
You raise a slightly shocked brow at his admission. “Oh, well—”
“But I had to, okay? So everyone knows things are different around here now. Things like that were normal before, you know? Things weren’t safe for girls like you in the Fortress, and it’s about time they changed, so yeah, I set an example. Not the best one, but it got the message across, didn’t it? I’ll take some losses, sure, but that’s okay. It’s one minor setback.”
“Yes,” you nod carefully, “And I just want you to know—”
“But…about you? It’s…it’s different when it’s you, and you know it. Hearing someone talk about you like that...” He trails off, his fists clenching again. “I couldn’t let it slide. Not you. So—”
“Thank you.” You interrupt before he can finish. You say it softly. Like you mean it. 
He pauses, reeling back. “What?”
“I said thank you,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “Don’t make me say it again, you jerk.”
“You’re not mad?” He looks at you bewildered, like you’ve grown two heads. You snort, looking at him like he’s an idiot. He huffs at just the look on your face alone.
“I’m furious,” you shake your head, “But I’m not ungrateful enough not to appreciate someone defending my honor. I’d prefer it if it was less violent next time.”
Wriothesley sits in silence for a moment after your words, the tension in his frame ebbing. “Less violent,” he repeats, a sulky, almost pouty look on his face. “I guess I’ll work on it.”
“Yes,” you nod, “You will. So that I won’t have to lie to Monsieur Neuvillette next time.”
He blinks. “What—”
“Since an inmate attacked you, I’ll let him know you had no choice but to throw him off and crack a rib from the impact,” you shrug innocently. 
He looks at you in wonder, a small, amused smile curling on his lips as he lets out a soft, quiet snort. “I don’t know if you can crack a rib from—”
“You should be quiet and think about what you’ve done,” you hiss. “Awful behavior means you’re on time out!”
“Oh, yes,” he salutes, obediently straightening as he folds his hands together on his desk. He winces a bit at the strain it puts on his hurt hand, making you bite back a fond smile. “I’m deeply thinking about my mistakes and regretting my deplorable actions. I promise.”
“Good,” you roll your eyes. “Don’t let it happen again.”
You turn to leave, and he sinks back in his chair, sighing as he watches you go. Next week’s audit can’t come fast enough, he thinks.
────────────────────────
When he hasn’t seen you in too long, Wriothesley has dreams. Vivid ones, in fact. 
They start not too long after the shift in your fragile friendship—you’re still friends, of course. It’s not as though that part of your relationship was ever fragile. It's just that….now, you’re more than friends without actually being more. It’s a delicate sort of arrangement that can easily have someone like him wanting more. And regrettably, he wants more. That much is clear by these dreams of his—and you’re often in these dreams of his. Scandalizing dreams, if you will. 
He never really took himself for a guy who’s attracted to someone with a pristine and spotless record—if anything, all Wriothesley seems to be attracted to anymore is trouble. 
But you’re different. Not because you’re unique or anything special by any means (which, he realizes, sounds a little bit rude in his head when he really thinks about it), but that’s exactly why he likes you. You’re rather ordinary. You work your ordinary job at the Palais, go home, do what’s expected of you, and go about life simplistically. He can’t help but enjoy it because there’s this weird, odd sense of normalcy that you grant his life. 
Nothing about Wriothesley’s life is normal. Not now, not then, not ever. 
He was young as an orphan. Doomed to the fate of no family by the tender age of four. A poor, sickly father who left this world long before he left his mother’s womb and, by fate’s desire, later orphaned by a missing mother who never came home from work. By the time he’s old enough to piece together that his mother was yet another victim of the missing young women’s case in Fontaine, he’s far too past that life to properly grieve her. 
And then there’s the darker part of his past…the messy memories of blood and betrayal that he chooses not to dwell on for the sake of his own peace. It landed him on the streets for the better part of his youth and then in a dark, ruthless prison where just even a meal is a burden to acquire. 
Nothing about his life is normal. His mother was ripped away by the nation’s darkest mystery, his siblings weren’t ones he’d acquired by normal means, his “parents” were anything but standard, and his housing conditions (or lack thereof once upon a time) consisted of a large, metal cage situated at the bottom of the ocean. Even his romantic history, which he can count on one hand the instances of, have been odd, unconventional flings that he indulged in rarely because he was but a growing boy turned into a man, raging desires that make any form of relief seem like a blooming romance. 
His first girlfriend left the Fortress after finishing her sentence when he was barely an adult. She promised to write to him every day until his own release. He’d never heard from her again. His second “girlfriend” didn’t even make it far enough to earn that title at all. She was a girl, who was a friend, who sometimes when he was exceedingly lucky, wove herself into his sheets and let him have his way with her so his growing frustrations have an outlet. 
Romantic intimacy is a world beyond the skies of Teyvat for him.
So, when you wander into his life, working a standard nine-to-five job that requires nothing excessively abnormal of you, grinning at him with a happy, free smile that carries little to no burdens, he can only fight the human part of him for so long before his desires come hitting him full force. There was a time when dreaming of a wife and kids and white picket fences was well within his reality. When he dreamt of being like his father, hearing small, excited footsteps pounding against the hardwood floor to greet him at the door. When he dreamt that the mother of his children would smile just as sweetly and brightly as his own mother. 
That’s gone now, of course. Well out of his reach and far from his realm, but at the very least, you bring some rare burst of normality in his fascinatingly odd life. 
So he dreams of you. Admittedly, they’re not always the best-natured of dreams.
He wakes up sweaty and tangled in sheets as a familiar heat is already built between his legs—for quite a while, too, he surmises, because the ache is thick enough to let him know that he’s been sporting this erection for quite a bit. How—he wonders—did he end up with such a shameless problem in the middle of his rare and well-deserved rest? The answer is infuriatingly obvious, but he hates to admit it to himself. 
You. 
You’re the reason for this predicament—that raunchy, filthy dream of his from just a few moments ago, the vision in his subconsciousness of your mouth taking him, your hand stroking him, your lips kissing him. All of it lands him here with a thickly hardened cock and little to no dignity left for the pure filth he indulges himself in. 
Flaring his nostrils with a tired exhale, he decides there’s no point in dragging out his suffering any longer. What’s happened has happened. 
“Fucking hell,” he hisses as he frees his length from his boxers, tugging them down just enough to rest against his balls. Even under the protection of his blanket, he can feel cool air kiss the hot, velvety skin enough to make him twitch involuntarily. “Mmh,” he groans.
His fist takes shape around his cock. It’s different from your touch—he’s felt it enough times briefly to know that your hand is far smaller and far softer. Less wear and tear from boxing and fights, less scabs and calluses of healed skin. But he works with what he has, stroking himself slowly as he throbs in his own hand. 
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he all but whines to an empty room as if you’re right there with him, helping him through his glaringly obvious problem. “Fuck, it almost hurts, baby. You’ll help, right?” 
You will. You nod from the depths of his imagination in the back of his head, where you live to play out his shameful fantasies. He bites his lips and lets out a shaky breath as he imagines you leaning forward, pressing a soft, delicate kiss to the tip of his cock. 
As if in response to the phantom touch of your mouth, his cock does another little twitch. I’ll take care of you, Wrio.
No one has ever called him that—not affectionately, at least. (He refuses to let his old prison nickname born from bantering mockery count.) The nickname falling from your (imaginary) lips has him throwing his head back against his pillow as he groans deeply. 
“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease,” he demands gently. Obediently, you giggle and listen to him. “Gods,” his back arches as soon as your hand pumps his aching length, finally offering him some sort of relief as he bucks his hips up in time to meet your strokes.
Feels good, huh, baby? You hum. He nods, letting out a throaty sound in response. I can tell. It’s all over your face.
“Quit it,” he clicks his teeth petulantly. A thumb rolls through his slit teasingly, collecting pre cum and smearing it along the thick, sensitive vein along the side of his cock. “You’re…you’re such a brat, you know that?”
You like it, you hum.
“I do,” he lets out an airy, breathless chuckle of admission before the strokes get faster. And faster. He’s grunting freely now; something crossed between a moan and a gasp sounding through the small, secluded bedroom built in with his office. Luckily, it’s deep enough into the Fortress that no one could hear him if they tried—not unless they were standing right outside his bedroom door from his office.
No one has the audacity to do that, he thinks with smug satisfaction, so you don’t have to worry about how much noise he’s making. You’re the type to get stressed about things like that.
Close, Wrio?
“So close, baby,” he chokes.
Do I make you feel good?
“Better than anyone,” he confirms. 
You look so pretty like this, did you know?
“F-fuck, fuck—I…I’m gonna cum, sweetheart,” he warns.
Yeah? Then do it, pretty boy.
He does. He cums in thick, full loads of cum that have his cock twitching with every rope. Your hand is a mess, coated in his release, stroking him through his pleasure and smearing it along the heated skin. You know just what he likes—have his little quirks and preferences memorized as if you know him better than himself. You know he likes having the vein traced with your thumb, and you know that when he’s just about almost finished, giving his balls a soft squeeze makes him gasp and let out one final rope of his seed. 
By the time he’s done, slumped against his bed with boneless, tired muscles, he realizes with a sigh that the hand on his cock is not yours. It’s his.
