#[and even if things like ONS are common...]

[yan-randomfandom]

Wait! Can you do the Yanderes Saja boys x reader pls? Except the reader is aroace and isn’t a fan of Kpop

Saja Boys x GN!Reader

a/n; oh anon luckilyy i'm both of those things ☺️ BUT I'M SO SORRY since it's my first time writing them, i kinda lost the point n it turned to a character study MY BAD 😭😭 feel free to send a request again!

summary; the most common imagine for the Saja Boys right now—them finding a human manager. They find the human's company a little too enjoyable....

— 🥤 [not proofread]

During their debut, Soda Pop—the Saja Boys had a passive objective: find someone in the audience who wasn't even the slightest bit interested in them.

It was Mystery who noticed you first.

Among the crowd, you glanced at them like the rest. Paused and listened like the rest. However, unlike the rest, you pulled out your phone not to record—but to draw your attention, and eventually walk away.

Mystery memorized your face. After all, with how obsessed humans are with paperwork and management, they had to have someone deal with the annoyances just to make them seem like the real deal.

So, after their performance, your presence was mentioned. They ultimately deemed that you're the one who stayed the shortest.

Jinu approached you first.

But he was an absolute loser and couldn't keep his story straight (hundreds of years of human society blurred from his knowledge), leading the rest of the Saja boys impatient and embarrassed for him.

The next best thing they do?

Reveal themselves. Threaten you. It's either your soul goes, or your free will goes.

They're not exactly the smartest, for sure... that came from Jinu's thoughts.

Nevertheless, it worked. You work for them now.

When you first got into this mess, you thought you'd be scared for your life every single day.

"But now I'm stuck with attention-seeking, clingy, needy arrogant—"

A slim finger touches your lips in a silent gesture. You glare pointedly at the demon.

Romance's stupid face is smiling. "Sshh. You should smile more. Like this." He stretches his lips further. "See? You're so much prettier when smiling."

There's nothing to smile about. You only huff and roll your eyes before obliging—a forced, crooked smile that genuinely made him wince.

Ignoring that and turning around, you spot Baby rummaging through your fridge again. You notice how loud he was doing it too; he intentionally does that to get your attention when he couldn't find anything he liked.

"I have some popsicles in the freezer," you say, walking over and opening the top part. Baby perks up at the sight and chuckles. "Bunch of flavors."

"Always know what we need," he snickers as he casually grabs all of them.

You ignore that and sit on the counter with Abby who's fumbling with his shirt buttons. He stiffens at the sight at you and plays it cool with a smile.

"Jinu's out again, huh?" you hum, gently taking over his task a moment ago. He relaxes in your care.

"Yeah," he nods. "Only a matter of time until the big boss calls him again."

Hmm. You don't know how to reply that. So, you simply don't. They rarely tell you anything, and if they do, it's always something you'd never have any context of.

You slip the last button off and pat his chest. "Done."

Abby stands up, his shirt flying dramatically away at the same time. You squint your eyes at his exposed abs that he's clearly so proud of.

Despite yourself, a snicker escapes you. Abby smirks and traces his pec with his thumb. "Beautiful, is it not?"

Cornball.

"Hey, wait," you turn away, leaving Abby disappointed from your lack of response, "where's Mystery?"

Oh, no.

You rush to your room and almost slam the door open—

Great. He's laying on your bed. Again.

"Mystery!" you yelp, and he immediately sits up at your voice. "Out! Out!!"

He scrambles out of your bed and teleports away. You do a quick inspection on your bed—alright. Nothing damaged at the very least.

You swear—you had two rules for them to which they agreed to: one, keep their human form. Second, STAY OUT OF YOUR BEDROOM. You have a guest room for their resting needs.

You head back to your living room, seeing them all huddled up on your couch. Each one of them having a popsicle with unique flavors.

"Baby," you call, only to end up with all of them turning to you. Your face flushes. "Uh, Baby. Give me one too."

