#posts of a man without a weighted blanket

[bipedalseal]

i need someone to grisp me to sleep

[cocastyle]

I See You

Pairing — Bob Reynolds x reader

Word Count — 4k

Warning — SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE I REPEAT SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE!!

A/N — breaking my two years of not posting in honor of this amazing movie and character. the Thunderbolts* has reawakened my fire to write and I couldn’t ignore it. so here you go! this will be a bit of a short series. i kind of envision around three parts or so? anyways, i really hope you enjoy this and know this is your last warning before you continue on!! so if you haven’t seen the Thunderbolts* please save this for later <3

also, did you all notice the easter eggs i included ?? 👀

Part One Part Two Part Three

SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Bob Reynolds wasn't quite sure how any of this had happened. One minute he was pretty sure he had been dying and the next he was trapped in a series of never ending nightmares. Except it wasn't just his nightmares, there were other people's too.

He knew he had been having these moments where he didn't remember things, knew that there was something going on at a deeper level than he wanted to admit. He thought with Valentina explaining this power he had been given that it would explain everything he had been feeling, that the darkness wasn't truly his but something brought on by this experiment.

But he knew the truth and walking through these endless nightmares only proved that. The darkness was his. It was a culmination of everything he was feeling, everything that had been consuming him, and it had only taken more of a physical form thanks to the Sentry project.

Bob had no way of fighting this thing, no way of taking back control of his body. And at this point he wasn't even sure if he wanted control. After all, he was just Bob. He was useless. He was nothing. Everyone would be better off without him.

So now he was trapped with no where else to go but to walk through the thousands of rooms of everyone's deepest regrets and shames.

It had been an accident at first, but sometime after his own meth chicken nightmare was when he first started stumbling into the other rooms. He saw so many things, felt the guilt and weight that everyone else felt. One in particular had stuck with him when he had ended up watching the loop of a blind lawyer watching his friend die over and over. Bob couldn't watch that for very long before he was hurriedly trying to get to any other room but that one, the blind man's cries still rattling his bones.

Bob didn't know how long he walked for or how many rooms he went through until he got to one that made him pause as he came face to face with Tony Stark. It had been a while since the hero's death, but still seeing the face of the man that had helped bring everyone back from the Blip made Bob falter slightly.

Someone's biggest trauma was Tony Stark?

Bob took a couple steps back, his eyes scanning over the room as he tried to ground himself in what was going on. He seemed to be in someone's apartment. The place would've been nice if it weren't for the fact that whoever was living here clearly hadn't been picking up after themselves in quite some time. And by the look Tony Stark was making as he glanced at the dirty dishes in the sink, it seemed he was thinking the same.

Bob knew the signs before he even saw her. It wasn't just the state of the apartment, but it was the feeling in the air. That feeling of despair, sadness, and nothingness. That feeling of knowing you were alone and there was nothing you could do about it. It clung to everything in the apartment and Bob's heart ached slightly at the sight. After all, he knew what this was like. He knew it too well.

"I can feel you judging me," a voice said, instantly pulling Bob's attention to the couch where a girl was sitting with a blanket wrapped around her and a bottle of vodka in hand. She wouldn't meet Tony Stark's eyes as she stared at the bottle, her fingers numbly fiddling with the label. "I didn't ask for you to come over and judge how I'm living. Hell, I didn't even ask you to come over, so you might as well go."

Tony let out a soft sigh, "Kid, you were ignoring my calls. Of course I was going to come check on you."

"Ever think I ignored them for a reason?"

Tony huffed and grabbed a chair from the kitchen table before dragging it over in front of the couch. He sat down in front of the girl, tilting his head slightly as he watched her before saying, "You can't keep living like this."

"You think I don't know that?" she asked, her voice bitter. “Why are you here, Tony?”

Tony just watched her in silence before saying, "Listen, Steve and Natasha came to see me yesterday and��"

The girl slammed the bottle down on the table so hard Bob thought it would break. Her eyes were red rimmed as she glared at the man and muttered, "No. We're not doing this. You're not going to sit there and try to rope me into some crazy plot to try and bring everyone back. It's been five years and I'm done, okay? I have nothing left in me anymore and I don't give a shit, so just leave."

"Kid—"

"I said leave!" she exclaimed, her eyes beginning to glow white with a power that Bob could almost feel beneath his own skin. "I'm not some sob story for you to try to fix, okay? I messed up and didn't kill Thanos in time and half of the universe had to pay for it. I'm done trying to help. All I ever do is hurt people."

She looked away, her voice rough when she whispered, "You're all better off without me anyways."

Bob sucked in a breath at that, understanding washing over him as he watched the broken girl do everything she could not to cry.

"Y/N," Tony began but the girl simply shook her head.

"No, Tony. I'm done. Just leave and go ahead and do yourself a favor and never come back. It's not worth your time or energy and I sure as hell don't want you here," she said, her head still turned.

Tony stilled slightly at her words. "You don't mean that," he told her, but before he could even blink, Y/N had used her telekinesis to pick up the bottle of vodka and send it hurtling in his direction. The man barely had time to duck out of the way before it flew right past where his head had been and shattered against the wall. Tony turned to her in surprise but the girl was already getting up and walking to the door of what had to be her bedroom.

"I miss him too you know," Tony called after her causing the girl to still.

"Stop," Y/N warned him, but Tony ignored her and instead stood up, his eyes not leaving her as he clearly made no move to leave.

"Y/N, he wouldn't want this for you. That kid loved you so much. He would be devastated by—"

"I said stop!" Y/N yelled and before anyone knew what was happening, a force was suddenly throwing Tony across the room. The man thought fast and his nano suit had wrapped around him before he could even hit the wall and Bob watched as the color drained from Y/N's face at what she had done.

She was shaking as she stared at Tony, but by the time he was looking back up at her, the Iron Man mask sliding away from his face, she was cold once again. "Get the hell out of my apartment," was all she said before turning and walking into her room, slamming the door behind her. Bob watched her go, frowning slightly as the scene began to play again.

"That was before they won against Thanos," a voice said causing Bob to flinch in surprise. He quickly turned around to find Y/N a little ways behind him, sitting down at a chair in the corner of the room. Her eyes continued to watch the scene playing out in front of her and Bob was almost beginning to question if she had spoke in the first place when she muttered, "That was the last time I saw him before he died."

Her eyes met his then and Bob stilled under her gaze. She was a couple of years older than the version of her from the memory, a little more put together but in the kind of way that screamed help more than her younger self's look had. She had learned to mask it more, that much was clear. Or maybe it was just that Bob knew where to look, that he saw himself when he looked at her and knew in more ways than one just how tired she was.

"Who was he talking about?" Bob asked, silently cursing himself for that being the first thing he said but knowing he now had to just go with it. "The guy?"

Y/N hesitated, her eyes glazing over as she got lost in thought. There was a tiny moment of utter sadness that flashed across her face but it was gone so quickly as she muttered, "I don't know." She let out a sad laugh. "Isn't that sad? It's like there's blanks in my memory. All I know is that there is this immense feeling of loss not just once, but twice. Every time I try to think of him it's like the image of him only gets fuzzier."

Bob was silent for a moment. "I have trouble remembering things too," he admitted. "There are these moments where it's like I'll wake up from a dream I don't remember having and that time is just gone."

Y/N's eyes flickered his way, her gaze shifting over him in a way that made him stand up a little straighter. "I walked through a lot of rooms before ending up here," she told him, her eyes still studying him as though she were trying to piece him together. "This was the only one I couldn't leave."

"Why?" Bob questioned.

"Why did you stop in this one?" she retorted and Bob blinked in surprise. Her head tilted slightly as she stared blankly at the boy. It was a moment before she looked away and back at Tony who was watching her past self slam the door shut behind her as the memory started back up again. "I just wanted to see him again, I guess," she whispered. "I always hated this moment, hated that I pushed him away like that and left him to fight Thanos without me. Sometimes I wonder..."

She trailed off before shrugging slightly and looking back at Bob. "Guess I was as shocked by seeing Tony's face as you were when you walked in," Y/N said. Bob barely even thought his question before she placed a finger against her temple and let out a small sigh of exhaustion. "Telekinesis," she stated. "Just a fraction of the power I was born with, but it comes in handy from time to time. I knew who you were the second you walked into this memory. Your mind is very loud, but not in the way you'd expect it to be."

Bob wanted to ask her more, but it was clear she didn't want to expand on that comment. Instead she merely tapped her fingers against the arm of the chair she sat in and said, "So you're the one doing this."

It wasn't a question. She said it as though it were fact. Not that she was wrong, but something about the way she said it still made Bob's throat constrict.

"It's not. . .it's not me. It's—" Bob broke off and he could see the way she stared at him, knew that she was reading his mind. She blinked and quickly looked away. "Sorry," she whispered. "I can't help it sometimes. You lock yourself away long enough and you'll find it harder to control what once was so easy. But I get a sense that you know that."

Bob let out a small sigh, his eyes flickering over the past Y/N who sat on the couch with a haunted look in her eyes and a tight grip on the bottle in her hand.

"We've all done some bad things," Y/N told him, answering the questions flying through his mind. "I had the unfortunate experience of being the reason half the universe died. I was there that day that Thanos went to Wakanda to take the Mind Stone from Vision. I was the last one there before he snapped. I could've stopped it, but I let his words get to me and . . . well, you know the rest."

“The Blip,” Bob muttered and Y/N nodded solemnly. He could see her trying to keep it all together, but the tension was practically radiating off of her as she avoided his gaze.

“Go ahead and say it,” Y/N told him, her gaze locked on her past self who was busy hurling the bottle at Tony’s head. “You probably lost someone in the Blip, right? Had to suffer five years without them? Who was it? Family? Friends?”

Y/N didn’t even give him time to respond as she let out a sigh as if everything were pointless, “It doesn’t matter. Everyone still thinks the same thing, but I don’t blame them.”

“It’s my fault,” she admitted. “I caused everyone so much pain and suffering and then, when I had the chance to make things right, I pushed everyone away and locked myself in my room. Then Natasha died. Then Tony. And eventually Steve followed. And where was I? Drowning my sorrows in a bottle like the asshole that I am.” Y/N scoffed slightly at herself, the fury in her eyes something most people would probably flinch at but all Bob could do was soften at the sight. “So go ahead and say what you want. Call me names. Shout at me. Tell me how much of a monster I am. I deserve it. I’ll always deserve it.”

Bob didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he could say. Not because it was all too much to process, but because he understood it. He understood what she was feeling. The pain and the anger. The guilt and regret. The shame. He understood it in ways he couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

But the silence was loud and Y/N wouldn’t meet his eyes. She just stared at the scene in front of her as her past self’s voice filled the silence between them, her voice rough as she whispered, "You're all better off without me anyways."

Y/N flinched at those words, her face crumbling slightly as she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Bob felt his heart ache at the sight and for a moment, he saw himself sitting there in that chair. But more importantly, he saw her. He saw Y/N for who she truly was. He didn’t know what to say to her to make her better, so instead he just thought it.

I see you.

Y/N's eyes snapped up to him and Bob knew he hadn't had to say that out loud. She had heard him loud and clear.

She stood without another word, her eyes never leaving his as she walked towards him. She was quiet as she stopped in front of him, her gaze turning questioning as she studied him.

You do see me, don't you?

Bob let out a small gasp as her voice echoed in his head. He stared at her with wide eyes, but didn't flinch away not even when she took a step closer so that they were only a breath apart.

I can feel it, you know? That darkness. It calls to me.

"You know where he is?" Bob asked and Y/N quickly shook her head.

"I'm not talking about the Void," she whispered. She gently lifted her hand and placed it on his chest, right above his heart. "Here."

Bob's breath stuttered and he tried to keep his heart from racing as he whispered, "W-what does it say?"

"That it understands," Y/N replied. "That it sees what’s inside my own heart.” She hesitated before giving him a sad smile. “Like calls to like after all."

Bob stared at her, his eyes flickering over her face. He had thought she was pretty before, but up close she was even more beautiful than he could’ve imagined. Her eyebrow quirked slightly as if she had heard that thought and maybe she had, but Y/N was already moving on which he was silently thankful about.

“You feel it too,” she said and Bob didn’t need to say it out loud to confirm her thoughts. After all, he knew what she was talking about and she was right. Ever since he had emerged into this room, he had felt a sort of tug. It was the reason he had stayed. He thought it was because of seeing Tony Stark, but it was because he had felt her from the moment he had stepped foot into that room.

It was because he had seen her before ever laying eyes on her and it seemed she had done the same.

“I don’t know what to do,” Bob admitted, his words strained. “Every time I think I’m getting better, that I’ve finally pulled myself out of that darkness, I just. . .”

“Get pulled back under again?”

Bob was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor as that same feeling of shame that always crept up when he thought about his problems beginning to rise in the form of a blush on his neck, “Yeah.”

There was a gentle touch against his chin before Y/N lifted his head so that his gaze met hers once more. Her touched lingered for just a moment, but then her hand was dropping back down to her side. Not once did she move the one that was still resting on his chest and above his heart, the only source of comfort either of them seemed to need.

She gave him a sad smile, her eyes getting a sort of far off look as she whispered, “Sometimes the hardest battle you’ll ever face is with yourself.”

Bob felt tears prick his eyes at those words and for a moment, he even felt a sense of comfort. Someone knew what he was going through. Someone understood.

He had never had that before.

“How do we beat it?” Bob’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Y/N seemed to come back to herself at those words, her eyes locking with his once more and her hand tightened on his shirt. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’d like to figure that out. Together.”

Bob swore he stopped breathing at those words.

“Together,” he repeated, tears filling his eyes slightly out of disbelief.

Y/N merely nodded and she gently reached up, her thumb quickly swiping under his eye to brush away a stray tear that had fallen. Her own eyes were lined with tears as she whispered through a soft laugh, “Yeah, together. As long as you’re okay with being friends with the girl who does nothing but screw everything up.”

Bob couldn’t stop the small grin that began to peak out, the corners of his lips twitching up slightly as he opened his mouth to respond.

It was then that the doors to the room flew open, darkness flooding in and covering the walls and floors with black tendrils as it raced towards the two. The two stumbled back and away from each other as they tried to avoid the darkness creeping in and Y/N let out a small shout when her past self and Tony dissolved into nothing but shadows.

“Bob,” Y/N called out, but the boy was already reaching for her. He had ahold of her arm within a second and he pulled her to the one corner of the room not covered in darkness just yet.

His eyes were wide as he scanned what was left of the room, his grip tightening on Y/N’s arm in slight panic and confusion as he tried to process what was happening.

The darkness had never come after Bob before.

Not like this.

Something had signaled the Void. Something had scared him.

Bob’s eyes flickered to Y/N who was leaning into his touch, the tips of her fingers already beginning to glow white as she clearly analyzed the situation. His fingers felt warm against her forearm and for a moment he let himself remember the feel of her hand on his chest, the way her breath had fanned his face, and the way her words had wrapped around his heart like a hug he hadn't know he had needed.

And he knew.

The Void fed off of his sadness and loneliness and whatever Y/N had been making him feel was the opposite. The Void would do whatever he needed to crush this feeling, to stay in control. Even if it meant there were casualties along the way.