Somewhere in the midst of his fantasies, he forgets what’s real and what’s not. Your voice in his head sounds so close, so real, so tangible, he forgets he’s talking to the empty air of his room and not you.
“Shit, sweetheart,” he groans to himself, rubbing his good hand over his face tiredly, “You’re seriously messing me up in the head. What’re you doing to me?”
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“What time do you need to return to the Palais by?” Is the first thing he says to you when you walk into his office. You pause, staring at Wriothesley before you blink and huff.
“Ah, yes. It’s wonderful to see you, too! I’ve been doing fantastic; it’s so kind of you to ask,” you bat your lashes with a sarcastic smile before adding, “And you? How have you been? Rather well, I’m sure.”
Wriothesley purses his lips, looking at you with a fractional amount of patience before giving you an equally as sarcastic smile and responding, “I’m doing quite well. Thank you for your generous concern. In fact, if it wouldn’t trouble you too much—because you know I’d hate to do that—I would be faring quite a lot better if you’d even more generously answer my question.”
“I don’t have to return to the Palais today,” you roll your eyes, “I go home directly after five and bring Monsieur Neuvillette your report card tomorrow morning.”
“Wonderful,” is all he says. “Perfect.”
“Why—”
You don’t know how he got up fast enough to bridge the distance between you and his desk and cut you off mid-sentence with a crash of his lips to yours, but he does. His lips are pressed to yours in a desperate kiss that has you melting against him against your will. Like he’s expecting it, his arms are there waiting, catching you to hold you upright against him as he chuckles against your mouth.
Bastard, you want to say into his lips. He’s too busy keeping them occupied to give you the chance.
“I need you,” he rasps, “Now.”
“It’s technically still my work day,” you gasp between breaths, “I’m supposed to observe—”
“Then observe me from here,” he grunts.
With that, he sweeps you into the bedroom connected to his office. You’ve been in it so many times, yet you always wonder why it still shocks you that such a convenient room is in his personal office—but you figure the Duke of a prison surely would not sleep with the rest of the prisoners. And more importantly, it’s…good for the noise to be located in such a private, secluded area.
“Been thinking about fucking you all day,” he mumbles in between kisses, his large, callused hands cradling your face as your hands tangle in his hair. 
“Then fuck me,” you challenge, making him let out a low, unimpressed sound from the back of his throat. 
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says lowly, trailing his lips to nip at your neck and jaw, “Trust me, I will.”
Your back meets his mattress. You don’t have the slightest concept or understanding of time—by the time you’re both bare with all your clothes tossed to the floor, you can feel a dull, building ache between your legs as a pool of slick coats your inner thighs. 
“So wet,” he grins to himself, bringing a hand between your thighs, right to the apex where he studies the leaking essence waiting for him there. “All this for me?”
“Not for long if you don’t make good use of it,” you hiss stubbornly. His gaze darkens at that, making him let out a snarled sound of displeasure before he lowers himself between your legs. 
“Careful, baby,” he warns, “You have no idea what you’re signing yourself up for.”
And you don’t. Because by the time Wriothesley’s face unburies itself from between your legs, your two orgasms and a semi-decent stream of tears smeared along your face in. He finally unlatches himself from your clit once the waves of your second high finally come down, glistening slick coating his chin and lips as he grins. 
“How was that for making good use?”
“I don’t know,” you huff. “I had something else in mind.”
Pointedly, you stare at his tall, standing and neglected cock. It’s clearly painfully hard and painfully aching for some form of relief as it twitches between his legs. 
You admire it for a moment. The nearly trimmed hair at the base—how Wriothesley supplies the necessary equipment to even trim himself downstairs in a place like a prison, you’re unsure but definitely not ungrateful. He’s always been pretty, in a ruggedly handsome way—but his cock…well his cock is pretty because it responds so well to you. To your body. To your every movement. 
You gently grab him, gently stroking a few times and humming in satisfaction as he groans and clenches his jaw while it twitches in your touch. 
“Sensitive,” you tease. 
“I could argue the same about you,” he replies smartly through a labored, breathless voice. You laugh, sweet as honey on warm bread. 
He doesn’t taste that too often in the Fortress, but he doesn’t think he’s missing out. Not with you here. 
“Come here,” you whisper. “I want you too.”
With that, you guide him slowly to your entrance. He shivers as he rubs the tip along your folds, coating himself in your wetness and swearing his own pre cum along your cunt before slowly sinking in. 
“Fuck,” you both hiss in unison. 
“Feel…feel so good,” he says hoarsely, “So fucking tight.”
With that, it’s a blur. Something you’re used to by what feels like your millionth week feeling him, but something that never feels like it’s not the first time all over again. 
He rocks his hips in a steady, perfect rhythm. You pull him close and feel his body searing against yours. Skin on skin. Heat against heat. Body melting into body. 
“Never get enough to you,” he whispers. 
“Then keep taking more of me,” you whisper back. 
“Yeah?” He chuckles, breathless. Hopelessly smitten. It’s written all over his face. You’re sure the same goes for yours. “You want that? Want me to keep taking more and more of this pretty cunt?”
“What, you’re saying you’ll get bored of me?” You pout teasingly. 
He huffs, pulling you into a deep, bruising kiss. “Never. You hear me? Never.”
Like that, you fall apart. And with that, he follows not long after. He pulls out just before he can spill into you, hand moving to pump himself until yours beats him to it, wrapping around his girth and stroking the way you know he likes it. With his vein traced. With a fast pace but not too fast. With everything he needs to feel seen and known because that’s what you do best. 
See him. Know him. Treat him like he matters. 
“Gods,” he says shakily as he finishes. “I needed that. Needed you.”
“You always have me,” you remind him softly. “Always.”
He grins. Kisses you softly—ike you’re a fragile, blooming lakelight lily. He’s gone momentarily to grab a warm, wet towel to clean you off before he’s sinking into the bed beside you, turning to look at you as he takes in your curled up figure under his sheets. 
He could get used to this. More than just once a week. 
“It’s the twenty-third,” you whisper quietly, like it’s a secret. 
Huh, he thinks. It doesn’t register what day it is until you bring the date to his attention—he didn’t even realize today’s date. Not that this date ever matters enough to make his day any different from the rest of the days of the year. But typically, he at least remembers when it passes by. 
It’s the first time it’s slipped his mind completely. 
“It is,” he agrees, looking at you with a slightly confused look. “Any reason why that’s relevant?”
“It’s your birthday,” you look at him incredulously, lifting your head off of the pillow to get a better look at him. 
He lays quietly beside you, still slowly catching his breath. He doesn’t answer at first—just pulls the sheets over both of your bare bodies as he curls an arm around you and pulls you close. You used to never take Wriothesley for the cuddling type. You used to never take him for the affection type, in general. 
Maybe, you like to think, maybe even people like Wriothesley aren’t above enjoying something soft. It’s a comforting thought. It’s nice to know that even someone so strong and immovable like him craves some sort of bond with another human. Some tangible form of safety and kindness. Some form of proof that people can be—and are—good enough to trust, good enough to lie beside and slowly lose consciousness around.
“And who told you that?” He quirks up a half amused, half shocked brow, voice low and smooth enough that you almost think you could go another round just from the sound of him.
You don’t tell him that, of course. The Gods know he doesn’t need any more reasons to be smug. 
“I read the files,” you answer with a wave of your hand, trying to dismiss him. “I like to know who I work with.”
“Yeah?” He snorts, “That so?”
You don’t really have to answer him. You shouldn’t let him win—but something about that wolfish grin and that cocky glint in his eyes tells you he already knows more than you’d like. They have you huffing as you quietly mumble out, “Okay. I asked Sigewinne when it was. You’re awfully ungrateful about the fact that I cared enough to ask.”
“Your benevolence graciously exceeds my expectations every time,” he chuckles. 
“Well,” you raise a brow expectantly, “Are you going to do something to celebrate?”
He shakes his head. It’s too instant for your liking—and he seems to notice that, too, because he takes one look at your frown and shrugs, “My birthday’s not that important to me. I’ve never really celebrated it much.”
“What?” You ask incredulously. You think you’re being a touch dramatic—you seem more hurt about this than him, but you can’t help yourself. “What do you mean? Birthdays are the one important day we get.”
Wriothesley lets out a soft breath, his chest rising and falling steadily against you as he looks up at the ceiling. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—something fleeting and hard to name. It’s not quite pain, but it’s close enough that you can feel it in the way his body tenses beneath your touch.
“They weren’t important growing up,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “And now I’m too old for it, anyway.”
He keeps the answer pointedly vague, like he’s avoiding the truth on purpose. You don’t mind. Not so much when it’s him, not so much when something heavy and unresolved that he doesn’t elaborate on is clearly there. You don’t like to push him—not yet. Maybe not ever. He deserves patience and compassion for once, you think—someone who puts his feelings first so he knows that his feelings aren’t at the bottom of some tiered list of relevancy that he somehow always ends up on the bottom of.
Instead, you shift closer, laying a hand against his chest and feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.
“Not even when you were a kid?” you ask softly, careful not to sound too intrusive.