He throws you a surprisingly not melted popsicle with a sweet smile.

"Thanks," you smile back. Then an idea comes in. They all seem like they're in a fairly good mood, so maybe you can take a break—

You grab a jacket from the rack. "Anyway, I hope you guys don't mind, but I'll go for a walk in the park—"

"NO," all of them growl, you flinch, turning around to see their demon forms—an exception to rule 1 is that it will be broken when they're deadly serious.

"..OkayIwon't"

— 🥀

working with crumbs.... saja boys writers u guys r killing it... also huntrix too pelase

[angelltheninth]

I have yet to see Kpop demon hunters today but I am craving for Jinu smut, But also I don’t like noncon/dubcon in the slightest but if this feels like it so be it lol, So may I request Jinu x huntrix member fem reader? When reader decides to investigate the saja boys by herself, The rest of the girls are obviously worried about her safety but she tells them that she’ll be okay, Cut to a couple hours later with Jinu absolutely pounding reader from behind and making her cum nonstop just as he wanted to ever since he layed eyes on her.

I can do dub-con. I don't think people realize it's a very common kink.

Pairing: Jinu x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, dub-con, rough sex, creampie, body betrayal, enemies who fuck, possessive sex, biting, hate sex

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: This movie now lives rent free in my head.

You should have listened to your friends, you should have never went after Jinu all by yourself, you should have brought backup. Now you're bent over his bed, getting your pussy pounded raw and hard from behind. "Either you and yours are getting sloppy or you're really stupid for thinking you could defeat us on your own. Or even just defeat me. Or, hah, maybe, you came here hoping this would happen."

As soon as you heard him suggest such a thing you turned your head to glare at him. Jinu grinned, his smile as demonic as it always was, no longer hidden behind that pretty facade. With your arms pinned and held behind your back you could barely move, and whenever you did you just took his cock, over and over. It was driving you insane.

"Go fuck yourself, you goddamn bastard." You gritted through your teeth, biting back your moans as his thrusts kept getting faster and faster, deeper, almost like he was trying to punish you for acting foolish. "I would never stoop so low... to want someone like you." A high pitched moan escaped from your lips when you felt the sting of his hand on your ass.

"You say that, demon hunter, but your cunt is drooling for me, so tight and wet. Hear that, how sloppy and slutty you pussy gets with demon cock in it?" He slammed his cock into you, in and out, making your legs tremble and your vision blurry. "Be honest, it'll feel so much better."

You shook your head as you felt yourself blushing. You hated it, how good Jinu's cock felt inside of you, how good this felt and yet it was so wrong. You hated him, you should hate this too so why was your body working against you in this moment? Why couldn't you tell him to go to hell like you so many times before?

"Better, that's a good girl. No more fighting me. Don't worry, this can be our little secret, no one has to know how you whore yourself out for me." His body pressed fully against your, his demonic fangs nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck and shoulder. "I won't tell if you won't, demon hunter. You got my word." The glare you gave him was challenging, you hoped threatening but that was impossible with the filthy sounds of skin slapping against skin and your pussy taking his hard cock while you moaned.

"Your word... means nothing to me." You hissed, putting as much venom and hatred in your voice as you could have. He didn't seem pleased with that, he bared his long teeth at you and you hated how your pussy clenched around him when you saw them.

"Really? Fine, makes no difference to me. But see how your team feels when you come back to them, with your cunt freshly fucked and filled with demon cum." You watched him transform from his human form into his demon form, and god, his cock felt even better like this. "I don't care if you believe me or not but I'm gonna make sure you never forget this moment. The moment when you came from being fucked by me, because of my cock, because I made you feel so good!"

With one final thrust he pushed both your bodies over the edge, and you stopped yourself just in time to not scream his name. You didn't want to feed his ego any more than you already have. Jinu laughed maniacally as he fucked his seed deep into your pussy, the wet, messy noises only adding to his feral, wild nature.