Bob’s heart ached at that thought and he quickly turned to Y/N who was backing closer to him as they were pushed further into the corner of the room and her memory. She moved her arm out of his grasp in order to hold her hands up, a white light emitting out against the darkness as she tried to hold it at bay.

"Bob, what's going on?" she asked. "What do we do?"

"I—" Bob was panicking now, the thought of Y/N getting hurt making him feel so many emotions that he hadn't felt in a long time. It scared him how much he felt towards the girl within just one conversation. He already knew he would do whatever needed to be done to save her and that thought alone scared him in more ways than one. Even more than the plan that was beginning to develop in his head, the plan that would save Y/N but would mean leaving her at the same time.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Y/N's head whipped in his direction. "Bob, no. You can't run. You have to fight this thing. If you don't, the darkness will only continue to consume you," she said.

"Cause you know what that's like?" Bob retorted, his panic and fear making him sound bitter. "We just watched the same memory over and over of you letting the darkness take over. If you can't fight it, what makes you think I can?"

Y/N's eyes softened slightly. "Bob," she started, but the darkness pushed closer towards them and she let out a strangled sound as she strained to keep her powers in check.

Bob watched her for a second, his eyes flickering over her one last time before he leaned forward. His lips brushed gently against her ear and he felt her shiver slightly under his touch. His breath came out shaky as he whispered, "I would've liked to be your friend."

Then, before she could do or say anything else, Bob had pulled back and thrown himself against the wall of the memory. His body broke through the barrier and into the next room, the darkness leaving Y/N behind in favor of chasing the boy.

"Bob!" Y/N cried out as she attempted to lunge after him, but the darkness threw her back and by the time she was up on her feet again, the memory had sealed itself around her, forcing her to relive the same moment with Tony while Bob got away.

- - -

Bob didn’t know how long he ran for. All he knew was that it took forever for him to get back to his own rooms. He almost cried when the meth chicken scene appeared before him, but he didn’t stop there. He continued his trek even after the darkness eventually faded away, now satisfied that Bob was back where he belonged.

Everything was just too loud, the memories too much for Bob to withstand while that feeling of utter loneliness crept up on him once more. It was foolish of him to think he could ever have someone understand him, that he could ever have someone in his life without hurting them in the end. He had done this to himself.

He deserved to be alone.

At some point Bob eventually managed to find the attic of one of his memories, the only quiet place in this miserable void, and he was quick to tuck himself away in there, away from all the noise and the darkness that he could feel feeding off of everyone's chaos.

It was only then that he sat down and curled in on himself, his breathing shaky as he tried to push every last thought of Y/N out of his head.

"She's better off without me," Bob whispered to himself like a mantra, his head tucked close to his knees as he let the stillness envelope him in a hug much different than the one Y/N’s words had given him. “She’s better off without me.”

“Everyone is.”

[anhedoniawrites]

all those dreams where you’re my wife

gif by @reidgif

inside your mind - the 1975

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader

summary: coming down from the highs of sex, Spencer and Reader talk about his brain and its thoughts.

genre: fluff & angst

word count: 2.1K

warnings: no use of y/n, proofread, this is an old piece of writing.

masterlist!

Panting softly, your breath mingled with his, your chest rising and falling in tandem with Spencer’s. Your body felt weightless, the afterglow of your shared passion wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Sweat clung to your skin, and the soft hum of his heartbeat echoed in your ear where your head rested against his shoulder. The intimacy of the moment felt sacred, a shared silence that spoke volumes without words.

Spencer was unusually quiet. Not that his silence was uncommon—he often retreated into his mind after moments like this, his thoughts working in overdrive as if the endorphins had unlocked new pathways in his brilliant brain. He’d once explained to you that post-coital clarity often helped him connect dots he’d never considered before. You’d always found it endearing, a quirk that made him uniquely Spencer.

But tonight, something was different. His quiet wasn’t contemplative—it felt heavier, like the weight of his thoughts pressed down on both of you. You couldn’t help but notice the way his fingers hesitated as they traced lazy circles on your back, the way his chest rose with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world.

“What’s wrong, handsome?” you murmured softly, lifting your head just enough to meet his gaze. His chin, which had been resting lightly against the crown of your head, shifted as he tilted his face toward you. His eyes, usually warm and filled with an endless stream of curiosity, now held a flicker of something else—something guarded.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just looked at you, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as if he were weighing his words. You could see the gears turning in his mind, the way he struggled to reconcile his thoughts with the honesty that had always been the cornerstone of your relationship.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” he said finally, his voice soft but unconvincing.

It was a lie—a glaring, obvious lie. Spencer was many things: a genius, a profiler, a man who could recall entire books word for word. But a liar? Never. You knew him too well, knew the way his eyes darted away for just a fraction of a second when he was trying to mask the truth. He knew you knew, too, which made his attempt at deception almost endearing.

You propped yourself up on your elbow, your fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his damp forehead. “Spence,” you said gently, your tone a mix of affection and concern. “You’re a lot of things, but a good liar isn’t one of them. Talk to me.”

His lips parted as if to protest, but the words caught in his throat. He sighed again, this one deeper, as though the act of holding everything inside was physically exhausting. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Complicated doesn’t scare me,” you replied, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple.

He let out a breath, his gaze darting away for a moment before returning to yours. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost fragile. “It’s just… I don’t know how to explain it.”

You frowned, leaning closer. “Try me,” you said softly. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just tell me what you’re feeling.”

His hand moved softly, almost reverently, to the back of your head. His fingers threaded through your hair with a gentleness that sent shivers down your spine, pausing now and then as though he were mapping the curve of your skull. There was something purposeful in the way he touched you, something that felt more like exploration than comfort.

“I wish I could know you the way you know yourself,” he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful. His fingers continued their journey, tracing invisible patterns that only he could see. “I want to be able to have your brain all laid out in front of me, every thought, every memory, every piece of you.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, his voice soft but steady as he continued, almost to himself. “The back of your head is at the front of my mind.”

He fell silent for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as if trying to untangle the thoughts swirling in his mind. His hand didn’t stop moving, the gentle rhythm of his touch grounding both of you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

After a long pause, he spoke again, his voice tinged with hesitation. “Sometimes, when you’re asleep, I’ll just… watch you breathe.” His eyes flickered toward you, searching your face as though bracing for judgment, but his hand never faltered.

“I’ll watch the way your breathing slows, the way it evens out. It’s like… proof. Proof that you’re real, that you’re here with me. And then I start to wonder…” His voice trailed off, but the weight of his thoughts lingered in the air.

His fingers stilled briefly before resuming their gentle path, tracing the base of your skull as though it held the answers he was searching for. “I wonder what you’re dreaming about,” he continued, his voice softer now, almost fragile. “I wonder if you dream of me, or of the things you love, or the things you want in life. And I can’t help but think about how much I want to know every part of you. What makes you happy, what makes you sad, what you think about when no one’s watching.”

His other hand came to rest on your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. His gaze was intense, those wide, earnest eyes searching yours for understanding. There was no shame in his vulnerability, only a raw, unfiltered need to be known and to know you in return.

“I don’t want to miss anything,” he admitted, his voice trembling slightly. “You’re the most important person in my life, and sometimes it terrifies me how much I feel for you. Like… like I’ll never be able to express it the way I want to.”

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. His hand lingered on your cheek, the other still cradling the back of your head as though he could hold your thoughts in his palm.

He let out a soft, shaky breath, his forehead lowering until it rested against yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, the words almost too quiet to hear.

For a moment, he stayed like that, his eyes closed, his breathing syncing with yours. His hands stayed gentle, as though he were afraid of breaking the moment. And then he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you with a desperation that spoke of a love too big for words.

In the quiet that followed, his touch said everything he couldn’t, and you let it.

In the gentle quiet of the room, Spencer’s voice broke through like a fragile thread, hesitant yet determined. “I mainly watch you sleep because I’m terrified of my mind,” he admitted, his tone a mix of vulnerability and unease. He hesitated, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of the blanket as if debating whether to pull the veil back on his inner torment.

His gaze dropped to the floor, his breath catching slightly as he continued. “When I sleep…” he started, the words trembling on the edge of his lips. “I dream that you’ve been taken. It’s always the same. I’m helpless, paralyzed—every step I take feels like wading through quicksand, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t reach you.”

His voice grew quieter, a raw edge creeping into it, but he forced himself to keep going. “By the time I finally get to you, it’s too late. You’re lying there…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, as though the very memory of the dream clawed at his throat. “You’re lying on the ground in a pool of your own blood. And the only thing I can see, the thing that haunts me even after I wake up, is the ring on your finger.” The room seemed to close in on you, the silence heavy and suffocating. You didn’t know what to say, how to respond to such a confession. You’d never talked about marriage—not explicitly, at least—but there had always been an unspoken understanding between you two. You both wanted it, you both felt it in your bones, but life had never given you the time to explore that possibility.

But hearing Spencer speak of the ring, of the symbol of everything you meant to him, in such a terrifying, haunting context—it shook you. The dream wasn’t just about losing you; it was about him failing you. About the one thing that represented his commitment, his love for you, now twisted into something horrific, something he couldn’t escape.

Your mind raced, trying to process the weight of his words, the depth of his fear. You could see it now—the desperation in his eyes, the vulnerability in the way he held himself. Spencer was afraid. Afraid of losing you, fearful of not being able to protect you.

In that moment, the love between you felt both fragile and immense. You reached out to him, your hand finding his, the warmth of your touch grounding him in the storm of his emotions. You didn’t need to say anything—he already knew how much you cared. But still, you squeezed his hand, hoping to convey everything that words couldn’t.

Spencer finally looked up, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “It’s supposed to be a symbol of everything good, everything I’ve ever wanted to give you. But in that moment, it feels like a mockery—a cruel reminder that I couldn’t protect you. That I failed you.”

The room fell silent, his words lingering in the air like a fragile echo. He looked at you then, his gaze pleading for understanding, for some assurance that the horrors of his subconscious didn’t define him.

“Spencer Reid, you could never fail me, not ever. Don’t ever think that,” you said softly, your voice steady but full of the weight of everything you felt. Your hands found their way to his face, cupping his cheeks gently, guiding his gaze to meet yours. You could see the self-doubt in his eyes, the fear that had taken root there, and it made your heart ache.

He opened his mouth to protest, but you pressed your forehead against his, a silent plea for him to hear you, to understand. “You’ve given me so much in this life, Spencer,” you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, but every word carried the depth of your emotions. “So much that I never thought I deserved, but you showed me that I do. You showed me that I’m worthy of love, of happiness. That I’m worthy of you.”

You could feel the weight of your words sink in as Spencer’s breath caught, his eyes flickering with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude. It wasn’t just the love you had for him—it was everything he had done for you, everything he had helped you realize about yourself.

You gently pulled one of your hands away from his face, your fingers trembling slightly as you reached for his hand, placing it over your chest, just above your heart. “This…” you said, your voice catching in your throat as you pressed his hand against the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. “This is because of you. Every beat, every breath—it’s because of the love you’ve given me. You make me feel alive in a way I never thought was possible.”

Spencer’s eyes softened, his gaze dropping to where his hand rested against your chest. The quiet intensity of the moment wrapped around both of you, and you could feel the weight of everything he was carrying—the fear, the guilt, the love—and you wanted to lift it off him, even if only for a moment.

You leaned in slowly, your lips brushing against his forehead in a soft, lingering kiss, a silent promise that you were there, that you always would be. Then, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes, you whispered, “Spencer, you don’t ever need to worry about failing me. You’re everything I’ve ever needed. And I’ll never let you forget that.”

Spencer’s eyes fluttered closed, and without thinking, he leaned in to kiss you, his lips gentle against yours, a kiss that spoke of gratitude and love, a kiss that grounded you both in the present moment. When he pulled back, you couldn’t help but smile, brushing your thumb lightly over his cheek.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. And before you could respond, you kissed him again, this time deeper, letting the weight of everything you had just shared hang in the air between you like a promise, unspoken but undeniable.

thank you for reading!

please like & reblog if you enjoyed!

masterlist!

taglist! @pleasantwitchgarden

[allthatjazz416]

Ushijima NSFW 💎

"Soft Spot" an Ushijima TIMESKIP fic Tags: Fem!Reader! Post-game sex! Needy!Ushi! Switch!Ushi! SoftDom!Ushi! PussyWorship! Fingering! Oral (f. receiving)! Creampie! Intimate! SlowSex! BodyWorship! CouchSex! Aftercare! Word Count: 4.1k Note: MY MAN! 🫶 This was supposed to be fluff just rotting in my drafts but then I turned it into smut so yeah. YAY! MORE SMUT ON THIS BLOG igs! I love him so much!

The door shuts behind him with a soft click.

You don’t even have to look up from your spot on the couch to know it’s him. There’s a particular way Ushijima Wakatoshi walks—purposeful, steady, solid like he’s always got the weight of a team riding on his shoulders. And maybe he does. Being one of Japan’s top players isn’t easy on the body—or the heart.

But here, at home, he isn’t the stoic powerhouse that people see on TV. Here, he’s yours.

“Hi, baby,” you call gently, peeking over the blanket draped over your legs.

He’s already walking toward you, gym bag half-zipped, hair damp from a quick rinse at the stadium. He looks tired, like the pressure’s still clinging to his skin.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and soft.

You shift the blanket open in invitation. That’s all it takes.

Without another word, Ushijima drops his bag by the door and crosses the room with long, quiet strides. He peels off his hoodie, revealing the familiar contours of his strong frame—broad shoulders, lean muscle, arms that have caught a thousand spikes. Arms that now wrap around you like you're his entire world.

He practically melts into you.

All 90kg of pro athlete presses into your side until you're half lying down, half holding him up. You shift, letting him climb fully onto the couch with you, until you’re lying back and he’s resting on top of you, head tucked against your neck, breath warm against your collarbone. You swear he lets out the softest sigh—like he’s been holding it in all day.

“Tough match?” you murmur, threading your fingers into his hair. It’s soft from the shower, still damp in places.

He shakes his head slowly. “We won.”

You smile. “That’s good.”

He hums. But something’s still off.

You brush your fingers down the slope of his back, feeling tension coiled there. “What’s wrong, Toshi?”

He’s quiet. Then, in that same blunt, painfully honest tone he always uses—on court, in press interviews, and apparently now with his face buried in your chest—he says

“I missed you.”

Your heart clenches.

You curl your arms tighter around him. “You’re here now.”

His voice comes again, muffled. “I don’t like being away from you. It makes my chest feel... strange. Empty.”

God. This big, serious man. Always so composed, so exact with his words. And yet, here he is—clinging to you like something fragile.

“You’re allowed to feel that way,” you whisper, kissing the top of his head. “Even aces need to be babied sometimes.”

He huffs. “I’m not a baby.”

You glance down. He’s pouting. Pouting. It’s faint, but it’s there.

“No, of course not,” you tease, brushing your nose against his temple. “You’re my big, strong, six-foot-three husband who needs forehead kisses when he gets overwhelmed.”

“…Yes.”