His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you think he’s going to brush you off. That maybe he’ll throw you off his scent with some annoyingly smooth-talking joke and change the subject. You’re prepared for it—for the disappointment of being pushed away and not let in. You’re prepared for anything because it’s him, and you don’t mind when it’s him. But then, his hand moves, his fingers idly tracing along your arm as he speaks again, his voice low and resigned.
“I did celebrate. Briefly. We’d get a party every year, my siblings and I.” He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly. “And there would be people. I thought they were friends…you know? Friends my parents would invite over to celebrate with us. When I got older, I realized the truth. Those parties were just another excuse to show us off. To market us easier.”
Your heart clenches at the bitterness in his tone. You don’t need to ask what he means—you’ve heard the rumors about his past, heard the whispers about how the Duke of Meropide is a killer. Cold-blooded and ruthless as he watched the life drain from his own parents’ eyes without a single regret. Didn’t even hesitate to plead guilty and admit to his crimes.
You read the files in Neuvillette’s office before he first sent you down. Something about reading his testimony made you feel helpless—like there’s still a child stuck in an awful predicament with no way out instead of a now grown man who’s well on his way to being a rather significantly important figure in Fontaine. 
“—And after that,” he continues, his voice almost a whisper now as it breaks you from your thoughts, “I was stuck down here. Not many birthday festivities you can do down in the ocean alone, so I didn’t see the point. A birthday’s just a day. Another reminder of…everything I’d rather not think about if I can help it.”
“Wriothesley,” you start gently, lifting your head to look at him. He meets your gaze, his eyes darker than usual, guarded but not completely shut off. He doesn’t like being comforted—doesn’t like the idea of his emotions being in someone else’s domain to handle. It leaves him open to worse wounds. But you ignore the way his jaw tenses, cupping his cheek as you hum, “It’s not just a day or some reminder of them. It’s about you if you make it about you. And you’re not a sick marketing scheme. You’re…”
You trail off. Not because you don’t know all the things he is: cunning, resourceful, selfless, incredibly smart. But because you don’t know which one to start with. Like choosing one first means it’s the most important one—you can’t bring yourself to define him as one thing more than the others.
“Devilishly handsome?” he cuts in with a faint smirk, the tension in his face easing just a little as he pushes your buttons. “You seem stuck there, so let’s start with that.” You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your smile is impossible to ignore as you let his good-natured jab slide. 
“Yes, that’s one way to describe you, I suppose. But you’re also just…good.” You settle on that word because he is. He’s good, and he makes things good. He makes life feel okay and the day a little better. Like your own piece of good from the world to have for yourself. “And you deserve to have something good. Something that’s just for you.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, his expression unreadable but soft in a way that makes your heart beat with a painful ache. Then, he leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.
“Maybe,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and almost tender. “Maybe next year, I’ll let you change my mind.”
“Next year? Surely, if you mean I’ll be around for that long, then this is your way of asking me out?” Your lip twitches at the corners, hopeful. You force it down to a neutral look before faking a yawn and saying, “What an underwhelming way of asking.”
He raises an amused brow. Still, there’s something dangerously cautious about his expression as he looks at you. Like he’s guarding himself from possible disappointment. “You’re saying you’d say yes if I asked nicely?”
“Depends. Are you asking?” You ask softly. 
He lets out a shaky breath, studying your features and avoiding your eyes as he brings his gaze along your nose and lips and the slight sweatiness of your skin from your earlier activities. “If I’m asking, is that a yes?”
“Yes,” you say breathlessly.
“Then yeah,”  he stares at the ceiling, voice quiet. Hopeful. A rare moment that he lets himself try to be happy without worrying the world will fuck it up for him. You’ll handle it if it tries, he thinks—you always do. “Maybe next year, you’ll change my mind.”
“Not maybe,” you insist. It’s firm enough that he believes you. “I will change your mind.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
“Happy birthday, Wrio.”
“Thanks,” he grins, “Same time next year?”
“Same time next year,” you laugh, nodding in confirmation. He doesn’t tell you that you’ve already changed his mind. Maybe he’ll even tell you next birthday that you haven’t managed to—just to have an excuse to keep you around one more year.
But something tells him you’ll stay even without such a ploy. 
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This fic was genuinely such a struggle for me to write. I’m not sure why. I suppose because it doesn’t have a real conflict to guide me in a sense—I wanted it to be mainly happy and just a small sort of timeline of them having each other but still finding each other. If that makes sense. Idk if it does LOL. The main focus was just making his bday happy. Hopefully I achieved that but ANYWAY!! If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading!! Kissing you on the forehead <3
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ultramaga · 3 days ago
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"So, he's gonna win." Again, and again, and again. You fvckers tried to put a bullet in his head - twice - and he brushed himself off and strode on to victory. "This means that we all, collectively, have a job to do. Namely, get in the fucking way." When the actual fvck have Leftists ever done actual work? You constantly boast of shoplifting and petty crime. If you were dusted by Thanos, the global productivity would only INCREASE. "They want to fuck with your queer friends?" Gawd no.
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Sorry, I get it, this is your fantasy, but it ain't happening. "They want to deport the immigrants" No, the immigrants voted for him because he wants to deport the criminals you worship.
"They want to stop someone from getting an abortion? Get in the fucking way." How? Trump devolved power to the States. You had decades and decades to do something at the State level, but you were too busy shoplifting and getting high to do anything worthwhile about it. Your movement is utterly useless. Congratulations. If you ever actually managed a communist State, it would promptly execute you.
"We fight together" Hahahaah, no. The Democrats don't care. They figure they will win next time, when they don't have a muppet or a basket case as a candidate. They aren't propping you up. And if you think you'll be looting and burning your way across America again, well, I think you are in for a short sharp shock.
So, he's gonna win. Nothing can stop that, it seems.
This means that we all, collectively, have a job to do. Namely, get in the fucking way.
They want to fuck with your queer friends? Get in the fucking way.
They want to deport the immigrants in your community? Get in the fucking way.
They want to stop someone from getting an abortion? Get in the fucking way.
The only way we survive this, and all that comes with it, is mass collective action. We fight together, for all of us.
Get in the fucking way.
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dustysalmon · 1 day ago
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Steb x Reader Headcanons
Warnings: nsfw (below the cut)
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Being a paramedic, Steb's protective instincts always kick in, even at home. He's hyper-aware of potential hazards and is often worried you will get hurt. He is always happy when you ask him to teach you some first-aid stuff
While Steb perfectly understands you, he cannot communicate verbally. He uses sign language, and truly appreciates the fact that you learnt it to understand him, even though you believe that is the least you could do
Because of the way he communicates, Steb is very sensitive to physical contact, and he can read expressions and body reactions extremely well. He adores holding hands with you, or simply brushing his fingertips against your skin (he very much enjoys the way you tremble under his touch whenever he does it)
Steb expresses love through acts of service. He loves cooking for you, especially seafood. He often does the fishing himself, picking the very best ingredients for you
Steb is definitely more on the introvert side, very calm, but also very attentive to the people around him. He is quite discreet and gets a little anxious in very noisy or crowded spaces
If you're comfortable with water, he WILL take you swimming whenever he can. His favourite thing is having you climb on his back while he swims as fast as possible
He absolutely cannot dance but always finds himself moving to the beat due to feeling the sound vibrations very strongly, he also just loves music in general. And he does have a playful side, doing extra awkward moves to make you laugh. He loves your laugh
Now about that fish stick...
Because he can't tell you what he wants, he likes to guide your hands and movements. He himself is very deliberate and exploratory. His nipples are highly sensitive, and you've made him cum a few times just by licking and sucking on them
It gets extremely messy when he cums, you weren't prepared the first time. Buckets after buckets of hot sticky fluids. Needless to say the sheets were done for. Also, the gills under his eyes move when he orgasms, they do so until the aftershocks have passed. Sometimes they even keep moving in the afterglow if he came particularly hard, it always mesmerises you
Shower sex is a big thing for him, it gets him going like nothing else. He loves coming up behind you as you shower, he starts washing your back, but then his hands are all over you, your nipples, your chest, between your legs. There's something about your naked wet body that makes him go absolutely crazy. But he's aware shower sex it's not the best for your species, so you don't do it often.
Steb doesn't speak, but boy oh boy does he moan. And being hyper sensitive doesn't help. Whether you're teasing his nipples, sucking on his cock or fucking him, you're gonna hear him whine, groan and whimper. He gets a little embarrassed about it, but knowing how much you love it make him feel a little better
Steb's species have extremely sensitive genitals, especially the males. For that reason, his cock is normally tucked away in a genital pouch. It opens naturally with arousal to release his sex
Steb's cock is also equipped with small gills that are only here for one purpose: pleasuring his partner. And they do their job very well
Ever since Steb came into your life (literally and figuratively), you've stopped buying lube. His species produces a ridiculous amount of lubricant that is more than sufficient for the two of you
Steb loves giving you oral, loves seeing how much pleasure he can give you with his mouth alone. His tongue is much longer and stronger than a human's. He'll never forget your reaction the first time he plunged it deep inside you. He is not against receiving but he always gets scared about the idea of cumming in your mouth and basically drowning you
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sierrale8ne · 16 hours ago
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two words. crotchless panties. do what u will with this request 🤷🏾‍♀️
paige bueckers x fem!reader
nsfw // fingering, oral, bathroom sex, munch paige is back little bit of butt stuff, i got #carriedaway
kalena speakss 🪽! we on freak timing today guys! a lil fic to keep y’all happy until i drop chapter 12 of fdafn. enjoyyyy 🫂
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She’s trying to kill you.