"Fuck, yes, oh, wanted this... ever since I first saw you. Wanted to carve the shape of my cock into your cunt. Make you mine." He ended with a long kiss on your shoulder, still holding you while your body trembled and your vision swam. "Mine, only mine from now on." You expected him to be rough as he pulled out but he wasn't, he was slow, stopping as he heard you hiss and whimper. "Now that's a pretty little sight."

You heard a flash of a camera and turned to see Jinu smirking with his phone in his hand, his cock still out, dripping with the combination of your release. "You...! Gross! You have no shame!"

Jinu stuck his tongue out at you, "A little keepsake for me. To tide me over until our next time."

An unpleasant, or maybe pleasant, shiver went through you at the suggestion of a next time with him. "That won't happen. I'm going to bring you to your knees before then!"

"Oh? If you wanted me on my knees all you had to do was ask. I'm very good with my tongue. I can show you next time." His words and lewd gestures made your stomach tie into knots, and an uncomfortable heat form. "I could do it now. Seems like you might need some cleaning up."

Furious you stood up on your wobbly legs and slapped him. It was pathetic, that this was the best you could muster in this moment, but it also felt good to catch him off guard. "You're dead next time I see you."

Despite the slap he grinned at you, licking his lips, "Looking forward to it, my demon hunter." He winked at before he snapped his fingers next to your ear. For a moment you didn't understand what he did, then your vision started blurring. You tried to hit him again but ended up collapsing against him. "Let's get you somewhere where the others will find you." Barely coherent you thought you felt his lips press against your forehead before you fully passed out.

[requinoesis]

After noticing patterns over the years, I created this list with 13 points to score the level of stereotypes about sharks present in a work. I believe that most of these stereotypes have their main origin in the film Jaws (1975).

With the scarcity of works that explore other creative approaches to sharks, beyond the “man-eating ” narrative, Jaws ended up consolidating itself as the greatest source of inspiration and creative reference for many productions to this day. This was called “The Jaws Effect”. 🩸🦈

I've noticed that certain patterns in the creative world repeat themselves to the point of being tedious, which bothers me. Not because they're bad, but because in many cases they're harmful. With these points, I hope to show sharks in a new light.

🩸1 - Great White Shark Popularized by the Jaws movie, the Great white shark has become the dominant archetype in the representation of sharks in fiction. Often, works choose to use this shark or a generic gray version of imprecise anatomy, with no defined species. However, there are over 400 species of shark, and very few are explored creatively.

🩸2 - Man-eater The persistent idea that sharks have humans as a natural part of their diet is one of the most widespread stereotypes. Although there are reports of incidents, most attacks are isolated and often by mistake. Any animal, including humans, could turn to unexpected sources of food in a situation of desperation or starvation.

🩸3 - Forced Behavior It's common to see sharks portrayed with distorted or exaggerated behaviors that don't match their nature just to cause tension, such as:

Hunting small fish, ignoring the fact that sharks avoid expending energy on low-energy prey.

Abandoning easy prey just to arbitrarily chase the protagonist.

Going crazy at the smell of blood.

Showing a wild and constant hunger.

Obsessively pursuing a single prey.

Making aggressive shark species known for being peaceful or timid.

Attacking and destroying objects, structures or vessels with disproportionate fury just to reach someone.

🩸4 - Monstrous appearance It's common to see sharks' appearance exaggerated to intensify visual fear, making them look like monsters rather than real animals:

A gaping mouth, with huge, crooked teeth that are constantly stained with blood.

Menacing, demonic red, black empty and soulless eyes.

Body covered in grotesque scars, exposed wounds and even weapons embedded in the skin.

A disproportionate figure, with pointed shapes, a swollen or deformed body.

Bizarre mutations that completely alter their anatomy.

Technological modifications to make them more weapon-like, emphasizing the idea of the "Killing Machine".