You laugh, heart full.

You kiss him right on the forehead.

And then again, when he nuzzles impossibly closer, when his hand slides beneath your shirt just to feel your skin, grounding himself in you.

He doesn’t need to say anything else. You feel it in the way he breathes easier with every passing second, how the tension leaks from his body the longer he stays in your arms.

To the world, Ushijima Wakatoshi is composed. Cold. Unshakable.

But here, in your arms, he’s just your man.

And he’s never felt safer.

It’s quiet for a long time.

Ushijima doesn’t move much. He just lays on top of you, resting all that heavy strength like he trusts you to carry the weight he can’t speak aloud. And you do. You always will.

Your fingers keep working through his hair, gentle and repetitive. It’s the only motion in the room, besides his slow breathing against your skin.

You whisper soft things sometimes. Nothing important. Just little reassurances.

“I love you, you know.”

His arm tightens around your waist.

“You did good today. You always do.”

Another breath.

“I’m proud of you, even when you don’t say anything. Especially then.”

There’s a pause. Then—

“I like it when you talk like that,” he admits. Quiet. Honest. Voice a little rough.

You smile, tilting your head so your lips brush against his hair. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t have to think as much when you talk.”

Your heart tugs.

“I’ll talk all night, if it helps.”

“…It does.”

And maybe it’s the softness of the moment. Or the way he’s breathing against your neck—slow, then shallower. The subtle shift in his hips. The warm palm stroking just under your ribs like it’s second nature.

But something stirs.

Your hand drifts from his hair to the nape of his neck. Down, over the ridge of his spine. You press your palm to the small of his back and hold him flush to you.

You feel it. The twitch.

Just the slightest grind of his hips—barely a shift, but unmistakable.

His breath stutters.

You smile lazily. “Toshi.”

“…Yes?”

“You’re hard.”

He stiffens. And for once, he doesn’t have a clear answer. You hear him swallow.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts.

You cut him off, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt to feel the bare skin of his back. “I know. It’s okay.”

He pulls back just slightly, so he can look at you. His eyes search yours—deep green and open in a way that no one else ever gets to see. You feel him breathe, heavy and warm, and his voice comes a little lower now.

“May I…?”

You don’t even let him finish.

You lean up and kiss him. Slow. Deep. One hand cradling the back of his neck while the other drifts lower, sliding down the ridge of his spine to rest over his ass. He groans softly into your mouth, and it’s like something clicks—like he finally gives himself permission to want.

His hips roll into yours, firmer this time.

You let out a breathy moan, caught off guard by how needy he suddenly feels. How desperate. Like holding it in all day has built into something molten.

“You want me, baby?” you whisper against his lips.

He nods. His voice is tight when he answers. “I want to feel you. All of you.”

Your hand slides up the back of his shirt, slowly dragging it over his skin. He helps you pull it off, tossing it to the side, his chest rising and falling fast. You press soft kisses to his collarbone, his neck, the side of his jaw.

“You can have me,” you murmur. “Come on, get comfortable.”

He shifts above you, big hands trembling slightly as they slide beneath your shirt now, and you raise your arms for him, letting him peel it away. His eyes drink you in—every soft, warm inch of you—and when he leans down to kiss your chest, it’s so gentle it almost breaks you.

His touch is reverent. Careful.

Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You run your hands down his back, nails dragging lightly, and he shudders—his hips grinding instinctively into the heat between your legs. You gasp, clinging to him, and he freezes like he’s done something wrong.

“Again,” you breathe. “Do that again.”

And when he does—when he ruts slow and deep into you, fully clothed, grinding his thick cock against your panties like he’s trying to merge with you—you hear the smallest sound fall from his throat. 

A whimper.

God, it goes straight to your core.

You cup his cheek and whisper, “That’s it, baby. Just let go.”

His jaw tenses, nostrils flaring. For a moment, he just looks at you—like you’ve undone something in him he can’t put back.

Then, slowly, Ushijima leans down and kisses you again. Slower this time. Lingering. One big hand slides under your thigh, spreading you wider, until you're cradled beneath him completely—held in place like you’re the softest thing in the world.

“I want to taste you,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your jaw.

You blink. “Wha—Toshi—”

“I need to.” He’s already moving, already shifting down your body with purpose, lips kissing down your sternum, your belly. “Please.”

He rarely asks for things. Never begs. But there’s a tension in his voice like he’s starving for you.

Your legs part instinctively when his fingers hook your panties, dragging them down slow enough to make your breath hitch. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t even touch you right away—just stares for a second, jaw clenching like he’s trying to burn the image of your dripping cunt into his memory.

“You’re wet,” he says, leaning in to kiss your mound then your clit

“I told you,” you breathe. “You grind on me like that, I’m soaked.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, blown wide and dark. “I love you so much…”

But his voice trails off because his mouth is already moving—already licking a slow, deliberate stripe up the center of your folds—your back arches.

“Oh my god—Toshi—!”

He groans. The sound vibrates straight through you.

His grip tightens on your hips as he locks you down, big hands sliding under your ass to tilt your cunt up toward his mouth. His tongue moves with almost painful control—slow licks, teasing circles, tasting every inch like he’s learning you. Worshipping you.

You reach for his hair, panting. “Toshi, honey…”

“You’re soft here,” he murmurs against you, nosing through your folds. “And here.”

Your thighs try to close around his head, but he presses them apart again—firm and gentle. “Don’t hide from me.”

He says it like it’s a request, but he means it. He’s not going anywhere.

And then—God—his tongue flicks your clit, careful at first, then firmer, and your legs shake.

“You taste so good,” he mutters between licks. “I want you to come like this.”

His voice is low, hoarse with need, and every word is followed by more of his mouth—sucking softly, lapping hungrily. He starts moaning into you when you start grinding back, like your pleasure is turning him on even more than your body.

You start to roll your hips against his mouth, slow and needy, and the second you do, he lets out a noise. Something low and guttural, like it shocks even him.

“You like that?” you breathe.

His answer is to pull you closer—grip firm, head tilting for a better angle—like he’s lost the ability to speak. And really, he has. There’s nothing in the world for him right now but the taste of you.

His tongue starts working tighter circles, flicking up and over your clit with maddening precision. He’s so fucking focused. You can feel it in every stroke. Not just hunger. Devotion.

Your head falls back. “Oh—fuck—Toshi…”

He groans again—loudly—like your voice is feeding him. You glance down and see him rutting into the couch, hips grinding down like he can’t help it. His cock is straining in his pants, swollen and twitching, and he’s not even touching it.

God. He’s getting off just from eating you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, thighs shaking. “You’re gonna make me—Toshi, I’m so close—”

But he doesn’t let up. His tongue gets firmer, lips sucking greedily, and suddenly there’s a finger—his thick finger—sliding through your slick folds, pressing slow and deep into you while his mouth stays locked on your clit.

Your back bows.

Your breath catches, and then you’re crying out—loud and unfiltered—coming so hard your thighs clamp around his head without permission.

He groans into your cunt like he’s the one falling apart.

You’re trembling, fingers twisted in his hair, trying to breathe as the aftershocks roll through you—but he’s not done.

Not even close.

His head lifts for just a second, lips glossy, chin wet, pupils blown. “One more.”

“T-Toshi—wait—”

“One more,” he repeats, kissing the inside of your thigh as he slides another thick finger in beside the first, stretching you wider, slow and deliberate. “Let me make you feel good again.”

His voice is so quiet. So gentle. But his fingers start fucking into you steadily, his other hand coming up so he can rub slow, careful circles over your clit with his thumb—watching your face like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

You’re gasping. Writhing. All thought slipping away.

“I love how you fall apart,” he breathes. “How warm you feel. How sweet.”

And then—just when your body’s coiled tight again, hips canting to meet every thrust—he leans in, brushing his lips over your inner thigh, kissing the skin softly like he’s trying to soothe the ache he’s building.

You try to catch your breath—limbs still twitching, brain still foggy from the first high—but Ushijima isn’t satisfied. Not even close.

His mouth glistens. His hair’s a mess. His chest is heaving.

And his eyes?

God. His eyes are starving.

“One more,” he says again, soft and sure, like he’s promising something sacred. His voice cracks just slightly—“please��—but his fingers are already moving.

You don’t resist. You couldn’t even if you tried.

The stretch makes your mouth fall open—so full, that its so good—and you let out a noise that doesn’t even sound like you.

He groans like it turns him on more than anything else he’s ever heard.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, watching the way your walls clench around his fingers. “So fucking tight…”

He loves watching you squirm, so he pushes his fingers deeper, while letting the rhythm build. Making you whine, legs twitching, and his lips part like he wants to taste the sound.

“You’re still sensitive,” he says, like it’s a fact. Like it’s precious. “But I know you can take more.”

You moan, helpless, rolling your hips up against his hand.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his pace steady, precise. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

His fingers crook just right, pressing against that perfect spot, and you see stars. Your head falls back against the couch cushion, chest rising in frantic waves as the pleasure starts to build again—hotter this time, deeper.

“T-Toshi—fuck—”

He leans in again, lips brushing just above your mound now, so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

“Don’t hold back,” he whispers. “I want all of it.”

You don’t even get a chance to catch the words fully before he drops his head again—devours you like a man driven by instinct alone. Not desperate. Just… determined. Worshipful.

His tongue flicks quick little circles around your clit, every motion in sync with the firm pump of his fingers inside you. He’s so good at this—so methodical, so unshakably present, like he could spend all night buried between your legs and never tire of it.

You cry out, hips lifting to meet his mouth, but he pins you down with one big arm thrown across your stomach. Holding you in place. Keeping you spread.

“So sweet,” he mutters against your cunt, so low and hoarse it vibrates straight through you. “I want to stay here forever.”

You moan. Loud. Unfiltered.

His mouth closes over your clit again—this time sucking. Gentle at first, then sharper. Just enough to send a ripple of pure heat through your core.

You arch off the couch. “Oh my god, Toshi—fuck—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. He can’t. His whole body is moving with you now, like he’s syncing himself to your rhythm, adjusting every lick and pump to chase the edge he knows you’re hovering on.

Your hands fly to his hair, anchoring there. He groans when you tug. Louder when you grind.

“You’re so good,” you pant, dizzy with need. “You’re so fucking good at this—Toshi—Toshi—I’m cumming—”

It slams into you like a wave. Hot, blinding, sudden. You scream his name—unfiltered and raw—and your whole body shakes, thighs clamping around his ears as you come harder than before. Maybe harder than you ever have.

He moans into it. Doesn’t move, doesn’t ease up. Just keeps working you through it like he’s addicted to your orgasm.

You gush. Soaked. Boneless.

And he drinks it in like it’s all he’s ever wanted.

You’re still trembling. Still split wide open, body wrecked and twitching.

But all you can say is “Fuck.”

he stays between your legs like he’s savoring the aftermath—kissing your inner thigh, licking softly through your folds like he wants to clean every drop himself.

Your breath is broken. Your body limp. But your heart is full—aching, blooming, beating so fast it almost hurts.

When he finally pulls back, you see it his mouth flushed and wet, chin slick, eyes darker than dusk. His chest is heaving like he’s just sprinted ten miles, and his hands are still gripping your thighs.

“Can I make love to you now?” he asks.

You nod. Barely more than a twitch of your head, but it’s enough.

Ushijima doesn’t wait for anything else.

He moves fast—still controlled, but burning with purpose—his hand goes to his waistband, dragging his sweatpants and briefs down in one swift movement.

His cock springs free—hard, flushed, glistening with precum. It’s thick and heavy, the head angry-red and already leaking against his abs.

You can’t help the way your breath stutters. The way your thighs instinctively twitch open wider.

He leans over you, bracketing your hips with his own, and lines himself up without ceremony. One big hand curls around the back of your knee, pushing your leg up as he rolls his hips forward—just enough to tease the tip through your folds.

You whimper at the contact—so sensitive, so open—and he groans at the sound, deep and guttural.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice low. “So beautiful.”

Then he shifts—bends lower—bringing his chest flush to yours, bracing one forearm beside your head as his nose brushes along your cheek.

And then he pushes in.

Slow. Unyielding.

You feel every inch of him stretch you open—thick and hot, dragging against your walls like he’s meant to fit there. You suck in a breath, hands flying to his shoulders as he sinks deeper, deeper, until he bottoms out with a quiet curse.

Your back arches. His name leaves your lips in a desperate gasp.

“Shit—Toshi—”

He stays still for just a second, breathing hard against your skin, letting you feel all of him. Letting you adjust.

“You’re taking me so well,” he rasps, voice thick, reverent. “So fucking good for me.”

And then he starts to move.

Slow thrusts at first. Deep. Measured. Each one deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel wrapped around him.

You cling to him, body pliant, every roll of his hips making you feel fuller, closer, burning deeper.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss—unhurried, open, all tongue and breath. He moans into it, swallowing your whimpers like they feed something feral in him. Like you’re giving him everything he’s ever wanted.

“You feel incredible,” he murmurs against your lips. “So warm… so soft…”

He trails kisses down your cheek, across your jaw, to the hollow of your throat. Every press of his lips is tender, almost worshipful.

“I could stay inside you forever,” he breathes. “Just like this. Wrapped in you. Drenched in you.”

You whine—high, helpless—and your hips buck up to meet him, greedy for more. He groans at the squeeze of your walls, then shifts just slightly, angling his thrusts—

And fuck.

He hits there. That perfect spot that makes your breath catch and your thighs twitch.

“That’s it,” he pants, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Right there. You feel that?”

You nod, but it’s shaky, broken—your voice lost somewhere in the haze of heat curling low in your belly. He rolls his hips again, deeper, and your mouth falls open in a soft cry.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, he presses in closer—his chest flush to yours, heartbeat pounding hard enough you feel it echo against your ribs.

He’s everywhere. All of him—his hands, his voice, his body—wrapped around you, inside you, like you were made to take him.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs into your skin. “So fucking perfect…”

He kisses you again—slower this time, lips dragging sweet and messy over yours as his hips move in a steady rhythm. You taste your own breath between kisses. Feel his tongue sweep your bottom lip. His hand slides up your side, strong and steady, fingers spreading wide to anchor at your ribs.

And the way he holds you—it’s not just control. It’s need. Like he wants to memorize you with his palms.

Every thrust sinks in deeper, more purposeful, every drag of his cock brushing right against that tender, aching spot inside you. You whine into his mouth, clinging to him like you’ll fly apart without him holding you together.

“You take me so well,” he breathes, lips brushing your cheek. “Feel so good—like you’re made for me.”

“T-Toshi—” you gasp, but your voice warbles, overwhelmed by the slow build. “Feels so good, I—fuck—”

He shushes you with a kiss. “I know,” he whispers. “I know, baby… I’ve got you.”

And he does.

He rocks into you with a pace that’s steady but unrelenting, pulling pleasure from you like it’s something sacred. His body pressed tight to yours, the heat of him seeping into your skin, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs your name like a prayer.

You’re melting under him. Quivering. Pleasure licking hot and heavy through your veins, winding tighter with every thrust.

“I’m close,” you whisper, almost in disbelief. “I’m—Toshi—I’m gonna—”

“I want to feel you,” he groans, voice wrecked and thick. “Come for me. Please.”