Well, not literally, but close enough because the Kith polo shirt and back slacks and those fucking loafers are making your knees fucking weak.
It’s big east media day, and as a media intern you were lucky enough to get the opportunity to fly out to New York and interview some of the athletes today.
You worked through some of the Marquette girls, the UConn team as well, but you had to keep away from her. From Paige.
Your relationship was complicated. Namely the fact that you were having casual sex. Paige was cool about it all, and so were you. However, the pressure of her staring at you and making your cunt soak in the confinement of your pants was not something you wanted in front of your peers.
You sit with your legs crossed towards the back of the group, getting a head start on some reports that would be waiting when you got back to Storrs, when Paige takes a seat next to you.
“It’s taken.” You mumble, eyes still glued to the small tablet.
“It’s not.”
“You know that how?”
“Been watchin’, ma. You and this tight ass outfit.” She mumbles the last part under her breath. Her finger darts out from her lap, running over your bended knee.
You’re wearing a brown striped monochromatic button up that hugs your waist, the black dress pants tight on your hips. You look good, as always, but it’s something about the business attire you have on that makes Paige’s mind travel to an otherwise dirty place.
You stand up, turning off the device and sticking it in your purse as you wipe off the back of your pants. “I have work. And so do you.” You mention, giving her a cunning grin as you begin to walk off.
She’s chasing after you, fast. “I’m all done for today. Why you ain’t interview me earlier? I was lookin’ forward to it.”
Fucking killing you.
When you look back at her, Paige is smirking, her long legs in stride as they catch up to you. Her diamond studs glisten in the light of Madison Square Garden.
“You’re a distraction, P. I have a job to do.” You mumble.
Paige hums. “You think I wasn’t distracted seeing you in this? Your tits are damn near falling out of this shirt.” She says under hear breath.
You’re immediately soaking again.
Paige has a way of making you forget all of your morals. You didn’t do casual, yet here you were with her. It’s how she convinced you to spend the night, or to let her eat you out in the back of her car. It worked every time.
And it always started like this: the teasing.
“Paige, c’mon.” You beg, trying to hold onto what was left of your sanity. You stop in your tracks, turning to face her with a pleading look.
“Let me.” She states, firm and serious. “Y’know Ion even need five minutes.”
That’s how she got you, convincing you to step into the closest bathroom. Your arm wrapped around her neck while the other tugged her to you by that chain. The cross on it nearly burns your hand as Paige’s lips slotted against your own.
“Can’t ever fuckin’ resist me.” She comments with a smile, hands holding onto your waist as she backs you into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
“Shut up. I’m givin’ you five minutes.” You breathe and your tongue prods at her bottom lip, slipping into the warmth of her mouth. It’s messy, saliva swapping between you both.
You allow her to back you into the sink, hands gripping at your ass and teeth biting at your lip.
The purse on your shoulder falls to the floor and you pull back, catching your breath while Paige instantly grabs at your waistband.
She undoes the button of your pants. Her fingers deliberately and delicately popping the button.
Her hand slips into the confinement of your pants, traveling further in search of your clit. When she finds it, and the lack of material that covers your sopping wet cunt, a moan tumbles past her lips. Loud and guttural and almost full of shock.
You’ve done a lot of things; nudes when she’s at practice, copping a feel under the table, even shameless makeouts at Ted’s. You two have done it all, but crotchless panties was wild even to your standards.
“Fuck, P.” You sigh and Paige applies more pressure.
“Fuckin’ slut. Y’showed up to work like this? You crazy?” She asks. Paige looks at you like a piece of meat, and that, combined with her middle finger on your clit does a terrible job at helping you keep your composure. “Been wantin’ me, yeah?”
You attempt a nod, “You like easy access, right?” You tease, breath shuddering as Paige pulls her hand away and you see the way your slick drips down her fingers.
She had barely even touched you.
“Hurry up.” You rush out, hands gripping the collar of her polo and pulling her lips to yours. This kiss felt necessary. It was eager and filled with emotion and excitement that you both carried. Her tongue navigated your mouth while she tugged down your pants down to your knees.
You try to gently pull away, but Paige pulls you back with a hand at the back of your neck. “In a minute.” She responded, each movement calculated.
You finally do pull back, breath deep and ragged, a string of saliva connects your lips. She licks it away and without a word she spins you around and bends you over the counter.
The air hits your cunt immediately, forcing a gasp from your throat. Paige’s hand follows, giving a sharp slap to your ass that makes you jolt.
“Unbutton your shirt.”
“Paige, I don’t have all d—”
“Unbutton, your shirt.” She instructed while sinking behind you. You watch that blonde hair, that is just a twinge of pink, travel behind you until the soft thud of her knees htting the ground follows. “Bra too.”
You try. You really do, but Paige’s hands shock you by spreading your folds apart. Her hands cold and a bit rough as they scissor you open.
“More. Fuck, more, please.” You whine, pushing your hips back against her.
“I did this shit to you, baby? You get all wet from watchin’ me answer a few questions?” Paige teases, pout obvious in her voice. You’re lucky she can’t see your face in the mirror, the obvious flush on your face would be too embarrassing to handle.
You don’t even get a chance to respond before the warmth of her tongue wipes away any other thoughts.
It’s criminal how good Paige is at this. How her tongue navigates through every line of your pussy like she’s made for it.
Her large hands press to your ass, spreading your cheeks apart to get better access to the depths of your cunt. Paige’s nails dug into the flesh while her tongue pushed in and slowly fucks into you.
“Oh! God, yes, P.” You groan, slamming your hand down on the counter to keep you stable.
“What I say about that shirt?” She grumbles against you, pulling back briefly to see just how good you look from behind. The curve of your ass and the slight pucker of your asshole, your cunt dripping and the juices trailing down your leg.
Those panties aren’t helping, hugging tight to your core and a darker shade of burgundy, from her own spit, than the one she saw a few minutes ago.
Paige dives back into you, humming as she suckles on your swollen clit.
You know better than to piss her off, so you unbutton the shirt, following that by popping the clasp on the front of your lace bra. Hushed moans spill from your lips as you grind back against Paige’s magical fucking lips.
She was so messy with it, her head shaking side to side. Her tongue stretched flat over the expanse of your pussy.
“Taste so fuckin’ good, baby.” Paige mutters, pulling back to spit down your backside. Her thumb trails through your folds, making you shudder, until it reaches your ass. “Lemme have you here?”
You think she’s crazy. Either sex deprived or pussy drunk but you still let her. You’re nodding, desperate for her to touch you again. Whether it’s her lips around your clit or her tongue in your ass.
“Hurry up, oh my God.” You groan, pushing back once more. Paige’s thumb circles your ass before she sinks it deep, hooking it inside of you and going back to wrapping her lips around your clit. Paige sucks on it like a fucking pacifier, running her tongue over the hood.
“Fuckin’ tight. You such a slut for it, huh?” She degrades with her mouth busy. Her thumb fucking into you at an ungodly speed.
Your breath hitches and your legs start to tremble. “Paige, I’m gonna cum.” You moan, that pit in your stomach feeling like fire. Your lip finds its way between your teeth in an attempt to quiet your moans.
“Hold it jus’ a lil longer, ma.” She commands.
Again, you know better than to disobey her, so you do. Your eyes bore into the mirror, watching her stand up behind you, her face completely covered in your arousal. It drips down her chin, some staining the top of her shirt.
Paige’s thumb finally leaves you, making you feel like you can breathe again. She reaches forward with her other hand, wrapping it gently around your neck, and pulling you into a kiss.
You taste very bit of yourself on her tongue as she kisses you slow. It distracts you from everything. Which gives the blonde a perfect opportunity to sink her finger into you.
“She’s so wet for me, ma.”
You try to hide the face you make at the stretch, your cunt opening up for her like that was its job. You pull away from her and your jaw falls slack, gripping the edge of the sink as she moves it faster.
The echo of your arousal is loud, probably heard by your peers out on the floor right now. But you don’t care. It feels incredible, like she was made for you. And Paige feels it too.
“So perfect, baby.” She whispered into your mouth before turning your face so you see yourself in the mirror. You’re a mess, eyeliner on your lower lash line slightly smeared and your hair disheveled. “Jus’ sucking me in.”
A response built on your tongue, seconds away from traveling to her ears until she slipped another finger inside of you. You watch as Paige’s eyes slightly roll at the squelching sound.
“Fucking—shit, oh my God.” You moan, this time it’s too loud.
The hand that is splayed across your chin moves to cover your mouth. “I know it feels good, but you gotta stay quiet, baby.” She says, curling her fingers until they hit that one gummy spot and you’re nearly falling apart.
Paige looks incredible. Her lips pink and swollen, those crystal blue eyes drinking up every inch of your body through the mirror. It’s literally a scene from a movie. The lights dim and illuminating over every single detail of the both of you.