🩸5 - Shark de-characterization Especially in children's works, in order to be accepted by the public or the other characters in the plot, the shark is often forced to change its identity. It is transformed into a “domesticated” version, such as:

Becoming a vegetarian or a toothless shark, losing its ecological role as a predator.

Taking on exaggeratedly “funny” behavior, becoming a caricature.

Having its behavior and appearance altered to look more like a dolphin or other friendly shape, excluding striking features such as prominent fins, visible gills or a fusiform snout.

Choose to portray a specific species of shark because it seems more “friendly” to the public, such as the whale shark.

🩸6 - Limited Nature The representation of sharks in fiction is usually limited to sensationalist aspects, such as the power of their bite, the old phrase that they "smell a drop of blood in 2 million liters of water", or things like "killers from the womb".

However, sharks have some very interesting characteristics that are little explored creatively:

Acute hearing, capable of picking up sounds more than a kilometer away in the ocean.

Their electroreception, which allows them to perceive tiny electrical impulses emitted by living prey and even sense the electromagnetic field around them.

Possible link between their migrations and the lunar phases.

Incredible healing capacity and immune resistance.

Skin made up of denticles made of the same material as our teeth.

They constantly change their teeth.

Longevity and they never stop growing.

Many fish such as rémoras and pilot fish depend on and live alongside sharks.

Sensitive to pressure changes and can even predict hurricanes and tropical storms.

🩸7 - Red Presence Striking presence of red, either with the presence of blood or the color present in the design. This emphasis on red reinforces the shark's direct association with violence, danger and death, contributing to the construction of the “bloodthirsty monster” stereotype.

🩸8 - Dark Music It is common for sharks to be associated with tense, dark and threatening soundtracks whenever they appear on the scene. More often than not, I notice that when sharks are mentioned in song lyrics, it is to express some sort of comparison to some negative stereotype.

🩸9 - Threatening setting Scenarios with sharks are almost always represented in a gloomy, dark, desaturated way, empty of marine life. The environment is treated as a dangerous place by nature, shipwrecks, dark caves, areas full of garbage, explosive mines or the inhospitable depths of the sea

🩸10 - Masculinization The theme involving sharks has always been very masculine. Shark characters are rarely female, while the human characters who interact with these animals, scientists, hunters, divers or specialists, are almost always white men. Women and minorities almost never occupy central or specialized roles in these narratives.

🩸11 - Villainization Sharks are often portrayed as villains by default, carrying negative and caricatured stereotypes, for example:

Gangster or mobster

Aggressor or school bully

Criminal or loan shark

Brutish idiot or dumb henchman

Corrupt politician or authoritarian fascist figure

Indomitable monster or irrational beast

Recurring enemy, obstacle or final boss in video games

🩸12 - Objectification Sharks are often treated as mere resources or utilitarian objects in fiction. They are represented as trophies, rewards, collectibles or consumables, as if they existed only to be hunted, exhibited or eaten.

This objectification also appears in the constant presence of jaws decorating environments, teeth used as accessories, fins amputated as an ingredient, and in the display of the animal's body in a morbid way: corpses exposed, dead body hung and displayed as a trophy in harbor, parts dissected or being devoured by other creatures.

🩸13 - Death As if it weren't enough to have become a symbol of death incarnate, even in animations aimed at children, sharks almost always have the same fate: death. What's worse, their death is usually celebrated as a relief or a victory.

Impaled, butchered, set on fire, crushed, blown up, fished out or killed by another "heroic" creature, tossed about by hurricanes… In many cases, these scenes are treated with humor or graphic exaggeration, turning the destruction of the shark into a spectacle.

---

I was unsure about publishing this list as it is just personal observations from someone who loves sharks. A few people asked me for this list and said it would be worth posting, don't take it too seriously.

These stereotypes are not necessarily bad or invalid, after all, we are talking about works of fantasy and fiction. However, they could be resignified through new creative ideas that arouse feelings other than fear and terror.