He angles his hips again, fucks up into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, and your orgasm hits—sharp and shuddering, tearing through you like a lightning bolt.

Your mouth drops open in a silent scream. Your back arches, your walls clamp down around him—and Wakatoshi moans as he buries himself deep, holding you through it.

“Fuck—just like that—”

You don’t stop shaking. The aftershocks roll through you, wave after wave, until your fingers go slack on his shoulders and your head falls back, dazed and flushed.

But he’s still moving—less rhythm now, more desperation.

His mouth crashes to yours again—hot and messy, all tongue and teeth—as he chases his own high. You feel his cock twitch inside you, his thrusts turning erratic, hips stuttering as his whole body goes tight.

And then—with a broken groan of your name—he spills into you, thick and hot, hips jerking one last time as he comes hard, buried as deep as he can go.

The only sound in the room is your shared breathing. Heavy. Shaky. Real.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just collapses over you gently, his arms bracketing your head, his weight solid and grounding.

For a moment, there’s nothing but his heartbeat against your chest.

And then he kisses your temple. Soft. Barely there.

“I love you,” he murmurs, like a truth he’s been carrying for years.

You smile, even if you’re too spent to say it back right away. Your body’s limp beneath him—boneless, blissed out—but your heart’s still racing, full to the brim.

He doesn’t move far. Just shifts slightly, careful not to crush you, his forearm still beside your head as he presses another kiss to your cheek. Then another—your jaw, your nose, the corner of your mouth—each one a little firmer, a little more lingering than the last.

“Toshi,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed.

He hums like he didn’t hear. Or like he doesn’t care. Just keeps kissing you—your collarbone, your shoulder, your chest—lazy and warm, lips brushing every inch of skin he can reach like he’s mapping you in reverence.

You giggle softly, body twitching under him. “You’re insatiable.”

“I’m thorough,” he replies, deadpan—but there’s a faint curve to his lips, a telltale spark of amusement in his voice.

You roll your head toward him, eyes heavy, hand lifting to cup his cheek. “You’re sweet.”

He kisses your palm.

“You’re mine,” he says simply, and the way he says it makes your heart clench all over again.

Then he finally lifts himself—just enough to reach for the throw blanket behind you on the couch. He tucks it over your bodies with practiced care, one arm sliding back beneath your head like a pillow, the other curled around your waist, pulling you close.

You let out a sleepy sigh, face tucked into his chest, still flushed and sticky and a little overwhelmed.

And Wakatoshi?

He just holds you like you’re the only thing he’ll ever need again.

divider crdts: @/cursed-carmine (bow ↑) @/anitalenia (banners under Ushi pic) @/arminsumi (mdni banner up)

[undyingdecay]

had to go on anon because im toooooooo embarrassed but like hear me out on a piss kink with bob

idk what ur limits r but if it makes u uncomfy don't write it, btw im in love with ur writing ALSO do u take anon claims?

(i already answer an ask about my limits, but basically i’ll write anything (usually) whether i personally am into the kink or not—on the occasion i may say no. i do take anon claims i just haven’t made a post yet!)

it comes accidental, in the way most things between you and bob do — without thought, without announcement, like some clumsy aftershock in the middle of a quiet, half-lived day.

you’ve been laid up in bed for hours now. ever since the early morning briefing where val had barked orders and tasky had rolled his eyes behind her back, neither you nor bob had found it in yourselves to do much more than crawl beneath the blankets after. the windows had started leaking rain somewhere around noon, thin streaks against the glass like veins, and the television had been droning on with reruns of friends, though neither of you had been watching.

what did it matter? everything smelled of rain and old wood and the faint, acrid scent of bob’s cum drying between your thighs — sticking, clinging in a way that made your skin crawl and ache both at once. a brand, a badge, a claim. it was disgusting, and it was yours.

peace had a way of stretching thin around bob.

he was a restless thing, even at his gentlest. you’d learned that months ago — that the same man who could tear a man’s skull in half like wet paper could also cling like a fevered child in the aftermath. and now, here he was, mouth latched lazily to your breast, suckling like some pathetic animal that had long forgotten what it meant to feed and only remembered the comfort of the act.

the wet, rhythmic sound of it filled the otherwise quiet room. the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the weight of his arm slung heavy around your middle. his hair smelled like cheap coconut shampoo, still damp at the roots, strands sticking to his cheek where his face was pressed tight against you.

you let him. it was grounding in a way nothing else was.

but even comfort frays.

it starts as a faint pressure in your bladder — an irritation, an itch just below the surface of your awareness. you shift, twitching your hips, trying to ignore it. but it sharpens, nagging.

you reach behind you, fingers scrabbling at bob’s forearm to loosen his hold. his arm tightens in reflex, a low, needy sound rumbling from him like a thundercloud about to burst.

“bob—” you mumble, voice thick and muzzy from half-sleep. “i need to pee.”

he makes a wounded noise, a soft pop! sound as he pulls his mouth from you, lips glossy with spit, hair falling into his eyes.

“don’t leave.”

it’s pathetic, the way he says it. not a command, not an order. a plea.

you sigh, dragging your hand through his tangled hair. “you can come with,” you offer, though the suggestion makes you feel absurd. “bob, i need to go.”

he doesn’t let go. if anything, he presses closer, breath hot against your skin, his fingers digging into the curve of your hip like if he let go, you might slip through the mattress and disappear.

when he presses against you, you feel it — the heavy, desperate weight of his cock straining against the thin, damp fabric of his boxers. it’s shameless, the way it twitches against your thigh, leaving a tacky, slick smear of pre on your skin. you don’t have to look to picture it: flushed a desperate, aching pink, the head drooling like it’s crying for you.

“just one more time?” bob murmurs, voice cracked and boyish, a breathy whine slipping out of him as he’s already moving, already fitting himself between your thighs like his body had been molded to slot there. like it was inevitable.

you try to take it as your chance — lifting your hips, squirming toward the edge of the bed, towards the bathroom door that sits like a mocking beacon in the hazy rainlight. but bob’s already leaning his full weight down, his broad chest flattening against yours, his arms curling around your middle.

and worse — the pressure.

his hips press flush against you, his cock a thick, hot line against your cunt, and the weight of his body pushes down on your bladder with a ferocity that makes your whole body tense. the urge blooms sharp, immediate, no longer something you can push aside.

“bob—” you gasp, your hands bracing against his shoulders, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his shirt.

he doesn’t stop. if anything, the sound you make only spurs him on. he fumbles with himself, a frantic, messy drag of his boxers down just enough to free himself. his cock drags wetly against your skin, the head catching as he lines himself up — clumsy, eager, desperate.

and then — he pushes in.

slow, thick, splitting you open in a single, relentless thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. your back arches, a strangled cry catching in your throat.

“it’s—okay! you can… you can make a mess on me, i promise—fuck!—please, it’s okay,” bob babbles, the words tumbling out between sharp, breathless gasps, every syllable slurred and soaked in need. his voice is right against your ear, hot and clumsy and wrecked, rising in pitch as his hips slap against you with wet, messy smacks.

he’s whining — these pitiful, high little sounds that shouldn’t belong to a man like him. a man with power enough to end cities and tear gods apart. and yet here he is, reduced to this trembling, desperate thing, rutting into you like he’s half-feral.

“t-tight,” he moans, and it sounds like it’s been wrenched out of him, dragged from some raw part of his throat. “uh-huh, uh-huh…”

the pressure in your belly spikes, unbearable now, molten-hot and cruel as his thrusts drive it deeper, each one pressing down where you can’t take it anymore. your hands scramble at his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, but it only makes him cry out, grinding his cock in deeper.

and then — it happens.

your body betrays you.

a hot, scalding gush, spilling out of you in a helpless, uncontrolled rush, sharp relief and mortification crashing through you in equal measure. it floods between your thighs, soaks the sheets, slicks bob’s cock where he’s still buried to the hilt inside you.

you freeze.

bob doesn’t.

he shudders — a full-body quake, his hands clenching on your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. a breathless, wrecked sound spills out of him, cracked and soft, like something holy and profane all at once. his head drops to the curve of your neck, lips trembling against your skin.

“oh, fuck—” he whimpers, his voice breaking apart in your ear. “don’t stop. don’t… don’t stop, please, i need it—i need you.”

and there’s no disgust in him. none.

no recoil, no tensing of his body, no horror in his voice. if anything, you feel the thick twitch of his cock inside you, pulsing against the flood of your release like it only makes him harder, hungrier.

“‘s warm,” he murmurs, almost dazed, a reverent sort of awe in the way he says it. “it’s… it’s so fucking warm.”

it’s obscene. the mess between you is awful — sharp and acrid and slick, and he’s still driving into you, hips stuttering but refusing to stop, chasing the filth of it, the need to drown in everything you give him.

to bob, it’s more than just the act.

it’s proof.

that he isn’t above this. that he can be touched and soaked and ruined and still be wanted. still be needed. it’s his confession, his penance, his salvation, all in the way he clings to you tighter the more your body gives way beneath him. the more you lose control, the more his shivering voice curls against your ear like a prayer.

“please, please,” he keeps begging, the words clumsy and wet, caught between whines and moans. “let me—let me feel it, don’t go, don’t… i wanna stay here. stay inside.”

he’s completely undone. a man of violence and light brought to his knees by the simplest, messiest, most human thing — and it’s beautiful, in the ugliest, filthiest way. the room reeking of rain and sex and piss, sheets clinging to fevered skin, and bob’s needy, broken voice murmuring praise like you’re the one saving him.

[h0lydrag0ns]

Omg omg can you write some headcanons about Simon sleeping with you for the first time? I love your posts :0

This made my day. Of course, sweetie! I have no more ideas (⁠ʘ⁠言⁠ʘ⁠╬⁠)

Simon 'ghost' Riley headcanons! (Sleeping with reader for the fist time)

1. Nervousness.

Well, he's experienced at sex. But being a relationship with someone he loves, someone like you? Sleeping with you? It's too much, too much for him... So he's been shaking ever since you asked him if he wanted to sleep with you.

2. Apologies

Its always a "baby, i have nightmares..." Or a "I snore too much... Im sorry." From him what drives you crazy. You have to repeat him over and over a "i dont care, Simon." So he believes you.

3. A cuddle buddy.

When you convince him to sleep with you and get him into bed? He won't leave your side. He'll make sure you sleep well. Even if you're with him, a damned snoring mess. He will stroke your hair, and he will indeed do everything to keep you close to him.

4. You're going to take care of him.

He may act as tough and cold as he can. But he hasn't had a night without nightmares in YEARS. He'll wake up startled in the night, and only your cuddles will calm him down. "don't leave me, t/n..."

5. Protective instincts.

He's always half-awake, even in his sleep. The second he feels you stir, his hand is already reaching for you, just in case. Not in a paranoid way –well, maybe a little– but mostly because you're his anchor.

6. Night talks.

Once he's comfortable, the quiet moments before sleep turn into the times he opens up the most. Trauma, childhood—whatever it is, you’re the one he’ll talk to in the dark.

7. Clingy when asleep.

You shift an inch, and suddenly he’s latched onto you like a koala. Doesn’t matter how big he is or how small the bed is—he will end up wrapped around you like a weighted blanket.

8. The mask stays on, at first.

He tries to keep the mask on, says it’s “habit.” But the first time you pull it off gently and kiss his forehead? He doesn’t wear it to bed again.

8. Late-night ramblings.

Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, he’ll mutter the most random stuff. “D’you think Captain Price uses beard oil?” You don’t always get answers, but he appreciates your half-asleep hums.

10. He steals the blanket.

This man will unconsciously roll himself into a burrito and leave you freezing. You complain, he grumbles, and then he ends up draping his entire body over you as a "compromise."

Masterlist

[songbirdseung]

‘  𝑯𝑰𝑺  𝑴𝑼𝑺𝑬  /  𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑲  𝑺𝑼𝑵𝑮𝑯𝑶𝑶𝑵  ’

𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

Never in your life did you think you’d end up dating someone like Park Sunghoon. Someone who wasn’t just admired but practically worshipped by everyone who laid eyes on him.

He was the definition of perfection; good looks, undeniable talent, a gentleman in every sense of the word, patient, kind, thoughtful, and just all-around breathtaking. A man who seemed too good to be true. And somehow, out of all the people in the world, he had chosen you.

But not everyone was as thrilled about your relationship as he was.

Whispers followed you everywhere you went. Girls giggling and saying he was too good-looking for you, others wondering what he saw in you when he could have anyone he wanted. There were always comments under his posts, too. Fans claiming he deserved better, people saying they’d rather see him with someone who matched his "level."

You tried to ignore it. You really did. But tonight, it felt suffocating.

So there you were, curled up in bed, hugging the blankets close to your chest, tears silently streaming down your face as you tried to hold it all in. Sunghoon was supposed to be exhausted, his schedules had been packed, and he barely got a break. The last thing you wanted was to burden him with your silly insecurities.

But you underestimated him.

The second he walked into the room and saw your trembling figure beneath the covers, every ounce of fatigue left his body. Without hesitation, he strode over and climbed into bed beside you, wrapping his strong arms around you and pulling you flush against his chest.

“Baby?” His voice was soft, laced with concern, his hand gently rubbing soothing circles on your back. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

You shook your head, biting your lip to stop a sob from escaping, but Sunghoon wasn’t having it. He carefully peeled the blanket away from your face, revealing your tear-streaked cheeks and puffy eyes. His heart clenched at the sight.

“Talk to me, love,” he urged, his fingers brushing your hair back with such tenderness that it only made you want to cry harder. “Please?”

You took a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I don’t know if I’m good enough for you, Hoon. Everyone keeps saying you could do better.”

Sunghoon stiffened for a moment before sighing, resting his forehead against yours. “Is that what’s been bothering you?”

You nodded, eyes welling up again. “I mean… You’re you, Sunghoon. You’re literally perfect. And I’m just… me.”

He pulled back slightly to look at you, his gaze unwavering and filled with so much love that it almost hurt. “YN, I need you to listen to me carefully.” His hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs wiping away the stray tears. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Do you understand that?”

You hesitated. “But—”

“No buts.” His voice was firm, but not unkind. “I don’t care what other people say. I don’t care what they think they know about us. What matters is how I feel. And I love you.”

Your lips parted slightly at his words, your heart thumping wildly against your chest. You had heard him say it before, but tonight… Tonight, it felt like it carried so much more weight.

“I love you because you make my worst days better. I love you because you see me, not Park Sunghoon, the idol, but just Sunghoon. I love you because when I’m with you, I don’t have to be perfect, I can just be myself.”

Tears welled up again, but this time, they weren’t from sadness.

“And if anyone ever dares to say you’re not good enough for me, they clearly don’t know a damn thing about me.” His fingers traced along your jawline, his eyes darkening slightly. “Because I’d choose you in every lifetime, in every universe, over and over again.”

A small, shaky laugh escaped you. “You’re really dramatic, you know that?”

He smirked. “Only when it comes to you.” he pulled you impossibly closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before tucking you against his chest. His warmth, his presence, his love. It was everything you needed.