Your tits bounce with each thrust of her fingers, giving her more motivation to keep going.
Her hand leaves your mouth to knead one, pinching at your nipple and tugging it until her name spilled out of your lips like a broken prayer.
“Paige! Yeah, baby, just like that. Fuck!” You babble, head falling back onto her strong shoulder as she speeds up. And you’re gushing, all over your legs and all over her hand.
“You wanna cum for me?”
“Please. M’right there, P.”
“C’mon, mama.” She leaves a kiss to your neck, followed by a bite to the same spot. “You got it, princess. Let me have it.”
And that’s all it takes for the cord to snap as for you to let go on those fingers, a hushed cry leaving your mouth as your body writhes.
“Good girl. So good, look at that.” Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head at the praise. Paige’s finger’s finally slow as they work you through it, her other hand leaving your body to run a hand through your hair.
“Fuck.” You breathe. “I said five minutes.”
“I couldn’t help myself, those fuckin’ panties you got on. You knew better.” She defends, kissing your neck as her fingers finally leave you.
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detroit-become-hurt · 12 hours ago
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Small blurb for Sevika. Might contain spoilers if you haven't finished arcane. Men and minors dni.
You sat at your makeshift vanity, a large mirror you found in the propped up on a rickety old table Sevika had lying around. It wasn't anything glamourous but it got the job done. Gently you swiped eyeshadow over your lids before grabbing your set of false lashes. Normally you would forgo them but tonight was a special occasion.
Sevika watched in mild fascination as you did your makeup, wondering just how you managed to apply the lashes without sticking yourself in the eye. Let alone, how did you see with those damn things on?
You finish your look applying a deep red lipstick to your lips, before giving yourself a onceover in the mirror. Turning to face Sevika you ask,"Do I look okay?"
Sevika's eyes trace over your face, down your figure in the dark blue dress that glittered like the stars at night. "You look amazing doll." She says softly. She's never been great with words. She hops her tone and the look in her eyes conveys to you how much she loves you.
Standing you grab your clutch, extending a hand to her who sat on the bed. She had been ready 20 minutes before you, donning a well fitted suit. "Well, guess we should get going." And Sevika audibly groans, slowly taking your hand. While being on the council had lots of perks, it also had its downs. A gala being one of them.
"We could stay home." She attempts to persuade you, pulling you close by the hips, slightly grinding her pelvis into yours. A heat pools in your stomach and youre left breathles. Managing a amall laugh you place your hand on her face.
"I'll tell you what...you behave and get through this night...and I'll let you fuck me." Your tone is sultry, half lidded eyes full of lust staring back at Sevika. She raises her eyebrows,"yeah?" She asks hands travelling down your body.
"Mhm. I'll even let you...fuck me in the ass." You lean in and nip at her ear and again she grabs you by the hips before grinding hard against you, fist in your hair pulling your head back so she can sink her teeth into your throat. She drinks in your moan of pleasure, sucking hard before pulling back.
"Well then, lets get going doll face."
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miley1442111 · 20 hours ago
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under pressure- s.reid
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summary: endings are bittersweet...
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader
warnings: spencer is a dick
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“You don’t know how much pressure I’m under-!” you tried to explain, tears running down your cheeks.
“You’re under pressure?” he scoffed. “You’re ‘under pressure’. Y/n, you are doing  a bachelors degree in law, not trying to win a Nobel Prize. You are under no pressure right now, alright. A-and I am under massive amounts of pressure, and I ask you, one simple thing, and you won’t do it. One thing. And you won’t do it.”
“Spencer, I-I’m sorry I just-”
“It was one thing,” he sighed. 
“I have study to do, I have a job, I’m the one who takes care of our apartment! You’re barely ever here! Excuse me for moving a fucking book Spencer, I am so sorry!” you shouted, getting angrier. He had no right to speak to you like that. None whatsoever. 
“It's not just a book!” he screamed. “It’s the fact that you can’t do the one thing I asked you to do!”
Spencer had never screamed at you before. It was jarring. He was scary when he screamed. 
You sighed. “Let me ask you to do one thing: leave me alone.” 
And with that, you left the kitchen and walked straight into the bedroom, allowing yourself to finally break down. Spencer didn’t get to speak to you like that, it wasn’t right. You were worth more than that. After about 30 minutes, the knocks came, and your annoyance grew.
“Baby, come on, I’m sorry,” he said through the door. “Please can we talk about this?”
No answer. You didn’t want to. You didn’t have to. He was the one in the wrong, not you. 
“Y/n, please can we just talk about this like adults?” he begged. 
‘Like adults’. Your emotions were childish, your responses were childish, you were childish. That’s what that meant. You were sick of this, sick of him. You didn’t want to deal with it all right now, you just needed a break. You looked out the window. He’d never let you leave in the middle of an argument, and while he was usually great at arguments, you really couldn’t deal with it right now, and you needed some room to breathe. 
“Please tell me what’s wrong. I don’t want you to stress yourself out. I know being with me isn’t always easy. Y/n? Are you even in there?”
You weren’t. You had climbed out the window. 
----
After about 2 hours of walking around Quantico with no phone, no headphones, and a lot to think about, you finally came back to the apartment to find Spencer, Derek, Aaron, Penelope, and Emily all standing around ‘looking for clues’. You scoffed as you walked inside, none of them noticing you. 
“I’m right here,” you announced and they all turned to look at you. 
“Y/n,” Spencer rushed over to you as the rest of them filed out, leaving you both to talk it out. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have-”
“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” you scoffed. “I’m so fucking done right now.”
The colour drained from his face and he was quiet. “What do you mean ‘done’?”
“I mean you can either start acting like I matter, or you can watch me walk away. I’m not going to wait here forever for you to treat me well. If you have an issue with that, then I suggest we stop now,” you sniffled, grabbing a glass of water. “My masters degree matters, Spencer. My opinions matter. I should matter to you more than a fucking book.”
“You do,” he said, softly placing a hand on your cheek. 
“Do I?” you asked, fresh tears filling your eyes. “Do I really?”
He looked down ashamed. “You’re the most important person in my life, I’m sorry I ever made you feel like you weren’t. The book doesn’t matter, I’m sorry. I’m being an asshole. I’m just stressed and overwhelmed. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Of course your masters matters. Of course your opinions matter. I’m so sorry that I ever made you feel any different. ” 
You sighed. “Spencer, you can say that but you don’t make me feel like that. You never ask about my day, my opinion, my work. It’s always about you. I’ve felt like this for a while now…”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” 
You scoffed. “You’re never home, when would I?”
“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. You dropped his hands. 
“I think I’m going to stay at a friends’ house tonight. I just want a break.” 
He stilled. “Really?” 
You nodded, tears falling. “I’ll come back to grab my things tomorrow.”
He grabbed your wrist as you tried to walk away. “Please don’t say it-”
“I love you Spencer, but I can’t keep doing this. Please get help. I’m your girlfriend, not your carer.” 
And you left him standing in your shared apartment, his heart broken and his world crumbling around him.
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criminal minds masterlist
navigation for my blog :)
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willowsnook · 10 hours ago
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Wouldn't have it any other way
rye with salami, ranch, and mikes way please and thank you! (idk if i did that right, i've never done this before)
jack hughes x reporter!reader
she isn’t you
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Working as a reporter covering the NHL was a childhood dream of yours that came true. You worked your ass off in college, having internships each summer which led to an opportunity at ESPN that turned full-time after you graduated. You were ecstatic when they moved you to New Jersey to cover the Devils. It had been six months and so far you had gotten along well with all the players…well except one.
“Ya we got whacked two games in a row, so the last thing you want to do is stand and talk in front of you guys,” Jack Hughes told the small group of reporters crowding his locker, you included. You rolled your eyes which didn’t go unnoticed.
“Something to say, sweetheart?,” he said, eyes honing in on you.
You felt your cheeks flush with anger at his condescending tone. "It's our job to ask questions, Hughes. If you can't handle that, maybe you should find a new career."
The locker room fell silent, all eyes darting between you and Jack. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as he stepped closer.
"And maybe you should find a new team to cover if you can't handle a little attitude," he shot back.
The tension was palpable. You'd butted heads with Jack since day one, his arrogance rubbing you the wrong way. But this felt different, more charged.
"I can handle you," you replied, holding his gaze. "Question is, can you handle the heat when you're not performing on the ice?"
A collective intake of breath from the other reporters. Jack's eyes flashed dangerously.
"That's enough," the Devils’ PR manager said, ushering the reporters out of the locker room. You shot Jack one last glare as you followed the rest of the pool out. You knew you were going to get your ass chewed by your boss but you couldn’t help it. Jack was infuriating.
Unfortunately, your phone rang the second you were out of the arena and you listened to your boss rant at you. The moment was apparently already blowing up on social media and it was not a good look for you or Jack really. Half of the internet said you were too young to be in your job and wildly unprofessional while the other half defended you, calling Jack a dick who needs to respect women. There was another weird fan side of hockey twitter that were now actively shipping the two of you together, claiming it could be a perfect enemies-to-lovers story.