Although many people's passion for sharks arose precisely from movies like Jaws and the stereotypes it popularized, it's important to remember that these same elements have been repeated almost unchanged for decades. This exhaustive repetition was largely because it was profitable, turning sharks into yet another victim of entertainment capitalism. Over time, this type of representation ended up distancing ordinary people from the reality of these animals, reinforcing fear rather than curiosity. Nowadays things are a little better, but not better enough.

The reality of sharks goes far beyond that. They are mysterious and fascinating animals, older than the first trees or dinosaurs. They have survived five mass extinctions, incredibly adapted from the abyssal depths to mangroves and freshwater rivers. They have unique senses and behaviors that are still shrouded in mystery, as well as a biology so singular that it inspires advances in science and technology. For many ancient cultures, sharks are revered as true gods of ocean balance.

I dare say that by looking after the health of the seas for millions of years, sharks made it possible for our own species to emerge from the depths of the primordial ocean. They are, in a way, guardians of our cradle of origin. And so we owe them a great deal of respect and preserve them at all costs.

To date, no creative work has managed to surpass “Jaws”. Who will be creative enough to create a new work and transform the collective imaginary of sharks from fear to fascination? 🦈✨

[sourkiki]

niki during sexxx!! like fav positions, how he would sound, what he would call his gf like pet names or dirty and what phrases would he use the most during it!! can’t stop thinking definitely hard thoughts 💥💥💥🤯

ALBUM'S CONTENT: explicit mature content, headcanon+drabble format, established relationship, dom! 西村力 x fem! reader, unprotected sex (wrap it up) ❀ 843... ᧔♡᧓ catalogue.

FROM PRODUCER: this is more of a headcanon rather than a drabble because uh, i'm too lazy whoops

Favorite position: missionary.

As much as Riki likes having sex with you, he prefers to have you in positions where he can see your face. Why? Simple. It’s so he can see how good he’s making you feel. It’s a common thing for him to have you in a missionary position. This allows him to have a clear, undisturbed view of seeing your face filled with nothing but pleasure. This also gives him an ego boost as he knows he’s the first and last to have you like this. If you try to cover your face, Riki will move your hands away, pinning them above your head, leaving you helpless as he fucks into you. 

“Ngh, R-Riki, fuck,” you whined, back arching off the bed at heavenly it feels with his cock hitting the same spot, again and again. Your boyfriend grits his teeth, tightening his grip around your wrists while the other holds onto your hips for support. Your legs were loosely wrapped around his waist, allowing him to slide in deeper. You swore you could feel his cock kissing the entrance to your cervix, making your mouth form a silent ‘O’ shape. 

Favorite position: cowgirl.

Sometimes, Riki likes letting you take charge. He doesn’t mind putting in the work but the mere thought of you leading turns him on. He likes it the most when you’re seated on his lap, like he’s your throne and you’re the queen. He won’t do anything, other than having his hands on your waist, letting you ride him, use him to your hearts’ content. 

“Shit, baby, you feel so good,” he groaned, unable to look away from the stunning, arousing sight of you bouncing on his lap. To add fuel to the fire, you were even wearing one of his shirts that completely engulfed you with your collarbones covered in hickeys exposed as it hangs off your left shoulder. Riki had pushed the shirt up, giving him a crystal clear view of your pussy lips stretched as wide as possible as you sucked him in. 

Sounds.

Maybe this is just me but Riki isn’t the type to be shy of making sounds. He’s not very loud but he isn’t quiet, either. So he’s somewhere in between. The most common sounds he’ll make is probably either a moan or a groan. He does this whenever he has you seated on his face or when he’s fucking you, mind spinning with how tight and warm you feel around his cock or mouth. 

No drabble because I’m too lazy for this shit. 

Speeches.

As discussed with my fellow freaki, we believe Riki will switch between degrading and praising. But it heavily depends on his mood. Sometimes he’s in the mood to take things slow, be a tease and edge you into oblivion until you’re a trembling, sobbing mess beneath him. 