And as you drifted off to sleep, feeling safer than ever in his arms.

The golden hues of the setting sun cast a warm glow over the park, it was a perfect evening. Peaceful, quiet, and just the kind of day where being with Sunghoon felt like the best thing in the world.

You had momentarily stepped away to use the restroom, leaving Sunghoon waiting near a bench. He had his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his tall frame relaxed as he admired the view. But, of course, Sunghoon never went unnoticed.

A group of girls, likely fans or just admirers, hesitantly approached him. At first, they were polite, asking for quick greetings and making small talk about his recent schedules. Sunghoon, always the gentleman, responded with a soft smile, nodding along as they spoke.

But then the conversation shifted.

"You’re seriously too handsome, Sunghoon," one of them giggled, twirling a strand of her hair.

"Yeah, it’s kind of crazy how you’re... with her," another added, her tone laced with something less than admiration.

"She’s cute, I guess," a third chimed in, clearly trying to sound more generous, "but you could have anyone."

"Someone more... on your level, you know?"

Sunghoon stiffened for a split second. He had heard comments like this before; backhanded words disguised as harmless opinions. But no matter how many times people questioned his choice; his answer remained the same.

"I think you guys are misunderstanding something," he started, his gaze never wavering. "Y/N makes me happier than anything in the world."

The girls exchanged glances, clearly not expecting that response.

"I know people like to say things like this, but to me, there's no one better than her. She’s the one I choose, every single time," he continued, his tone light but unwavering.

Just as the girls were processing his words, a sudden warmth enveloped him from behind. Two arms wrapped around his waist, and the familiar scent of your perfume filled the air.

Sunghoon didn’t even flinch. He knew it was you.

A small smile tugged at his lips as he glanced down at the arms holding him tight.

"You heard all that, didn’t you?" he murmured, amusement dancing in his voice.

You only nodded against his back, tightening your grip around him as if to say thank you.

The girls awkwardly excused themselves, sensing they had overstayed their welcome, but you didn’t even spare them a glance.

He turned in your arms, his own wrapping around your waist with ease, pulling you close until your forehead rested against his chest. "You okay?" he asked softly, his fingers gently stroking your back.

You nodded, though your heart still ached a little from their words. But the way he had defended you, the way he always made sure you never doubted your place beside him, it made everything else fade into the background.

"I love you," you whispered, looking up at him. Sunghoon’s expression softened, his eyes reflecting nothing but pure affection. "I love you more," he murmured before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

Fairytales weren’t real. This? This was better.

This was you and Sunghoon.

The car ride home was quiet, but not the uncomfortable kind. It was the kind of silence that spoke volumes. One filled with unspoken reassurances, stolen glances, and the comforting presence of each other. Sunghoon kept one hand on the steering wheel while his other rested on your thigh, his thumb moving in slow, soothing circles against your skin.

By the time you both arrived home, you stepped inside, kicking off your shoes and setting your bag down, you exhaled softly, ready to move on from everything. But before you could take another step, a strong yet gentle pull stopped you in your tracks.

Sunghoon’s arms wrapped securely around your waist from behind, tugging you back against his chest in a way that made your breath hitch. His warmth immediately enveloped you, making you realize just how much you had needed this, needed him.

A small gasp left your lips when he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his soft, steady breathing sending delicate shivers down your spine. His grip tightened slightly, as if anchoring himself to you, as if this was where he found his peace after a long, exhausting day.

"You know," he murmured against your skin, his voice a low, soothing hum, "I meant every word I said back there."

You swallowed, your hands instinctively reaching down to hold onto his arms, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt.

"You don’t ever have to question what we have, Y/N," he continued, his lips barely brushing over your pulse point, the gentleness of his touch making your heart stutter in your chest. "You’re it for me. Always."

His words settled deep within you, easing every ounce of doubt that had crept into your mind. Just as you were about to respond, he pressed a lingering kiss to the side of your neck, his lips moving with deliberate slowness, as if imprinting his love onto your skin. Another kiss followed, softer this time, trailing downward to your shoulder.

Your fingers curled around his arms, gripping onto him as he continued his tender assault on your senses. "Sunghoon…" you breathed out, tilting your head slightly to give him more access without even realizing it.

He chuckled against your skin, the deep, rich sound vibrating through your body. "Hmm?"

"You’re not tired?" you asked, barely able to form the words as warmth spread through you, making you feel lightheaded in the best way.

He hummed in amusement, his lips ghosting over your jaw before responding, "I was. But not anymore."

He pressed another kiss just beneath your ear, the sensation sending goosebumps down your arms. His hands, still resting on your waist, tightened slightly as he whispered against your skin, "You're mine, Y/N. And I’ll remind you as many times as you need."

Turning in his hold, his arms instinctively loosened just enough to let you face him, but he didn’t let you go. His hands remained firm on your waist, fingertips pressing gently into the fabric of your shirt as if afraid you’d slip away. His dark eyes, warm with adoration, searched yours, drinking in every detail; your slightly parted lips, your breathless expression, the way your hands found their way to rest against his chest.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just stood there, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the world outside your little bubble fading away.

Then, with the softest smile, Sunghoon lifted a hand to brush his fingers along your jawline, his thumb grazing your cheek before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "You know, staring at me like that isn’t going to convince me to stop kissing you," he murmured, the corners of his lips tugging into a teasing smirk.

You rolled your eyes, but the way your heart fluttered betrayed any attempt to act unimpressed. "I wasn’t trying to make you stop."

His smirk deepened. "Oh? Then what were you trying to do?"

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head before gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him down just enough to press a lingering kiss against his lips. It was slow, unhurried, just the two of you melting into each other, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

"Sunghoon," you whispered, tracing absentminded patterns along his chest.

"Hmm?" His voice was lower now, huskier.

"You’re staring."

A chuckle rumbled in his throat, his arms wrapping around you just a little tighter, pulling you flush against him. "Can you blame me?" His lips ghosted over yours, barely touching, teasing you just enough to make you lean in slightly.

You tilted your head, feigning thought. "Hmm, I guess not."

His hand slid down to the small of your back, his touch just firm enough to send a shiver down your spine. "Good," he murmured, dropping another kiss on your jawline before leaning in closer, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Because I plan on staring at you all night."

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. "Oh yeah?" you teased, attempting to keep your voice steady, even as your body betrayed you.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his smirk unmistakable now. "Yeah," he whispered, his eyes dark with mischief. "And maybe… a little more than that."

You bit your lip, tilting your head as if considering his words, but the way he was looking at you made it impossible to play coy for long. "Well," you murmured, fingers tugging at his collar as you leaned in, brushing your lips against his. "We do have all night, don’t we?"

Sunghoon’s responding chuckle was low, almost smug, as he closed the gap between you once more, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that left no room for argument.

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Captor x Reader

An: I broke my own rule! This will be the only time I post something NSFW...

Part one

His breath warms your skin before his mouth finds your throat, pressing reverent kisses just above the leather collar he fastened not long ago. His fingers rest on the ring at the front of it, like he’s holding onto a leash that only exists in spirit. You feel the weight of his body beside you, the heat of it, like a second blanket. One that watches. One that claims.

“You look so pretty like this,” he whispers, tracing your collarbone. “Soft. Quiet. Chained. All mine.”

The chain at your ankle clinks softly as he moves, climbing over you with a slow, indulgent crawl. His knee nudges your legs apart—not roughly, not like he’s demanding, but like he knows you’ll let him. That you’ll open yourself for him without resistance. You do.

Because you always do.

Because he’s the only one who ever really saw you.

His hand travels down your side, fingers ghosting along the curves he’s memorized so well. He grips your thigh, thumb pressing into the soft flesh, as he settles between your legs and exhales a quiet, shaking breath.

“You smell like sleep,” he murmurs, burying his face against your chest, nuzzling you like a man starved.

His mouth trails down, wet kisses, slow licks—lazy, hungry. And when he parts you with his fingers, spreading you open like a gift he’s unwrapping for the thousandth time, his voice drops into something hoarse and trembling.

“I could die between your legs,” he growls, and then his mouth is on you.

He tastes you like you’re air. Like you’re salvation. Like you’re the reason he breathes at all. His tongue is patient and deliberate, teasing circles and wet pressure, every flick meant to make you arch—meant to unravel you slowly, inch by inch.

And when you moan, when your fingers tangle in his hair and your body presses into his mouth without even realizing it, he groans like it hurts. Like your pleasure is his reward for everything he’s done to keep you here.

He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, until your legs are trembling against his shoulders and your cries are muffled by the back of your wrist. Even then, he licks up every last twitch, every aftershock, like he can’t bear to let any of you go.

He kisses your inner thigh after, and lifts his head with flushed cheeks and eyes dark as pitch.

“You’re perfect,” he says, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

You just look at him. Hair messy. Body open. Collar snug at your throat.

You don’t need to beg.

He’s already unfastening his belt.

Already leaning over you again, kissing your mouth with the taste of yourself still on his lips. He holds your wrists down—not because you’d fight, but because he likes the illusion of resistance. His hips press forward, and when he pushes inside, it’s slow, hot, claiming.

Your breath catches. His jaw clenches. And for a moment, there’s no sound but your body taking him, inch by inch.

He leans close, forehead pressed to yours. “Say it,” he pants. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you whisper, thighs shaking around his waist.

“Louder.”

“You. I’m yours.”

He thrusts harder, the chain at your ankle pulling taut as your body rocks with his. He fucks you like he’s proving something. Like every stroke is a vow. You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.

And when you come again, this time around him, your body clenching like it never wants to let him go, he loses it.

He bites your shoulder when he comes, hard enough to bruise. His hips grind deep as he spills inside you, groaning your name into your neck like it’s a prayer. Like it’s a curse. Like you ruined him.

And maybe you did.

He doesn’t pull out. He stays buried in you, holding you down, his weight heavy and comforting.

“You’re never leaving,” he breathes, kissing the mark he left. “Even if I have to fill you every night. Keep you full so no one else can ever get inside you.”

You nod, heart slowing under his.

“I don’t want to leave,” you whisper, barely audible.

He smiles then, wide and soft and terrifying.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I love you.”

Masterlist

[dilfstarr]

oh my goddd you should be me every time I refresh ur page, I having fingers and the piggies crosseddddd. i prayyyy that you posted something. you have soemthing in you with that writinggg, please put that shit to work

wrote this in thirty minutes for you moot

Toji x black fem reader

꒰𝜗𝜚꒱a/n: it’s okay to have fun with your coworker manager!

꒰𝜗𝜚꒱warning: rawww[ zont zo it ], praise, slight grumpy!toji, headlockkkk

His recent promotion to the kitchen’s general manager didn’t stop his blatant flirting with you, and It damn sure didn’t stop the parked car conversations y’all had on company time. Since you both worked the morning shift, you had to arrive wayy earlier than the opening time to prep and set up for the day ahead, apparently...?

You didn’t know because it was never done—you were too busy in the parking lot.

His blacked out truck waited for you in the back, bumping old Drake—preferably the Take Care album. He parked in the same spot; reversed so he could see whole pulled up, and in the wayyy back, next to the shed that was no longer in use.

The driver door was propped open with clouds of cigarette smoke rising towards the moonset.

"You're late." He chucked his phone to the passenger side after checking the time. His eyes peaked over the door to watch you. Your nonslip shoes slid across the gravel to his dark silhouette.

"Sorry. I stopped to get breakfast." Your reasoning was joined with the raise of your fast food paper bag.

He rolled his eyes. "We have food here. You work at a fuckin' restaurant." His tone was snarky and matter of factly. He took the last drag of his cancer stick then tossing the butt to his left.

Here he go.

Your once happy stride became an annoyed statue. You refused to put up with his bullshit at five thirty in the morning.

“Toji, I can go back inside. It’s way too early to be hearin’ you nag and shit.”

With his new work title came more responsibilities, and the biggest fucking attitudes known to man. He became more cranky because he had to do more and it interfered with his already fucked up sleep schedule.

He sighed deeply and rubbed at his face. “Fuck. Look m’sorry.” His heavy boots stumped against the loose rocks as he walked towards your still figure.

You made it your mission not to look at him, looking over your shoulder towards the shed—that was until he moved his head in the direction you were looking. His gray eyes were darker under the moonlight.

“Toji’s sorry for being grumpy darlin’. Y’forgive me? Hm?”

His hands were around your waist and rocking your body side to side with his. A playful grin spread across his lips causing his scar to raise. You gave a nonchalant shrug that made him chuckle.

“Y’want me to show you, huh?”

It took you a second, but you nodded. Duh!

“You are spoiled. D’you know that?”

The sky was so beautiful this time of day; when the moon switched shifts with the sun. Select stars were still twinkling up above from the darkness along with scattered planes—you wish you could see it.

Your work tights weren’t even off all the way—stopping midway at your knees. The bed of his truck was somewhat comfortable after he laid countless blankets and towels underneath.

“M’sooooo sorry baby. You forgive me? You forgive Toji?”

You were laid flat on your tummy with his weight being dropped on you with his deadly strokes. His arms were caging you in above your shoulders so you could no longer run. You clawed desperately at his forearms—acrylic nails decorating his arms with bright red scratches.

“Okkaaay! I get it to-ji! Ifuckingetitt!”

He chuckled. “You got me baby?”

The way he was dropping his hips should be illegal. You couldn’t tell what was louder; your moans or the sound of your skin clapping with his.

“I got you Toji. I.. augh I fuckin got you—swear!”

His grin was full with pride. He’s so cocky.

“Thaaat’s what m’talkin’ about.”

Your back became warm from him pressing his entire body against yours—sandwiching you between him and his truck. Without taking a pause from his thrusts from hell, one of his arms held your head securely while the other pressed against your open mouth—muffling any sounds.

His whispering was hot against your ear as he spoke. “I need to get out my frustrations darlin’, nothing personal. Sorry in advance.”

[excusemyobsessions]

An Ode to You

Sylus x MC/You/Reader

Genre: One shot, Fluff, Gender neutral Scenario: Lying side by side on a field of grass, you conjure all the words your brain can muster to pour out your immense love for Sylus on his birthday. Word count: 1320 words

Little note: highly inspired by Sy's birthday card and my(our) overwhelming love for this man. Teethrotting fluff, for sure.

(I wrote the word hand a total of 16 times over the course of this 1k text)

Warning: use of pet names (kitten), teeth-rotting fluff, you cry just a little because emotions

Also posted on AO3

The tall grass swayed lazily in the gentle breeze of the afternoon, the soft scent of wild flowers engulfing you in its embrace. The sun had begun its trajectory to a setting, still carrying warmth, its rays slipping through the blades of grass to blanket you.

Sylus laid next to you, one hand serving as a pillow for his head, his chest as a pillow for yours. You pushed yourself off him, laying on your side, resting your head on the palm of your hand. His eyes were closed, basking in the sun, its gentle light outlining the sharp contours of his face.

You lifted your hand, allowing the pad of your index finger to rest on his skin, tracing down his forehead and his nose, down the irregular bridge all the way to the very tip. His skin was warm from the sun, soft under your touch. His plump lips curved into a small, lazy smile. 