—————————————————————-
Headphones in, you watched workers out the window as they loaded luggage onto your plane. New Jersey to Vancouver was a long flight so you had splurged, upgrading yourself to first class to try maybe and get some actual sleep. The seat next to you was still empty and as the time ticked by you grew more hopeful that it would remain that way but nothing good lasts forever.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” a voice called out next to you and you looked up to meet the eyes of none other than Jack Hughes.
Your heart sank as Jack glared down at you, his tall frame looming over your seat. Of all the people to be stuck next to for a cross-country flight, it had to be him.
“Why aren’t you flying with the team?” You questioned.
“I overslept and missed the flight,” he muttered and you snorted.
Jack huffed as he stowed his carry-on and slid into the seat beside you. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. You both sat rigidly, avoiding eye contact as the rest of the passengers boarded.
As the plane began to move, you couldn't help but sneak a glance at Jack. His jaw was clenched, hands gripping the armrests tightly. Was he... nervous?
"You okay there, Hughes? Not scared of flying, are you?" you teased, unable to resist.
He shot you a withering look. "I'm fine.”
But as the plane started to take off his breathing grew more rapid and you started to get concerned. You hit a bit of turbulence trying to level out, and Jack’s hand moved towards yours, gripping it tightly.
“Sorry,” he rasped, but you kept your hand in his, caressing his skin softly with your thumb.
“It’s okay,” you murmured. “Just try and breathe.”
“I’m trying,” he snapped and you rolled his eyes. “I need you to distract me.”
“How?”
“Just tell me something about you I don’t know,” he asked looking over at you pleadingly.
“Hockey isn’t my favorite sport,” you said instantly. It felt like your dirty secret being a hockey reporter, but it was the truth.
Jack let out a strained chuckle, “oh yeah, what is?”
“Football,” you replied and he nodded at you to keep going. “I fell in love with it when I was just a kid watching Brett Farve. Him leaving the Packers was my first real heartbreak in life. I like college football more now and while I love the atmosphere of hockey, there is nothing like a Saturday night home game in the palace. The lights illuminating the fields, the smell of popocorn and hotdogs, the fight song playing in the background, and everyone knows that $20 beer tastes better watching your favorite team. What’s more romantic than that?”
If Jack didn’t have the history he had with you, he thought he might have fell in love with you right then and there. His grip on your hand loosened slightly as he listened to you speak, his breathing becoming more even. He found himself captivated by the passion in your voice as you described your love for football.
"I never would have guessed," he said softly, a hint of a smile on his face. "You always seemed so... intense about hockey."
You shrugged, feeling a bit vulnerable having shared something so personal. "It's my job. I take it seriously."
"Maybe too seriously sometimes," Jack muttered, but there was no real bite to his words.
The plane leveled out and you both realized you were still holding hands. You quickly pulled away, clearing your throat awkwardly.
"Thanks," Jack said, avoiding your gaze. "For, you know... helping me through that."
You nodded, unsure how to respond. This was the most civil conversation you'd ever had with Jack Hughes, and it felt weird. The rest of the flight went by without a spectacle; you were happy to catch some shut-eye, and woke up as you were about to land, Jack nudging you awake. He grabbed your bag for you, and you followed him off the plane, stopping when he turned to face you.
“Back to our regularly scheduled business of hating each other,” he said with a smirk, and you laughed.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way Hughes,” you shot back before heading off.
—————————————————————————
After a long call with your boss the next day, you were very irritated. Since the Devils were playing the Canucks, he wanted a short fluff piece about the Hughes brothers reuniting.
“It won’t be that bad,” Luke said after you tracked him down to tell him about the assignment. “You love me, and Quinn will love you.”
“I’m not worried about you two,” you told him with a look. “I’m worried about your other brother, who makes me want to jump off a cliff.”
“You’re dramatic,” he said, crossing his arms and you huffed. “We are all getting dinner tonight; just come with us. It’ll be a good chance to see us all off the ice.”
Later that night, you find yourself in the lobby with Luke, waiting on his brothers. Dressed down and out of your business wear, you felt more like yourself in a cute white sweater and jeans. Jack stepped out of the elevator and you immediately crossed your arms, already not in a good mood seeing him.
“Why is she here?” He asked Luke, completely ignoring you.
“She is writing a piece on the three of us, so I thought it would be nice to let her see the non-hockey side of things,” Luke explained and Jack groaned. Quinn stuck out his hand to introduce himself, and you smiled warmly at the oldest brother.
“So you’re the one who has little Jack by the balls?” He teased and Jack shoved him while you laughed.
You and Jack didn’t say a word to each other on the way to the restaurant and you luckily ended up being diagonal from him. It was a steakhouse but you weren’t that into steak so you opted for a grilled chicken salad with no tomatoes of course. Remembering that you were here for work, you kept quiet just observing the brothers.
"Remember when Jack tried to dye his hair blonde and it turned orange instead?" Quinn chuckled, earning a glare from Jack.
"Hey, at least I didn't cry when mom cut my mullet," Jack shot back, causing Luke to nearly spit out his drink.
You couldn't help but smile, seeing this different side of Jack. He was more relaxed, his guard down as he joked with his brothers. You caught yourself staring at him a few times, noticing how his eyes crinkled when he laughed.
The waiter soon returned with your food and you sighed as you watched your salad be placed in front of you with the tomatoes you had asked to be left out. You were never one to send something back, so you accepted your fate and unrolled your silverware.
“Everything look good?” The waiter asked. You nodded absentmindedly as Jack opened his mouth.
“She asked for no tomatoes,” he said, pointing to your salad. Your head snapped up and the waiter began to apologize.
“Oh it’s okay,” you said, trying to wave him off but Jack gave you a stern look that made you sit back.
“Don’t like tomatoes?” He mused. “Kind of childish, don’t you think?”
“You literally ordered a lemonade,” you shot back and his eyes narrowed at you.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s every kid’s favorite drink,” you retorted.
Jack scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Sophisticated Palette. Let me guess, you’re a black coffee type, right? So edgy.”
You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of your soda. “At least I don’t need a sugar rush to get through lunch.”
“And yet, here you are, drowning in soda. Classy.”
You gestured to his plate with a smug smile. “Says the guy who’s been avoiding the broccoli on his plate like it owes him money.”
Jack’s smirk faltered, and he glanced down at the offending vegetable. “It’s not avoidance. I’m saving the best for last.”
“Sure you are. Must be why it’s still untouched and getting cold.”
“You know, you’re a lot braver with your words when I don’t have a hockey stick in my hands.”
You shot him a fake, sweet smile. “And you’re a lot more tolerable when you keep your mouth shut.”
Quinn and Luke were thoroughly entertained as they observed the back-and-forth banter between you.
“You see what I have to deal with?” Luke said, looking at Quinn once you and Jack had finally stopped.
“Jack finally met his match,” he commented, prompting an eye roll from the mentioned brother.
The rest of the dinner passed with a mix of tension and grudging amusement between you and Jack, while Quinn and Luke kept the conversation flowing. As you all left the restaurant, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret at how quickly you and Jack fell back into your antagonistic pattern.
"So, got enough material for your fluff piece?" Jack asked sarcastically as you walked back to the hotel.
You sighed, "Probably. Though I'm not sure how to write about the Hughes brothers' dynamic without mentioning how insufferable one of them is."
Jack chuckled, surprising you. "Just make sure to mention how charming and handsome that one is too."
You rolled your eyes but couldn't suppress a small smile. "In your dreams, Hughes."
As you reached the hotel, Luke and Quinn said their goodbyes, leaving you and Jack alone in the lobby. An awkward silence lingering in the air between you.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” He asked and you gave him a weird look, trying to figure out his angle.
“Where else would I be? I’m always front row waiting for you to mess up,” you joked and he gave you a playful frown.
“Very funny,” he said before bidding you goodbye and going up to his room. Things felt different between the two of you tonight, and you weren’t sure how you felt about it.
———————————————————————-
The Devils beat the Canucks handily and you found yourself with a couple of other reporters waiting for Jack, who had scored, and a new girl that you didn’t recognize.
“Hi Jack,” the girl called out as he got settled and he looked at her amused. She looked like a puck bunny who had snuck in; beach blonde hair, fake spray tan, low cut top, you knew the type. Jesus, what had gotten into you, you thought, trying to shake off your cattiness.
“Hey, haven’t seen you around before,” he commented and she giggled. Literally giggled in response. The other reporters were amused but you kept your lips in a firm line.
“You were so great out there; it’s so impressive how hard you work,” she said and he smiled awkwardly thanking her. “Do you ever get scared when the puck comes at you?"
You couldn’t help but snort out loud when she asked that and Jack looked amused at you.
Jack’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, his smirk growing wider before he turned back to the blonde with a practiced ease.
"So," he said, leaning casually against the bench, "you’re new to the media scrum, huh? They usually send someone more…" He glanced at you briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Experienced."
The girl giggled again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh, well, I’m just filling in today. I guess I got lucky getting to talk to you."
"Guess I got lucky too," he said smoothly, his tone playful. "Usually, I’m stuck with—" He cut himself off, letting his eyes flick to you with mock innocence. "Well, people who don’t seem to enjoy the job as much as you do."
Your jaw tightened, but you kept your face neutral, scribbling something completely irrelevant in your notebook to avoid giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.