“Riki, please..” You pleaded, a tear droplet trickling down your face when your boyfriend pulled his fingers out.

Your pussy was practically pulusing, begging for its much-needed release but Riki wasn’t satisfied yet. He smirked, eyes darkening at how desperate and needy you’ve become. And it’s all because of him. He didn’t give any warning, pushing his fingers back in, eliciting a startled gasp from you. You whined, hips jerking forward to take more of him inside, wanting to feel more—

But he pulled out again. 

Riki coos, faux sweetness in his voice. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. You can be good for me, can’t you? Only good girls get a reward, so don’t cum, or you’re not cumming at all. Not until I say so.” 

But whenever he’s going through rough times in his life, Riki’s demeanor does a switch. Screw the slow, soft sex. Now, he just wants to get rid of his pent-up stress and what other way to do it other than by releasing his stress onto you? 

“W-Wait, too much,” you weakly protested, still feeling the aftereffects of your unknown climax but your boyfriend didn’t listen. In fact, he wasn’t already listening the moment he laid his hands on you. His bangs fell forward, hovering over his dark, lust-filled eyes as he continued thrusting into you with newfound determination. At this point, you could only lay there helplessly, letting him fucked into your dripping, loose pussy. Some of your body fluids trickled down your inner thighs and seeing this, Riki scoops them up and pushes them back into your cunt, making your legs twitch. You weren’t even aware that your hips had jerked forward, meeting him in the middle. 

“Fuck, look at you, dripping wet for me. You kept saying no but your pussy still lets me in,” he sneers, reaching down to give a light smack on where you’re connected with one another, drawing a high-pitched whimper. You tightened around him and that didn’t go unnoticed by him. 

“Maybe I should make you sit on my cock everyday, split you open to keep this needy little thing full. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He continues, drawing breathless whimpers and mewls from your bruised lips. 

taglist: @minjunis, @byshens, @emisluvr. @riqomi, @rikisoup

[marauroon]

hellooooo! hope ur doing well :)

could i request a james fic where they are kind of the golden couple in school and everybody either envies them or wants to be like them because they just seem so affectionate when they are with each other and entertaining to be around and not so much of an annoying couple despite the fact they'd probably seem like they would be but when they are alone they are really quiet with their affection and they have quiet love for each other, showing their love with helping each other make pastries or one of them lying their head in the others lap while they read and it's all kind of shocking when the marauders find them quietly reading or something because they seem so hyper and fun but in reality are soo quiet-cuddly. thank you!

── . ☀︎ 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝘁. (𝗷.𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿)

you and james love each other loudly. even when there’s nobody else around to see it.

james potter x fem!reader 1.7k fluff masterlist.

AN | the lover boy of all lover boys

You’re used to the stares by now. They start the second you and James step into the corridor, your fingers laced with his like it’s the most natural thing in the world—which, for the two of you, it is.

The stares don’t faze you. They’re always there, the curious glances, wistful smiles, outright envy. You’re the golden couple. The couple. The one that first years whisper about and teachers look at with a kind of nostalgic longing, like maybe they once had what you do and let it slip away.

James Potter at your side, head thrown back in a loud laugh at something daft you just said, is an image burned into half the school’s mind.

You’re not trying to be enviable, honest. It’s just that loving James feels like a loud, bright thing sometimes. Like a firework. He talks too much when he’s around you, makes ridiculous jokes, and doesn't stop grinning. And you’re no better. You talk about him like he hung the stars in the sky—and to be fair, he may as well have.

“You want to know the secret?” you said once to Marlene, when she caught you smiling like an idiot after James kissed your cheek before Transfiguration. “He actually did hang the stars. Or at least, he’d try if I asked him to,”

Marlene rolled her eyes and muttered something like “disgusting”, but she was smiling when she said it.