Long lashes fluttered and he opened his eyes to gaze at you, their ruby shades molten by tenderness. You couldn’t help but smile into them.

When you moved your finger to trace over this high cheekbone, he closed his eyes again. You traced the highs and the lows, over his cheek, the dent created by his bone structure, let your knuckle follow the line of his jaw. You tapped his chin twice and he let out a quiet little chuckle, a soft little amused exhale.

“Sy?” you breathed out.

“Hm?” he answered lightly.

You traced his lower lip with the tip of your finger, delighting yourself with its softness.

“Are you happy?” you questioned.

Sylus’ eyes fluttered open yet again, to gaze into yours, a single eyebrow twitching just a little, lifting softly, questioning.

“Why the sudden question, kitten?” he pressed, with a slight tilt of his head.

You shifted under his gaze, averting your eyes as you traced your fingers over his other cheek, as if memorizing his every contour with your fingertips.

“I don't know when was the last time you celebrated your birthday. I wanted it to be special this year,” you confessed.

“And it was. It is,” he answered instantly.

His long fingers circled your wrist and you watched them, tracing over your pulse, sliding up the palm of your hand, slipping in between yours, fitting like puzzle pieces. He squeezed your hand gently and you returned your gaze to his face.

He looked relaxed, like there was no weight on his shoulders, no clouds in his mind. His eyes were clear and sincere, attentive.

“So, are you happy?”

“I am. Very much so,” he answered without an ounce of hesitation.

You let out a clear and audible breath of relief which stole a chuckle from him. He lifted your tangled hands to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles and you felt your heart squeeze itself very tightly in your chest, so overwhelmed with love.

You laid back down on the grass next to him, lifting your tangled hands so you could see them. With your other hand, you outlined his veins and tendons, and when he loosened his grip, you turned it to draw up the lines on his palm. You traced each finger, each knuckle, caressed each calloused fingertip.

“There’s something missing though.”

His deep voice rang next to your ear, lightweight, teasing. You turned your head to look at him.

“What is it?” you asked.

The clogs in your brain were already picking up their pace, recounting every step taken during that whole day, calculating possibilities.

“I’m still waiting for your well wishes, or well, your blessings,” he told you.

There it was; that mischievous look in his eyes, that tease in the way his lips curved, that undeniable smugness in his smirk.

“You want more of my blessings?”

“I do,” he responded with a nod.

You let out a pensive hum, returning your gaze to your hands.

You traced his index finger with your own, rested your palm against his and fit your fingers up against his. His hand was larger than yours, his fingers longer. He wrapped his digits around your palm and led it to rest against his heart. You'd gotten used to its irregular beating, to the constant racing. Yet you could almost swear it ran at a leisure pace right there and then, a relaxed jog.

In contrast, your heart picked up its pace, trapped within your ribcage, beating wildly.

There was just so much you wanted to say. 

Your need for him was far too great, just so immense, substantial, gigantic.

Your brain struggled to conjure words magnificent enough to describe it and you knew he was waiting. You could feel his gaze on you. When you looked in his eyes, you could see the expectant look in them, his silent encouragement. He opened his mouth to say something, most likely vocally encourage you, but you lifted your free hand to rest your fingers against his lips, gently silencing him.

You rolled onto your side, facing him.

And you opened your heart.

“I need you. I need your skin on my skin, I need your arms around me, I need you to hold my hand. I need you,” you began.

Sylus understood how serious you were instantly. He didn’t move, simply gripping your hand within his.

“My love for you is overwhelming because I need you like the air that I breathe and I don’t know how to breathe without you anymore.”

He was clearly stunned. His eyes were slightly widened, blinking slowly, watching you closely. Your own eyes stung, warm tears pooling up, threatening to spill along with these greater than life emotions.

“I just… I love you so much,” you told him.

His chest rose and fell with a sharp intake of a breath, as if his lungs were begging for air, crushed under the weight of his swelling heart. You cupped his cheek and moved closer to him. Your nose was inches away from his.

“So, as a blessing, I wish you to always be just like this. I wish you to be showered in love and warmth. I wish you happiness and I wish you’ll find peace.”

Sylus’ heart picked up its pace against the palm of your hand.

He let out a shaky breath and slowly rolled over to his side. Lying face to face, he reached out to drag your body in closer to his. His forehead became a gentle weight against yours.

You watched his eyes, those immense pools of warm crimson, comforting carmine shades engulfing you in their tenderness.

“How could I not be happy when you say these things to me so openly,” he finally said, deep voice laced with emotion.

His large hand cupped your cheek, his thumb swiping under your eye to gently catch the tears which had fallen. He kissed the tears away from your other eye. You gripped onto his shirt.

He pulled back, just enough to see your whole face properly and he watched it carefully, as if trying to engrave your every contour into his memory. As if trying to preserve you and this moment in his heart for all eternity.

“Thank you,” he told you.

You let out a breathless breath, an exhale of emotion, a voiceless laugh, full of affection.

Both of his hands came up to cup your cheeks and he closed the distance to rest his lips on yours. His kiss fit your lips, molded your love to his. It was soft, devastating, reconstructive. It tore you apart and built you back up. It stole your breath and filled your lungs. You pressed in close to him, afraid your heart would just leap out of your chest, right into his palms. And yet you knew he would cradle it with all the care in the world.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips.

And god, you knew he meant it.

[kaira-diaries]

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐞

✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Insinuation of self-harm || fluff || intimacy avoidance || mention of smut

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: fem!reader x Frontman

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Inho isn’t one for intimacy. Until he asks for it.

✯𝐚/𝐧✯well hello there 😏 (𝙘𝙪𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘽𝙚𝙣 𝙆𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙗𝙞 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩) haven’t posted on here in a while, yk work…anyway It's been crossing my mind lately that In-ho has GOTTA have some issues with intimacy after losing his wife...right? maybe? Guys MAYBE? The fandom is lacking rn so have no idea how this will do but here’s my take on Inho wanting to try cuddling. Enjoy enjoy !!

᯾᯾᯾᯾

You were curled up in bed, cocooned in the oversized blanket you'd splurged on weeks ago. It was thick, soft as clouds, and smelled faintly like lavender detergent. The kind of blanket that embraced you after a long day of work.

You tucked your knees to your chest, wrapping the blanket tighter around you like a makeshift burrito—your favorite little ritual. Safe. Simple. Yours.

You glanced at the clock—2 a.m. Still no sign of In-ho.

There wasn't much to do on this godforsaken island besides work, especially this late. But if anyone could breathe life into even the dullest corners of this place, it was him. In-ho had always been a social butterfly—though he'd scoff at the title. Not loud, not flashy, just effortlessly magnetic. The kind of man who could lean against a wall and still become the center of gravity in any room.

Your lips curled faintly at the memory of one of the Squid Game anniversaries—gold trim on everything, string quartet in the corner, champagne bubbling in delicate flutes. In-ho had taken you without hesitation, tugging you into the fray like you were the only person he needed beside him. He introduced you to masked VIPs with a casual charm that made even the most guarded guests laugh. Conversations about the blandest things—vintage wine, imported cigars, weather patterns—somehow felt electric in his voice.

That was him. Not the mask. Not the black uniform.

That—his voice, his ease, his steady presence—that was the real In-ho. Buried, maybe. Faded, definitely. But not gone.

You pulled the blanket tighter around you, feeling the ache behind your ribs stir quietly again. Wondering where he was tonight.

In-ho never told you much about his past—but he didn't have to. You'd learned enough between the physical scars on his arms he didn't explain and the nights he indulged too much in his liquor to understand one thing clearly:

He wasn't the kind of man who sought out softness.

Intimacy, no. Sex, yes. That, he took freely—grasped for it like it was a release valve. And maybe it was.

When things between you turned physical, it was never tender. He used your body the way he used a weapon. A way to burn off the weight he carried, to forget—for a moment—that his world had ended once.

You never questioned it. How could you?

The man lost everything at once: his wife, his child, his reputation.

It only made sense that closeness, real closeness, would frighten the hell out of him. Maybe it was easier for him this way—to get just close enough to feel human again, without risking the ruin that always seemed to follow him.

No strings. No promises. Just need.

But over time, that line blurred for you.

You stopped seeing him as just your coworker, your partner in crime, the one who barked orders and disappeared for hours at a time, returning for a quick shameless fuck.

You saw more—noticed the muted change when he'd linger beside you after meetings or the way he'd make sure you always had a second glass ready when he poured his own.

You began to want more. To feel it. To mean something.

But you'd never say it. Never ask.

Because you knew the walls he'd built weren't meant to be climbed.

And that had to be enough.

You heard the elevator chime softly down the hall, followed by the unmistakable rhythm of his boots. Each step echoed like a warning down the hallway.

You'd left your door cracked, just barely, and the hush of the corridor made every sound sharper. A faint clink of glass. The low pour of whiskey. Then silence—just for a moment—before the soft thunk of the glass hitting the table.

And then, the footsteps again.

Closer this time.

You didn't move, barely breathed, as the sound drew nearer—boots clicking against polished marble, the cadence so familiar it lived in your bones by now. You could almost feel the weight of him through the door.

A soft knock shattered the stillness, pulling you from the cocoon of warmth you'd wrapped yourself in. You sat up slowly, your black satin nightgown slipping down one shoulder as the blanket pooled at your waist.

There he was.

Leaning against the doorframe, still masked—his silhouette carved in shadow and gold beneath the low amber glow of your bedside lamp. The sharp edges of the black mask caught the light, casting jagged reflections across the hallway floor. He didn't speak.

He was watching you.

And even though you couldn't see his eyes, you felt them—anchored to you with the weight of something unspoken, something smoldering just beneath the surface.

You tilted your head slowly, your hair slipping over your shoulder like a whisper. The nightgown clung to your curves, soft and inky black against your skin, catching the low amber light.

"Take that thing off, baby," you murmured, a pet name not often used. Your voice was soft, coaxing, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. "Let me see who's hiding underneath."

He didn't move at first.

Just stood there—leaning against the doorframe, catching the glow of the bedside lamp. But something shifted. The way his head tilted slightly, the subtle drag of his gaze over you even through the mask.

"You sure?" he asked, voice low, like gravel and heat. "Thought you liked the enigma."

"I like the man more," you said, barely above a whisper.

"Even if he's terrible at knocking sometimes."

That earned the faintest huff from him—something barely audible, but it warmed the air between you. Maybe it was a laugh in another life, softer than he ever let on now. He pushed off the doorframe, each deliberate step punctuated by the click of his boots against the floor.

He didn't speak. Just sat on the edge of the bed, close—but not too close—his presence pulling at you like gravity. You shifted slightly, purring with quiet contentment at the familiar weight of him in your space.

Then, his fingers found the strap of your nightgown, brushing it with the barest touch—more study than seduction.

"Here," you murmured, voice like silk. "Let me."

You reached up gently, your hands moving to the edge of his hood. You eased it back, careful and unhurried, revealing strands of dark, slightly tousled hair. Then your fingers found the edges of the mask, lifting it away with reverence as if peeling off a second skin.

You placed it on the nightstand beside you.

"Long day?" you asked, watching as he leaned back on his hands, the faintest crease between his brows.

He nodded once. "The bastard's relentless."

You let out a low breath. "Gi-hun?"

Another nod, slower this time.

You smoothed your hands over your thighs, thoughtful. "Why don't we just kill him?" you asked, voice calm, almost casual. "Would save everyone the trouble."

In-ho's jaw tensed, but he didn't look at you. "No," he said finally. "Better to let it play out."

You didn't press him. This was his game—his theater. If it were up to you, you would've ordered the recruiter to put a bullet in Gi-hun the moment he resurfaced. But you'd learned not to question him. Not when it came to strategy.

You nodded, settling into the quiet.

That's when he stunned you.

"I want to try something, sweetheart."

You blinked, unsure you'd heard him right. "What?"

He didn't answer right away. His eyes dropped—not in shame, but in hesitation. You weren't used to seeing him like this. Exposed.

Stripped of that control he wore.

Finally, he looked up. "Can I just—" He exhaled, jaw tightening before continuing. "Can I hold you tonight? Nothing more."

That silenced you.

Oh. Oh....

You realized he wasn't asking for your body, at least not in a let me fuck you way. He wasn't asking for power. He was asking for presence. For comfort. For something painfully intimate.

"Lie down with me," he added, quieter now. "Just for a while."

Your heart caught in your throat.

For a man like In-ho, this wasn't simple. This wasn't small. This was everything he was afraid of—real touch, absolute serenity, without pretense or escape. To let himself be vulnerable with you—no masks, no roles, no sex as a shield.

You smiled, small and sincere.

"Just holding?" you teased softly, brushing your fingers against his hand.

"That almost sounds... romantic. I might get the wrong idea."

He didn't flinch. Didn't smirk like he usually would.

His eyes just searched yours, still waiting as if afraid you'd turn him down.

Your teasing softened, your thumb now gently tracing over his knuckles.

"Okay," you whispered. "Yeah. I'd like that."

᯾᯾᯾᯾᯾᯾

In-ho had showered first—rinsing off the sterile scent of the facility, the metallic ghost of blood and bleach, the weight of duty.

When he finally slipped beneath the blanket beside you, the mattress dipped gently beneath his weight. Your blanket had already warmed from your body, but his presence added more. His skin ran hot, like always.

You turned over to face him, the blanket shifting quietly between you. His eyes met yours in the low light—tired but softer than usual.

His hair was still damp from the shower, a few strands clinging to his forehead. You reached up, brushing them back with slow fingers, your touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

A small, quiet smile tugged at your lips.

"Hi," you whispered, voice like a secret just for him.

You let your hand drift down, resting lightly on his bare chest where the blanket dipped. His breathing was steady beneath your palm, but you could feel how alert he was. Awake. Present.

"Do you ever sleep?" you asked quietly.

His lips twitched—not quite a smile. "Sometimes."

You tilted your head. "And tonight?"

He exhaled slowly, voice low and almost tender. "Tonight feels like it might be different, darling."

He looked at you then, thoroughly—his eyes studying your face like he hadn't let himself do in a long time.

"You know," he said, "when I first met you, I thought you'd leave."

You blinked. "Why?"

"You were too good for this place. Too smart. Too... alive."

He paused. "It felt wrong. Having you here. Still does."

You traced the edge of the blanket absently, heart beating in your throat. "But you let me stay."

He nodded.

You swallowed, the air between you tightening like a thread. "You ever regret it?"

His hand moved—slowly over yours where it rested on his chest.

"No," he said. "But I regret not telling you that sooner."

You let the quiet between you stretch warm and heavy, not responding.

Then, slowly, afraid to scare him off, you shifted forward beneath the blanket, your body gravitating toward his.

Your cheek brushed his collarbone as you tucked yourself gently against him, your hand trailing up his chest to rest at the base of his neck. He was warm—radiating heat like he always did, but tonight, it wasn't suffocating.

It was grounding. Real.

In-ho didn't move at first. Unsure.

But then his arm wrapped around your waist, dragging up your back beneath your nightgown, slow and steady, pulling you just a little closer.

His chin dipped, breath brushing over the crown of your head as you exhaled into his sweet skin.