"So," the blonde continued, practically glowing under his attention, "what’s it like to be so focused all the time? You’re just so… intense on the ice."
Jack chuckled, shaking his head. "Takes a lot of practice. But I don’t think I’m half as intense as you just now."
Her eyes widened, and she laughed, her cheeks turning a shade pinker. "Oh my God, stop! I’m just trying to do my job."
"And you’re doing it very well," he replied, his voice low and charming.
You shut your notebook loudly, drawing Jack’s attention as you stormed out of the locker room, your cheeks flushed with anger and... something else you didn't want to acknowledge. You made it halfway down the hall before you heard footsteps behind you.
"Hey!" Jack's voice called out. "Where are you going?"
You spun around, glaring at him. "Away from that circus. I have actual work to do."
He jogged up to you, a mix of confusion and amusement on his face. "What's your problem? Jealous?"
"Jealous?" You scoffed, crossing your arms. "Of what? Your ability to charm airheads?"
Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Wow, that's pretty harsh. What happened to journalistic integrity?"
"What happened to professionalism?" You shot back. "Or do you always flirt with reporters during interviews?"
His expression shifted, a knowing smirk appearing on his face.
“You are jealous,” he said confidently and you were about to argue back but he grabbed a door handle behind you, yanking the door open and pulling you in it. It was a smaller equipment closet, but you didn’t have much time to look around before Jack had you tight against his body.
“She isn’t you sweetheart,” he said as your body flushed against his.
Your breath caught in your throat as Jack's words sank in. The closet suddenly felt much smaller, the air thick with tension. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, his chest rising and falling against yours.
"What are you doing, Hughes?" you managed to whisper, your voice betraying your conflicted emotions.
His eyes searched yours, intense and unreadable. "Something I've wanted to do for a long time," he murmured before closing the distance between you.
His lips crashed against yours, hungry and insistent. For a moment, you were too shocked to respond. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, you found yourself kissing him back with equal fervor. Your hands tangled in his hair as his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
The kiss was everything you never knew you wanted - passionate, electrifying, and months of frustration bubbling over. His hands moved under your shirt and up your back as his touch burned your skin. Resting your head back against the wall, he took advantage, latching on to your neck, sucking harshly.
“More,” you gasped. “I need more.”
He pulled your shirt over your head and you unclasped your bra, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes glazed over, looking at your chest and you smirked before tugging at his shirt. He lifted it off and you admired his toned body, tracing your finger down his abs. His breath hitched as he watched you and you smirked seeing the bulge against his sweats get bigger.
Jack's eyes darkened as he watched your finger trail down his abs. In one swift motion, he lifted you up, pressing you against the wall as your legs wrapped around his waist. His lips found yours again in a searing kiss as his hips ground against you, eliciting a soft moan from your throat.
"God, you drive me crazy," he breathed against your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin.
Your hands roamed his broad shoulders and back, relishing the feeling of his muscles flexing under your touch. Jack's mouth moved lower, trailing hot kisses down your collarbone to your breasts. You arched into him as he took a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud.
"Jack," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair. He looked up at you, a mix of lust and something softer. “I need you in me.”
“Let me savor this sweetheart,” he pouted and you shook your head.
“Not the time or place,” you argued back and he sighed. Pulling down his pants, you spit into your hand before bringing it to his cock, pumping a few times, causing him to hiss. Shimmying out of your pants, you let him lift you against the wall, angling himself at your entrance.
“Are you sure about this?” He asked.
“Just this once,” you said and he rolled his eyes.
“We’ll see,” he replied and you started to argue back but he pushed in and your head fell forward onto his shoulder.
Jack began to move, thrusting into you with a steady rhythm. You clung to his shoulders, biting back moans as he hit just the right spot with each stroke. The closet filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing and the slap of skin on skin.
"God, you feel amazing," Jack groaned, his pace increasing. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, urging him deeper.
"Harder," you demanded, nails digging into his back. He complied, slamming into you with renewed vigor.
The tension that had been building between you for months was finally finding release. Every thrust, every touch was electric. You couldn't get enough of him.
"I'm close," you panted, feeling the familiar tightening in your core. Jack slipped a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit.
"Come for me, sweetheart," he urged and you cried out, his hand coming up to muffle the noise. Riding out your orgasm, you were clenching hard around him and he grunted as he kept up the pace, pounding into you.
As your walls continued to contract around him, Jack couldn't hold back any longer. He buried his face in your neck, groaning out your name as he spilled into you.
For a few moments, all that could be heard was your heavy breathing as you both came down from the intense high. Jack leaned his forehead against yours, his breath hot against your skin. You both took a few minutes to catch your breath before Jack slowly pulled out of you. You winced slightly and Jack gave you a concerned look. He handed you your clothes and you quickly put them back on, refusing to look at him.
“Y/n,” he said softly and you finally looked over at him. His face was flushed, hair all over the place, but the look he was giving you made you want to take your clothes right back off.
“This was just two people blowing off steam, nothing more,” you said and he grinned widely.
“Oh, so you won’t mind if I hook up with that other girl next time instead?” He asked and you frowned before quickly morphing into a neutral expression but Jack had already caught it.
“Ugh,” you exclaimed before opening the door slowly, peeking out before you walked out. Jack was right behind you and you thought the coast was clear until you walked right into Quinn and Luke. You froze and felt Jack still behind you as he saw his brothers.
“What were you two doing?” Luke asked, a knowing smirk on his face.
“We were just talking,” you defended, not meeting his eyes.
“Oh yeah? In the supply closet?” Quinn teased.
“It was quieter than the locker room,” Jack said.
“Didn’t sound that quiet,” Quinn shot back.
Your face burned with embarrassment as Quinn's words sank in. You couldn't bring yourself to look at Jack or his brothers, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole.
"I... I have to go," you mumbled, pushing past Luke and Quinn without meeting their eyes. You practically ran down the hallway, desperate to distance yourself and the Hughes brothers as much as possible.
Once safely in your hotel room, you collapsed onto the bed, burying your face in your hands. What had you done? Hooking up with Jack Hughes in a supply closet was bad enough, but getting caught by his brothers? Your career could be over if word got out.
Your phone buzzed with a text. Hesitantly, you checked it, half-expecting it to be Jack. Instead, it was from Luke:
"Don't worry, your secret's safe with us. But you might want to figure your shit out with Jack ;)”
You groaned, turning over, trying not to think about what happened in the closet or what it meant for you and Jack.
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leam1983 · 5 hours ago
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As a Canadian, and as someone living in a country that has a UBI framework, I think a lot of people misunderstand just how basic Universal Basic Income is.
TL;DR: I agree on principle, but identifying greed as a problem doesn't solve deeper systemic issues.
I see some armchair social theorists on here say that UBI is enough to fight more pressing social battles; that it empowers you to demand better rights as a worker, as a citizen. I've been on UBI and, well - no. UBI is enough to allow you to survive. If you want to invest in a project, if there's a worthwhile cause you want to get involved in that requires some involvement or some capital injection (even something as simple as buying supplies to fashion picketing signs) - that's on you. In Canada, UBI is calculated based on median income, which means that it isn't enough to kickstart some people's Post-Work-Era Roddenberry-Powered Magical Socialism where nobody works and everyone contributes out of sheer passion and drive.
UBI is there so you can survive, and so you can eventually have the resources and skillsets needed to contribute to Society without UBI lining your pockets. More importantly, UBI is there to ensure that there are no "bad jobs" to speak of, because even the fast food joint's janitor who's on Minimum Wage starts with better conditions than a UBI beneficiary. In Canada, a kid with no diploma who makes a living manning a Tim Hortons' cash register doesn't have to fight with the system to obtain credits related to his living conditions. The real problem has three prongs:
Welfare kings and queens who make it harder for legitimate demands of financial assistance to go through;
The corporate world that's forgotten that the very first rung past UBI needs to be 100% livable and needs to allow for at least some measure of savings to be something that can be planned for. UBI should facilitate survival, what happens when even minimum wage doesn't allow you to live right?
Slum lords who buy off properties initially set aside for Affordable Housing programs and who drive market values so far high that entry-level workers have to settle with living several hours away from their place of work.
But Sweden and Norway - Hold it. Sweden and Norway are filthy fucking rich. Sweden and Norway are Petrostates. Canada? Not so much. Year after year sees Affordable Living programs or revisions to UBI being floated that would turn it from a lifeline to an actually workable form of remuneration, but year after year sees my local politicians butt their heads against the fact that any kind of serious Social Security net can't just pay for itself; and Canadians are already sadly renowned for living in a country choked by taxes - all because our already-present pro-Social infrastructure is complex, inefficient and sadly vital for most low-income residents.
Imagine how insane implementing it would be on a per-State level, on the American side. Imagine the work that needs to be done; not just in terms of greater education, but also in the sense that there's an entire infrastructure you guys never put in place. Some of my colleagues are American expats, and their first big shock came in the form of their first tax bill on Canadian soil. Free healthcare isn't free, the load is just spread across the country's residents. It also means that UBI and Free Healthcare programs can only cover so much, seeing as even if you put the load primarily on those above a certain income level, those below it are still going to feel the pinch. God knows I do, every tax season, and even if it's for a fundamentally good cause.