James carries your books. Always has. Sometimes in his arms, most of the time levitating them just behind you with a casual flick of his wand like it’s second nature. You used to insist on carrying your own things until he said, “But why would you? I want to,” And you melted. That’s how he gets you—he always means it.

It’s always you and him in the Great Hall. James sits so close your knees knock under the table and he steals food from your plate like it’s a basic human right. You’re the kind of couple that never runs out of things to say. Half the time your friends have to tell you both to shut it during dinner. But they don’t really mind. You’re entertaining.

Together, you’re a show—but not a performance. That’s the difference. There’s no artifice. The handholding and the giggling, the way James lifts you into his arms to carry you across the muddy courtyard when it’s raining—none of it’s for anyone else. He just doesn’t want your shoes getting ruined, and he’s strong enough to do something about it.

When you laughed as he twirled you like it was a ballroom and not the entrance steps to the castle, people didn’t roll their eyes. They sighed. Because Merlin, wouldn’t it be nice to be loved like that?

But the thing that really makes you both the “blueprint”, as Sirius once so dramatically called it, is what nobody sees.

Or at least, what they’re not supposed to see.

—

You’re in the Gryffindor common room, curled in your usual corner, and the fire is soft and crackling, casting gold across James’s face. His head is in your lap, his glasses pushed up into his hair. You’re reading. He’s reading. Well, trying to. His eyes flutter closed every few minutes but he insists he’s not tired.

“You’re blinking like a cat,” you whisper, brushing a curl off his forehead.

“M’not,” he mutters, though the slur in his voice betrays him.

You smile, soft and fond, and go back to your book. His breathing evens out moments later.

You know you should wake him, but he looks so peaceful. So quiet. Nobody at school really knows this version of James—the boy who presses kisses to your temple in silence when you’re working on essays, who reads over your shoulder and murmurs corrections without teasing. Who rubs his thumb against the back of your hand absentmindedly, like he needs the contact just to think straight.

When you help him draft his Potions theory or he stays up with you past midnight working on Arithmancy, that’s love too. Not the flashy kind. Not the kind that gets you looks in the corridor or earns you snide comments from Sirius (“For Merlin’s sake, take a breath between sentences, you two,”).

No, this kind is deeper.

It’s in the gentle way James whispers, “You’re brilliant, you know,” when you manage to explain something he’s been struggling with for days.

It’s in the way you always keep a spare quill for him because he never remembers, and the way he always keeps your favourite chocolate in his satchel, just in case you’ve had a rough morning.

There’s something sacred about that kind of love. Quiet. Undemanding. Steady.

—

One afternoon, you and James are in the library, an unlikely occurrence if someone doesn’t know you properly. You’re sitting next to each other, your foot pressed against his shin under the table. There’s an open Charms text in front of you and a notebook filled with both your scrawls. He’s trying to come up with a mnemonic to remember a particularly finicky spell.

“Alright,” he says, tapping his wand against his chin. “Swinemuzzle Ensnare… Memory Eraser… Wormwood. That’s SEW. Sew what?”

“Sew a—” you pause, blinking. “I don’t know, a hat? A memory-hiding hat?”

James grins. “Ridiculous. I love it,”

You both laugh quietly, shoulders shaking, your laughter muffled by the thick library air.

And that’s exactly when the Marauders walk in.

They were probably looking for something—Remus’s notes, a textbook Peter lost, or maybe they just wanted to cause mischief in a new location. But what they find is the two of you hunched over a notebook, James’s hand lightly covering yours where it rests on the page, your eyes scanning lines of text, completely silent.

Sirius rolls his eyes fondly. “Gross, they’re revising together,”

Remus shushes him before Madam Pince can.

You look up, startled by their entrance. James blinks at them like he’s just woken from a nap.

“Oh. Hey, lads,”

Sirius stares at you like he’s seen a hippogriff do ballet.

“Why are you revising?”

James smirks, stretching. “What, you thought I was illiterate?”

“Honestly, sometimes, yeah,”

You snort and close the book. James sits back in his chair, the image of a smug, secretly cuddly boyfriend caught in the act.