You felt his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

Steady. Human. Fragile.

"See," you said, "not so bad, huh?" You cooed, pressing a kiss to his skin.

In-ho's fingers splayed gently at your shoulder blade as he exhaled—gently.

He hummed softly.

"No... it's more than I expected."

[sevsevteen]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ have a bigger bite!

The waiting room buzzed with low conversation. Stylists moved between members, fixing stray hairs, reapplying powder. The earlier energy from their performance had subsided - everyone was still shaken from what had happened earlier that day.

You sat quietly at the far end of the room, a warm blanket draped over your legs, curled up on the couch. The adrenaline had worn off. All that was left was a dull ache in your knees and the heaviness of everything you’d processed since.

The fan’s tearful gratitude still echoed in your head.

You knew you did the right thing. But now that the chaos had died down, the weight of it all was finally catching up.

Then-

“Guys!”

Dino came skidding in from the hallway, nearly tripping on the rug in his excitement. His phone was in his hand, screen already angled toward you.

“Look! Look at this!”

You blinked in surprise as he dropped beside you on the couch, pulling you closer by the arm. “It’s all over the internet. Someone caught everything on video - the fan just posted a thank you herself!”

Your fingers hesitated before taking the phone, eyes scanning the screen.

It was a post.

From the fan.

sz @shoozyycarat

“i didn’t even realize it until she stepped in. she grabbed his arm so fast i thought it was scripted or something. thank you, unnie. thank you for not hesitating to protect me. i’ve been a carat since debut and i’ve never felt safer. ♡

our 14th member really is Seventeen’s guardian.”

Below the message were reposts of the video from various angles - fans gasping, the man trying to escape, you holding on with everything you had. The quote tweets were endless.

“girl didn’t even flinch she just GRABBED HIM”

“not all heroes wear capes…some wear custom stage fits”

“SHE PROTECTED HER LIKE IT’S INSTINCT IM CRYING”

“a true girl's girl, she really just said not on my watch”

Your chest tightened.

“You’re a hero,” Minghao grinned, nudging your shoulder. “Look at the comments. They love you.”

As you scrolled, you found yourself smiling faintly despite the dull ache in your limbs. Each word of gratitude, admiration, and fierce support from fans and strangers alike stitched a little warmth back into your heart.

“Exactly. That fan - she’s going to remember that for the rest of her life.” Dino added.

A gentle cough from nearby made them look up. Jeonghan stood there with a soft smile, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall.

“Don’t let it weigh on you too much,” he said. “You did what none of us saw fast enough to do. We’re proud of you. All of us.”

You bit your lip, looking between them, overwhelmed with quiet emotion.

From the other side of the room, Jihoon, who had been watching silently, spoke up without even lifting his head from his phone.

“Don’t get used to fighting grown men, though.”

The room chuckled, and you laughed - genuinely this time.

You didn’t expect gratitude.

You didn’t do it for attention.

But being reminded that you weren’t alone? That meant everything.

--

[swizzlemynizzle]

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

—————————————————————————

Masterlist

Chapter 7: Too Loud

—————————————————————————

A week later, the video drops.

Chris titles it with his usual flair:
“WE MADE A BINGO LIST AND IT GOT OUT OF HAND | ft. chaos, shots & George nearly drowning”

Within twenty minutes it’s trending. Comments flood in—some unhinged, some suspiciously poetic. Y/N watches from her sofa, half-buried under a blanket, nursing a coffee and trying not to spiral.

The edit is kind, actually. A little crazy, yes. Unflattering in places—also yes. But somehow, Chris has made her seem funny. Game. Brave, even, as she climbs into that godforsaken fountain. Her anxiety sits like a weight in her stomach, but the group chat is already lighting up.

CHAOS GOBLINS
Chris:
it’s out. i regret nothing.

Bach:
someone’s already made a gif of you doing tambourine karaoke with Weed Steve

ArthurTV:
Y/N’s going viral for “iconic shoe swap” energy

George:
ngl you were the MVP

Arthur Hill:
the ferret’s got its own fan account. i’m not even mad.

Y/N:
glad to know Pickle’s the breakout star here

Chris:
you’re all stars. but Pickle is in talks for a Netflix docuseries

The messages keep coming, a steady stream of dumb jokes and unhinged reactions. It makes something loosen in her chest. She’s still nervous—of course she is—but it’s easier to laugh this time.

Later that week, they all pile into Chris’s for a group filming session.

She shows up with snacks and a confused look as she’s instructed to sit beside Arthur. “Okay, which one, there’s too many Arthur’s in here.”

“That’s it,” ArthurTV groans. “I’m changing my name.”

“You could give him a nickname,” George points out.

Y/N snaps her fingers. “Got it! ATV. Like a small, chaotic vehicle.”

ATV gives her a wounded look. “Is that not just you in human form?” she smiles.

“And you,” she turns to Arthur Hill, “can be Hilly. Because otherwise my brain explodes.”

Hilly shrugs. “I’ll take it. Makes me sound like a tragic romcom side character.”

“Perfect,” she grins. “Very on brand for this group.”

Chris is already setting up the cameras. “Alright, we’re filming a Cringe Compilation Reacts, but everyone’s taking a shot every time someone says the word ‘vibe.’”

Bach eyes the bottle. “I’d like to survive the evening, thanks.”

“Too late,” ATV says, handing out shot glasses.

They film for hours. It’s easy—banter flying, laughter echoing, George nearly choking on a gummy worm mid-reaction. Hilly keeps making offhand self-deprecating jokes that leave everyone wheezing. ATV zones out at one point, staring at a coaster like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Afterwards, they crash at the boy’s flat in that post-filming slump—half of them on bean bags, half on the floor. Pizza boxes litter the coffee table. Someone’s playing music softly from a phone.

Y/N’s head rests on the back of the sofa, her cheek warm from laughing too hard.

Bach nudges her foot. “You good?” She nods. “Just… this is nice.” “Group chaos goblins. You’re one of us now.” ATV chimes in, still staring at the ceiling. “That sounds like a cult.” George, from across the room: “To be fair, you do have the stare of a man possessed.” ATV flips him off without moving.

Hilly groans, “remind me to write a ballad about this moment. It’ll be titled ‘Ode to Soggy Trainers and the Girl Who Mocked Me On Sight.’” “You mocked yourself first,” Y/N points out. “Exactly,” Hilly grins. “I’m just building the lore.”

The next few days blur in a good way.

They meet at George’s to stream a chaotic game of Gartic Phone that derails almost immediately.

They film a football challenge in the park, where ATV takes a ball to the face and Hilly somehow ends up barefoot.

Chris ropes her into a video titled “Who Knows Me Best,” which devolves into Bach and George arguing over what year Chris supposedly got his nose pierced (infected, didn’t last long).

Y/N’s camera roll is now full of blurry selfies, a questionable amount of ferret memes, and one photo of George mid-sneeze that she’s saving for blackmail.

Her anxiety hasn’t disappeared. But it’s dulled, made manageable by this messy, wonderful group of goblins who’ve somehow adopted her as one of their own.

Still, there’s a shift she can’t quite ignore.

It creeps in late at night, in the quiet moments between content and chaos—when she’s editing a stream highlight and catches herself smiling a little too long at a clip of George laughing.

Or when she’s walking home from Chris’s and replays something dumb George said—some dry one-liner, some passing look—and feels it echo sharper than it should.

Or when her phone buzzes at 1:23AM with a new message from him:


georgeclarkey:
you on?
i need someone to mock my aim in cod or i won’t improve as a person

She tells herself it’s nothing. That he’s like this with everyone.


That she’s imagining it.


That she’s just tired. Or bored. Or projecting.

But the truth is, there’s a version of her—somewhere just beneath the surface—that lights up when it’s him.

And that version is getting harder to ignore.

——-

The hate started slow. Almost imperceptible beneath the flood of chaotic memes and inside jokes after Chris’s video dropped.

At first, it was just a few offhand comments in the replies—tiny stings buried in otherwise harmless noise.

“Who invited the try-hard?”

“Another girl tagging along for clout, yawn.”

“George looked annoyed with her the whole time lol.”

She tried not to care. Really, she did. Everyone got some heat on the internet. Especially women. Especially women who dared to exist in male-dominated spaces.

But over the days that followed, the anxiety sat with her like a bruise just beneath the skin—tender, persistent, waiting for the next hit.

And tonight, it landed.

The stream had started light. George had invited her to join a game of Call of Duty, and she’d said yes instinctively.

It had felt good at first. Familiar.

But fifteen minutes in, the chat shifted.

@ogclarkeyfan:
was she even invited or did she just show up again?

@whyisthisgirlhere:
she made that video so cringe. literally ruined the fountain bit.

@fancam4rory:
can’t believe george is wasting content with her

@clarkeybabey:
she’s not even funny?? why is she always trying so hard

Each line landed harder than the last. Even as her fingers moved on autopilot, her brain fuzzed with static. Her throat tightened.

She tried to focus on the game, on George’s voice in her ears—teasing, grounded—but it didn’t cut through the rising spiral.

Then someone posted a clip.

A screen recording of her slipping in the fountain, zoomed in and slowed down, captioned: “when you force yourself into the group and still flop.”

It had over 3,000 likes already.

Y/N's stomach flipped.

“Y/N?” George’s voice cracked through the headset. “You good?”

She didn’t respond.

Her screen blurred. Her chest pulled tight, breathing shallow. Her cursor jerked as she missed a shot. Then another.

“Y/N?” George again. Softer now. Concerned.

She mumbled something, barely audible. Her mic was already muted. She didn’t remember doing that.

With shaking fingers, she ended the stream. Closed the tabs. Ripped her headset off. The silence was deafening.

She curled into the chair, fists clenched, eyes burning. It wasn’t just the trolls. It was the weight of everything. The effort of trying so hard to fit in, to keep up, to belong—to not be the weak link in a group of people who already seemed to love each other in this seamless, shorthand way.

She’d thought she was getting there.

Now it felt like maybe she was the punchline.

-

Ten minutes later, a knock on the door.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

She moved on instinct, flinging it open—and George was there. Hoodie on, hair slightly flattened from a beanie he must’ve discarded en route, phone still clutched in one hand.

His brows pinched the second he saw her face.

“Hey,” he said. “Saw your stream cut. Tried calling. Just… came to check.”

Her eyes brimmed before she could stop them.

“I’m fine,” she lied, voice cracking on the second word.

“Sure you are,” he murmured, stepping in. “Totally fine people usually answer calls while hyperventilating.”

She let out a broken laugh and wiped her cheek with the back of her sleeve. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

She hesitated. “I just—” The words caught. “It got in my head. The trolls. The video. The comments. I know they’re just idiots but it felt—like they were all thinking what I’m scared everyone secretly thinks.”

George didn’t say anything at first.

He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

No theatrics. No platitudes. Just warmth. Steady and grounding.

Her face pressed into his hoodie. His arms held firm, not too tight. She could smell his deodorant and the faint trace of rain on his sleeves. She didn’t realise how fast she was breathing until it started to slow.

“They’re wrong,” he said quietly. “They don’t know you.”

She didn’t answer. Just listened to his voice. The same one that had made her laugh on stream, the one that had made her feel safe that night in the pub.

“They’re loud,” he went on, “but they don’t matter. You do. You’re not just ‘someone we stream with’ or a side character. You’re one of us.”

Her chest ached, but in a different way now.

She tilted her head back slightly. “Even if I call you a hobbit again?”

George huffed a laugh, resting his chin lightly against her hair. “Especially then.”

She closed her eyes.

And maybe, just maybe, she let herself believe him.

————-

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

—————-

This was a long one!! But we’re getting somewhere 🤭

[seasaltrasp]

Cigarettes

a cho sang woo fic | post-squidgame au

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

inspired by this cas song + a dream i had

1.5k words, dbf!cho sang woo x f!reader

warnings: age gap, smoking, mentions of lighters

note: first time writing a fic ! i genuinely could not explain to you what this is, happy reading <3

⋆ ⋆ ---––——––------––——––------––——––--- ⋆ ⋆

The night wrapped itself around the house like a thick velvet blanket, cool and heavy, muffling the world outside. The warmth from inside spilled out in golden streams through the windows, making the dark feel even more intimate, more distant. The house stood like an oasis in the midst of the night, quiet but alive with the weight of the evening’s conversation.

Inside, the table had been cleared, the dishes stacked in the sink with care. The remnants of dinner lingering in the air—a warm hum of laughter, the soft clink of silverware against porcelain. He had come for dinner, a guest of my father, the man whose sharp wit and quiet intelligence had filled the room, a surprising contrast to the heavy weight he carried in his eyes.

Cho Sang Woo, my father’s business partner, was a man in his forties who seemed older than the years that clung to him. But when my father suggested he stay the night—too late to drive, too long a distance—he didn’t hesitate. “Stay in the guest room,” my father had said, waving a hand as if it were nothing, and so he did.

He had lingered on the couch, nursing his scotch, his hands resting on the edge of the glass like he was trying to find an anchor in a storm. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was only half-present, as though his mind was on an island somewhere far away.

When my parents retired to bed, he excused himself, saying he needed some air. It was a statement that didn’t quite ask for permission, but there was something about the way he spoke it—so softly, yet so firmly—that made it clear he didn’t need to explain himself.

I watched as he stepped outside, his form slipping into the night like a shadow, leaving me to the quiet lull of the house. I rinsed the dishes slowly, my thoughts lingering on the man who seemed to be running from something, his every movement weighed with invisible regret. When I finished, I stepped out onto the porch, the wood beneath my feet creaking in the stillness.

The air was cold and sweet, tinged with the scent of damp earth from the garden.

He was sitting on the steps leading up to the house, a shadow among shadows. He had come outside to escape something inside him. His figure was relaxed, almost languid, but there was a tension in him that I couldn’t quite place, a rigidity beneath the surface that suggested a history deeper than I could understand, but he masked it with the ease of someone used to playing a role.

I didn’t know what haunted him, but I could feel it in the way his gaze occasionally dipped into the distance, as if looking for something that no longer existed.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, fingers almost caressing the smooth cardboard, before cursing softly under his breath when he realized he’d forgotten his lighter. I almost smiled at how perfectly human the moment felt—despite everything, he was still just a man, fumbling for something as ordinary as a flame.

I lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching the way he exhaled in frustration. Then, as if on cue, he turned his head slightly, sensing me before I even made a sound.

“Got a lighter?”

His voice was low, amused, but with that edge of tiredness I was beginning to recognize.

Without a word, I reached into the pocket of my jacket, feeling the cool metal of my lighter against my fingers. When I pulled it out, it was an object of pure contrast to him. My lighter was small, almost dainty, a delicate pink glimmering thing that would have looked absurd in his calloused, heavy hands.

It flew through the air, almost weightless, and he caught it with the reflexes of someone who was used to playing more dangerous games than catch.

He stared at the lighter, as though trying to figure out its very existence. His brow furrowed, and then, he slowly lifted his gaze to mine.

“This… is your lighter?” he asked, a note of disbelief in his voice, but more so amusement.