So. Beyond harping that UBI is a basic right and that we all deserve to rest, ask yourself how wealthy your State is, first. Try and model the kind of help you'd be getting. Try projecting it as a deferred hit on your salary or your savings - one that you need to account for year after year, forever.
The social model where none of us work and all of us effectively play with shelter and rest being in-built facets of our social contract would require a total upheaval of our current system - and something tells me most people wouldn't like the transitional period between the two. Would people really maintain power stations or work hospitals just because it's the right thing to do?
Call me cynical, but I've been alive long enough to really, really, seriously doubt that logic. Sooner or later, someone's going to want to look out for Number One. The USSR fell for that very reason, and my own country's very pro-Social policies are rife with examples of what happens when someone with good intentions gets unfettered access to a chequebook, supposedly for the good of all. Remuneration is a great control system, in that respect, especially when we know that in an Egalitarian system, there's always going to be one or two chucklefucks who think they're more Egalitarian than the rest.
Greed is in all of us; the only thing that keeps you or me honest is our lack of power. Money, as they say, is the root of all Evil. Remove money from the equation and something else will take its place. Social status, most likely.
Then let's make all of us equal! Communism FTW!
you're likely American if you're reading this, how do you think most people will react to that kind of assertion?
even in an ideal system, the Overseer would have more power. That, right there, is enough of an imbalance for unfair treatment to surface.
Again, we've seen what happened with Soviet Russia, and I'm not saying this to be a bootlicker. Open a history book: Lenin barely managed to approximate Marx's idea of an Egalitarian state and Stalin identified the cracks in the system and pushed them wide open, priming it for collapse.
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UBI needs to happen. via antiwork
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beachlifelez · 3 days ago
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Lucy came across as a prim and proper young woman. But there was just something about Kit that brought out a different, much naughtier side.
"God, Kit, why do I let you handle me like this?"
"You love my hands on your boobs, admit it. Your big, soft boobs."
"Yes, I can't lie; this feels so good."
"And you're going to let me finger that wet pussy of yours, too, aren't you?"
"You have such a dirty mouth."
"And you love it. And you love when my dirty mouth is all over your wetness, don't you? Get that skirt off. I'm hungry for your sex."
"Kit!"
"Now. Skirt off. Show me your dripping cunt."
"Oh, my god. I don't have a..."
"Cunt. Yes you do, and it's all mine, today, isn't it?"
"God, yes, it's yours, all yours."
Lucy pushed her skirt and panties to the ground.
"Say it, or you'll never feel my dirty mouth again. Tell me what I want to hear."
"Kit...no."
"Ok, then we're done here, I guess."
"No, no. Ok, Ok. Kit, please.....eat my cunt."
"You are so fucking dirty, Lucy. Bend over, show it to me. Show me your wet cunt. You're going to be talking a lot dirtier once my tongue is doing its job."
And once again, Lucy succumbed to Kit’s dirty talk and dirty tongue.
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fuck-customers · 1 day ago
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So I’m over at shipping because the company and/or manager is too cheap to hire people specifically for that job and still insist on taking Amaz0n returns even though it makes our lives miserable and the store impossible to run. Anyways I’m stuck doing to jobs. Two women coming up, they wanna ship something, so they hand me the item in a plastic shopping back. I think it’s a return so I ask if they have a code and they show me an address on their phone. They want to ship. I’m confused af why they handed it to me in a grocery bag but I have an extra box one of the Amaz0n people left behind so I put the item in the box and don’t even charge them for the fact I’m packing their item as they’re chatting to each other in confusion about why I’d need a box.
Need a name and address. She shows me it on her phone again. No, I need YOUR name and address. She’s confused but fine. Her friend gives it to me. I spell the last name wrong so I ask her to spell it. S-A-N-D—not an A a U! So I chang the A in the last name to a U. "No, not an A, a U!" So I change the A in her first name to a U. And this goes on for like five times. Until her friend puts down her ID with her name. Which is exactly how I’d been spelling it. I type it in again, expecting once again to be interrupted, but no she’s like, "Yes, like that." And like I’m ready to blow my fucking brains out at this point and think of charging them for me packing their shit but they’re cranky old ladies and know very little English so it’d just be a big thing so fine I just get their shit done and tell them they’re all set.
Btw I may not speak your mother language, but I 100% can tell when you are shit talking me in it.
Posted by admin Rodney
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ofmdrecaps · 2 days ago
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11/21-22/2024 Daily OFMD Recap
TLDR; David Jenkins; Rhys Darby; Taika Waititi; Kristian Nairn; Samba Schutte; Vico Ortiz; Articles; NZ Television Series 2024 Awards; TinyCrewBigRaffle Results; Love Notes; Daily Darby/Today's Taika;
= David Jenkins =
Chaos Dad shared with us some sweet nail art!
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Source: David Jenkins Bsky
= Rhys Darby =
Tickets for the Atlanta Helium Comedy Club Weekend are still available! November 29 - December 1! Get tickets here!
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Source: Helium Comedy Atlanta
Rhys talked to Newstalk KZB about his upcoming Comedy Tour! Thank you to @adoptourcrew for sharing the article!
I'm fairly certain Australia Dates were shared last time but just in case, here's some more info! BohmPresents Tickets
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Source: Rhys Instagram
Rhys also posted a fun extra video on his paid Substack if you're subscribed and interested in cars!
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Source: Rhys' Substack
= Taika Waititi =
Taika has been so recently! He's been out taking pics, doing interviews for Interior Chinatown-- the works!
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Source: Conroy Gibson's Instagram
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Source: Jimmy O Yang's Instagram
instagram
= Samba Schutte =
Samba has also been busy! There's a new show coming out that he'll be starring in-- Parallel!
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instagram
Source: SeasickStudio's Instagram
Samba also joined Behind The Funny Podcast to talk about his role on Advanced Chemistry! Check it out on Spotify!
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Source: Samba's Instagram Stories
More Hell Hath No Fury red carpet pics with Samba!
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Source: Samba's Instagram
= Kristian Nairn =
Kristian sent us a headshot before heading out for The Republic of Pirates! The beard is gone!
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Source: kristian's Instagram
= Vico Ortiz =
Vico posted more OFMD BTS on their Patreon!
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Source: Vico's Patreon
== Articles ==
Thank you as always to @adoptourcrew for keeping us appraised of new articles!
Source: Adopt Our Crew Twitter
== NZ Television Awards 2024 ==
Congrats to the Pinnacle Post Sound Team who won Best Contribution to a Soundtrack at the 2024 NZ Television awards! Fantastic news! Thanks @adoptourcrew
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Source: Adopt Our Crew's Twitter
More information on the win was posted on the NZPost's Instagram!
"What a night! Thank you to the @nztvawards for this recognition, Pinnacle Post is honoured to receive the award for Best Contribution to a Soundtrack Special thanks to @DvidJenkins, Alan Marshall Palmer and @OurFlagonMax Huge shout out to the team, super proud of your work, couldn't have done it without you. Supervising Sound Editor / Additional Re-recording Mixer - Damian Del Borrello Re-recording Mixer - Gareth Van Niekerk ADR Supervisor - Angelina Faulkner Dialogue Editor - Helen Luttrell Music Editor - Steve Griffen Sound Editor - Amy Barber Sound Editor - Jonathan Bruce Sound Editor - Richard Wills First Assistant Sound Editor - Alex Sipahioglu Assistant Sound Editor - Benny Jennings Mix Tech - Julia Huberman Mix Tech - Luana Barnes ADR Partner - Native Audio Foley Package - Bespoke Post And congratulations to all the other winners and finalists, very special getting to celebrate with all of you x #OFMD#streamonmax#PinnaclePostNZ#nzfilm#ourflagmeansdeath#mixedatpinnaclepostnz#nztva2024#nztvawards#nzfilm#screenauckland#nztva2024
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Source: Pinnacle Post Nz
= TinyCrewBigRaffle =
So the count was put together and the winners were released on the 24th, but since I'm running out of room on the next issue-- it's all going here! The @ofmd-buys-boats raffle is closed and the winners have been announced! First of all-- CONGRATS AND WELL FUCKING DONE EVERYONE! $11,474 sent to charity! And apparently even more! Absolutely amazing job!
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Source: OFMD Buys Boats
Wanna see the winners get pulled by an adorable member of our crew and find out if you won? Visit OFMD Buys Boat's Instagram!
== Love Notes ==
Hey lovelies. Coming up soon is the Republic of Pirates coverage! I hope the weekend treated you kindly-- whether you were at the con or not! I also wanted to send some love and remind you that you really are doing your best. The world doesn't always fit perfectly for folks, especially queer and ND folks. That doesn't mean you don't fit in it, it just means you're making your own section for others like you to fit together. We can get through just about anything if we support each other. Remember to lean on those closest to you if you need it. You're beautiful and worth it. I found these love notes from HopeHealingArts that I really loved so I thought I'd share them your way. Please take care of yourselves lovelies, and if you need help, reach out ok? <3
Source: HopeHealingArts Instagram
== Daily Darby / Today's Taika ==
Tonight's theme is fingers. These fabulous gifs brought to you by the magnificent @ofmd-ann and @a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives!
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