I held his gaze, my lips twitching, and in a voice that felt more like a dare than a simple answer, I murmured, “It’s for birthday candles,” the ghost of a smile flitting across my lips. The words tasted like a lie wrapped in a joke.

For a moment, the tension in the air seemed to dissipate, and I could almost see the corner of his mouth twitch. His lips pressed into a hard line, fighting a smile. But it didn’t come. Instead, he shut his eyes with a long exhale, a weary chuckle escaping him as he nodded slightly, as though accepting that this ridiculous object was now the truth of the moment. “Right,” he muttered.

There was something about the way he fidgeted with the lighter—fingers circling it, almost testing its weight—that made the space between us feel impossibly intimate. Without a word, I slid onto the step opposite him, settling a foot’s distance away, my body angled just enough toward him to catch every small detail. The way he inhaled, the slight easing of his shoulders, the way his square rimmed glasses reflected the glow of the cigarette as he took his first drag. He looked, for a moment, like he had finally found the stillness he was searching for.

“You don’t smoke,” he said, not with curiosity, but with the knowing air of someone who was used to reading people like books.

“I do not,” I said, my voice soft, but deliberate.

A thought flickered through me, a quiet, reckless impulse. I glanced at the pack of cigarettes resting beside him. “Today’s as good a day as any,” I said, my fingers already stretching toward the box.

His eyes shifted to me, sharp and quick, and his hand immediately shot out, placing a finger on the pack, sliding it just out of reach with a quiet tut. His gaze met mine, his smile tight, a warning hidden behind the casual gesture.

I couldn’t help but give him a soft pout. My bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly, a playful protest hanging between us like a suspended breath. His gaze snapped away quicker than lightning, fixating on the trail of glistening pebbles leading towards the house. His eyes shifted down to his shoes, then to the blades of grass fluttering in the breeze, and then up at the stars, as if the world around him had suddenly become infinitely more interesting than me.

There was a strange hesitation in the air, like I’d caught him off guard, but I held my ground, watching the way he carefully avoided my gaze. The silence stretched, and something shifted in the way the night felt around us.

Reaching into the other pocket of my jacket, I pulled out my own pack of cigarettes, the plastic wrapper crinkling softly under my fingers. I could feel the beginnings of a grin forming, but I bit it back, my focus entirely on the subtle task at hand.

When he looked back at me, his eyes widened for the briefest moment, a slight chuckle escaping him as he almost choked on the smoke that had been hanging in his mouth. It slipped from his lips in violent tendrils, twisting and scattering through the air, as if his breath itself was suddenly off-kilter.

I watched him carefully, a flutter in my chest, as I picked up my lighter and flicked it open with a soft click. The flame danced to life, casting a glow on my face that seems to give me a depth he’d never seen before. It was almost too intimate, the way the light shifted and shaped my features.

I held the cigarette between my fingers, the tip glowing bright, and without glancing at him, I exhaled a steady stream of smoke into the air, inhaling it back in with the practiced precision of someone who’d done this far too many times. The words slipped out before I could stop them, low and soft, like a secret I couldn’t quite keep to myself.

“Surprised?”

He didn’t answer right away. The smoke curled between us, swirling in the cool night air as I watched the horizon, city lights shimmering in the distance.

Then, finally, he exhaled, his breath a soft laugh, but it was quiet, almost reverent.

“I should have known.”

[padmesweetheart]

She Takes Care of Everyone

Pairing: Hayden Christensen x Non-Famous Nurse!Young Wife!Reader

Genre: Domestic Fluff, Soft!Hayden, Hurt/Comfort, Real-Life Feels

Word Count: ~2,700

Harold the donkey mention

You didn’t even remember how you made it to the front door.

The last 12 hours had blurred into one long, aching stretch of beeping monitors, hushed conversations, the click of your clogs against cold hospital floors, and too many coffee cups to count. It wasn’t even your first 12-hour shift that week. It was your fourth. And your body felt like it had been wrung out, soul and all.

The sky was already dark when you stepped up to the porch, still in your scrubs, badge clipped to your collar, hair messy in the ponytail you’d tied up at 5 a.m. Your car keys clinked softly in your hand as you opened the door and stepped inside, dropping your bag with a dull thud by the entryway.

You barely managed a quiet, exhausted “Hi…” before you slipped off your shoes and leaned your weight against the wall, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Baby?”

Hayden’s voice came from the living room—soft, a little raspy, like he hadn’t spoken in a while. A second later, he was there, walking quickly toward you, barefoot and warm-eyed and already reaching for you like instinct.

You melted into his arms the second they wrapped around you.

“Hi,” you whispered into his chest. “I’m dead.”

He kissed the top of your head, arms tightening around your tired frame. “I can see that. You smell like work and sadness.”

You huffed a laugh against his shirt, too tired to even be embarrassed. “I didn’t sit down once today.”

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

“Wow,” you teased weakly as he guided you down the hallway. “Didn’t realize I married a man who preys on the weak.”

“I meant into your pajamas, you menace.”

Ten minutes later, you were wrapped in the softest oversized tee (one of his, obviously), your legs bare and clean, hair out of its ponytail and finally able to breathe. You stood in the kitchen half-asleep, watching Hayden fuss around like you were the most fragile thing on earth.

He moved with quiet determination: setting up a glass of water next to a mug of herbal tea, grabbing your favorite blanket off the back of the couch, and pulling a heating pad from the drawer just in case your back was aching—which it was, thank you very much.

“You don’t have to—”

He shot you a soft look. “I want to.”

Your heart fluttered, tired or not.

Once he had everything just right, he settled you onto the couch with the heating pad on low and the blanket tucked all around you like you were a burrito. Then he turned on that comfort show you always watched when your brain was too fried to function—no questions asked.

He sat beside you, one arm behind your shoulders, the other resting over your blanket-wrapped thighs, rubbing soft circles into your leg.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. You just leaned into his side, letting your body decompress for the first time all day. The tea was warm in your hands, and Hayden’s presence—solid, quiet, grounding—was the only thing keeping you from falling apart at the seams.

“You’ve been working all week,” he said eventually, voice low. “Twelve-hour shifts every day?”

You nodded into his shoulder. “Short-staffed. A couple nurses out sick. We didn’t want to turn away post-op cases, so… yeah. It’s been a lot.”

He kissed your temple. “You’re unbelievable. You know that?”

You shrugged gently. “It’s just part of the job.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. “No. It’s more than that. You take care of everyone. Even when you’ve got nothing left. Even when you come home looking like a ghost.”

You smiled softly, blinking away the stinging behind your eyes. “I do it because I care.”

He reached up and cradled your cheek in his palm. “I know. That’s why I care so damn much about you.”

His thumb brushed just under your eye, catching the tear that had snuck out without your permission.

You leaned into his hand, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m just so tired, Hayd.”

“I know, baby,” he murmured. “You don’t have to be strong here. You get to fall apart with me.”

That did it. You didn’t sob, not really—but the weight of the week, the exhaustion, the stress of having so many people relying on you… it all let go. A few quiet tears, a soft sniffle, and then silence again. His hand never left your cheek. His body never stopped holding yours.

He didn’t fill the silence. He just let it be. And that—that meant everything.

When your breathing evened out and the worst had passed, he kissed your forehead again and whispered, “Stay right here. I’m making you grilled cheese.”

Your eyes cracked open. “Grilled cheese?”

He smiled. “With tomato soup. And I’m cutting it diagonally, because you’re fancy.”

You giggled through your nose. “God, I love you.”

“I know.” He stood, stretching his back a little. “I’m the man of the house, remember?”

“I thought Harold the donkey was the man of the house.”

Hayden threw you a dramatic glare over his shoulder. “That ass has been trying to usurp me since day one.”

The soup and sandwich combo was perfect.

He brought it to you on a tray like you were royalty, then sat beside you and made sure you actually ate every bite, even when you were tempted to crash between mouthfuls.

Once the food was gone and the show was still playing quietly in the background, he curled you into his chest again, tucking your legs across his lap.

“You’re gonna sleep for like fifteen hours, huh?” he murmured into your hair.

“Minimum.”

“I’ll feed the animals. Harold and I will put our differences aside for the greater good.”

You smiled into his shirt. “You always take such good care of me.”

His voice was low and soft, like a promise. “You take care of everyone. Someone has to take care of you.”

And with that—warm, safe, fed, and finally home—you let yourself fall asleep in the arms of the man who loved you hardest when you had nothing left to give.

And that, really, was everything.

———————————————————————————————

Tag list:

@skyguytoast @dessxoxsworld

[latenightdaydreams]

I have an idea that Konig was kicked out of his old apartment because his last deployment was last for years and he decided to find another place to rent a share apartment. When he opened his new apartment's door to move in, reader accidently greeted him with the biggest squirt in his life that he's ever seen =)))) (like reader didn't know he'd move in that day)

I love it, a great way to start off a new lease😈

Roommates (fem)

MDNI🔞

Master List

Part 2 Part 3

>cw: fem/afab, masturbation

1.5k word count

.

.

Coming back after four years of being deployed, he was greeted with a huge pile of mail. Plopping his body in his desk chair, he began to look for a new place to live. That when he finds you listing. Pets are okay, no smoking, and only one other roommate. The apartment was in a nice area too. Without going to look at the place, König messaged the tenant to apply for the available room.

When you posted the ad, you didn’t add that you’re a woman. You didn’t want people applying just to be creeps or to get harassed. When König’s application comes in, you think it sounds too good to be true. Older man, no pets, doesn’t smoke, is military so he would be deployed for months at a time, maybe years, and willing to divide the rent 40/60, him covering the larger half, since he said he is paid well. It was an incentive König was hoping would help inspire you and make you pick him since the spot was perfect for what he needs.

Flipping back and forth between König’s application and this woman your age, you feel torn. The woman would make a fun roommate, but she is a struggling artist and you don’t want to be put in a situation where you’re paying full rent WITH a roommate.

König on the other hand, while he is a man, will be gone most of the time and is willing to pay more meaning you’d be able to set aside money and finally save some.  It’s a selfish reason, but times are hard right now.

You send back a response message to König to tell him that he’s got the room. You send him the move-in date and where to pick up the key. Instantly you get a message back saying he will be about a week late to move in but will send you the money now. You phone chimes and you see your Venmo with his portion of the rent. Feeling like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, you go back to cleaning up the apartment.

Two weeks pass and König gets back from his mission a week earlier than expected. He walks past the boxes of his belongings stacked along the wall of his office. His shoulders slumped over, exhausted from all of his recent travels. He sits at his desk, pulling off his sniper hood and opens up the email with all of the information about his new living situation. Leaning back, he lets out a deep sigh and looks at the time. Figuring it was too late he decided to wait until tomorrow to move in.

The next morning you wake up a little after 9am and make yourself breakfast. You check your emails to see if there has been any word from König. Nothing. After you eat breakfast you sit on the living room couch, wasting time. Since today is your day off you planned on getting some chores done, but you have other things on your mind.

Quickly, you stand from the couch and go to your room. Opening up your underwear drawer you grab a black bag of goodies. You open it up and pull out your favorite silicon toy before going to the kitchen sink to wash. The hot guy from your commute to work everyday comes to mind as you begin to daydream about him naked, kissing you, touching you, fucking you...

Drying off your dildo and walking back to the living room couch, you pull the throw blanket from the back of your couch and lay it down as a makeshift towel. You pull down your pants and underwear before laying back on the couch. Your fingers go to gently rub your clit while you close your eyes and begin to day dream.

Him kissing your neck lightly as his fingers circle your clit, leg twitching as you moan to him. His fingers slowly inching lower and pushing into your tight little cunt. His fingers pumping in and out quickly as he moves his lips to yours; his mouth devouring your moans. His other hand moves to your breast and begins to lightly tug at your nipple.

You open your eyes for a second and remove your fingers from your cunt and rub your arousal on the blanket underneath you. Moving your hand from your breast, you reach over and grab your dildo from the coffee table. You move yourself so you can get more comfortable, rubbing your dildo over your wet folds. Letting out a sigh, you lean back and close your eyes again.

His naked body looms over you as he rubs his erection over your wet little pussy. His hand reaches back out and begins to rub your nipple.

“You ready y/n?”

You let out a soft yes before he shoves his cock inside of you slowly, inch by inch. He begins to thrust into you quickly, the sound of your loud moans filling the room. His hand moving off of your breast so he can fuck you quicker. You reach out gripping the bedsheets and pulling them as your legs begin to tremble from his cock hitting your g-spot over and over…

König decided to only grab his duffle bag full of clothes and a few boxes for his first trip. He will be off the next few days so he has time to go back and grab his stuff, take his time moving in. He walks out to his SUV and loads up the trunk with five boxes. Sitting down, he puts the address into his GPS and begins to take off.

The building was nice, there was a park nearby and it was 40 minutes from base. That gave him a sense of privacy. He parks his SUV at the front, pulls his sniper hood off, and walks inside to go to the building manager. He welcomes König and hands him the key to the apartment that you left for him two weeks ago.

“Danke.” König takes the key and begins to walk back to his SUV to grab two boxes.

Apartment 304. König walks up the stairs and gets to his floor. He looks around the hall, doors with cute welcoming mats and small seasonal decorations giving the complex a nice homely vibe.

Your eyes still closed and hand behind your head holding on to the couch cushion as your legs are spread wide open. Your 7-inch dildo moving quickly in and out of you as you moan out, but quietly enough that the neighbors can’t hear. One of your feet moves to the coffee table to spread your legs open even more, back arching as you get close to release.

König gets to the front door, holding his boxes in one arm as he opens the front door. He hears your moans and the sound of the dildo in your pussy before you begin to squirt. His eyes glued to your pussy as he watches the impressive stream leaving you. His jaw drops and he accidently drops one of the boxes. He looks down at the box and then back up at you to see you open your eyes and look at him.

You freeze as you realize your door is open and a giant man is just standing there. You assume it’s König, but he wasn’t supposed to be here for another week. You feel as if your heart is going to explode. Your face is hot with embarrassment. Before anyone can say anything, you pull your dildo out, get up and run to the bedroom.

König stands there looking at the wet spot on the blanket and the wet mess on the floor. Your pants and underwear tossed onto the other end of the couch. He takes a deep breath and picks up the box on the ground before walking further into the apartment. He closes the door behind him and just stands there awkwardly with a boner.

You’re in your room dying of embarrassment. You don’t know what to do, you can’t face him now. Not after that. You put on underwear and pants to open your door and yell out.

“Your bedroom is the last room down the hall to the left!” Thankfully on the other side of the apartment from yours.

“Okay, thank you!” He yells back.

He walks towards his room, his eyes lingering on the mess you left behind for a moment. Finally, he makes it to his bedroom door. He opens it to see a queen size bed and two dressers. The window is letting in the bright sun. He drops his boxes on the floor and sits on the bed, looking around the room for a while.

He can’t stop replaying the scene of you squirting over and over in his mind. His hand wandered to his boner instinctively. You’re his new roommate, he doesn’t want to start the relationship off by jerking off to you. Yet, he can’t seem to stop himself as he unzips his pants and pulls them down enough to release his cock. He closes his eyes and replays your sounds and the moment over and over as he strokes his cock.

Part 2 Part 3