Remus, ever the perceptive one, tilts his head. “So… She promised to shag you later if you actually focused?”

“Something like that,” you say, letting your fingers trail down James’s arm, not an ounce of embarrassment in your tone.

It’s not even true, but there’s no use in denying it.

Later, Sirius calls it “your secret language”.

“You two talk loud enough for the whole bloody castle, but then you’ve got this weird telepathy thing when you’re alone,”

James doesn’t even argue. Just nudges your knee with his.

You don’t think it’s weird. You think it’s love. Real love. Not just noise and theatrics, though you’ve got plenty of those. It’s in the silence. The comfort. The way you fit into each other’s lives so neatly it feels like you must have been built from the same material.

—

That night, you’re asleep before he is. Half passed out on one of the sofas in the common room by the time he returns from Quidditch practice, hair damp and messy, cheeks pink from the cold.

He finds you curled under a blanket with a book half-open in your hands.

“Hey,” he whispers, brushing your forehead.

You open your eyes sleepily. “Hi,”

James sits beside you on the couch, nudging your legs until you make space for him to lie down. You shift and let him rest his head against your chest, your fingers already finding his curls.

He exhales, long and slow, like the world has been holding its breath until now.

“Love you,” he murmurs.

You smile, bending low to kiss his forehead. “Love you more.”

And no one’s around to see it. No one to whisper about the golden couple or how perfect you look together. It’s quiet. And that’s when it feels the most real.

[dxmedstudent]

I 100% buy that it's Right Wing propaganda. One thing I hate about the "birth control is all bad" crowd is they act like having side effects or not working for everyone is somehow special and unique to birth control.

Like. No. Pretty much every medication has some potential side effects. Some are more common than others. Some medications may have more severe risks. But this is just an inherent risk that comes with taking anything - except it's USUALLY overall better to take the medication than go without.

There's this weird trend to tell people to come off BC just to 'rest their body', but honestly? Unless you're about to try for a baby there's really no need. If it's working for you, and the side effects are manageable for you, then its cool. Coming off hormonal BC if you like getting dick...without rigorously using condoms every single time WILL lead to pregnancy for over 80% of people, within a year. Each year that they have unprotected sex.

Maybe one day we'll be able to do pharmacogenetic testing or pharmacogenomic testing on a wide scale and work out which blood blood pressure medication or antidepressant or BC will work best for a patient - I've been hoping for this since my undergrad biomedicine days. But until then all we have is experience and trial and error and patience - and listening to patients, to try to work out what will work best for them. And it's imperfect, and sometimes clinicians can be AHs. But overall most of the time people are trying to do the right thing for people.

The side effects of BC are VERY similar to those of pregnancy - except pregnancy has higher risks overall. And for most people it's OK. For some people it's great - I didn't love my hair thinning or having the odd irregular bleed on the implant but I DID love not having really heavy or painful periods, my endo and fibroids improving, and not having to worry about a pregnancy at the wrong time. It's a very important treatment for a lot of us with conditions affecting our uterus, ovaries, and body outside of that. People demonise BC as if it isn't potentially life saving treatment for some of us, as well as something that improves QOL for a lot of us.

Some people truly are unlucky and don't do well with any hormonal BC, and that sucks, this is not to discount their pain - I'm very much in favour of more BC options for testicle-havers, letting people get their tubes tied early whatever their gonads, and people inventing even more forms of BC. The fact that they aren't perfect or risk free treatments isn't a reason that everyone should come off them, or that they should be demonised. There are lots of different ones to try from, most people can find something that works for them. We even have websites that will try to work out the ones most likely to work for you.

And unfortunately, "natural alternatives" just aren't there yet. The copper IUD is great for some people but obviously not the right choice for everyone - particularly if they already have painful or heavy periods as they can often make that worse.

The fertility awareness method (trying to avoid having sex during your fertile time) isn't great for anyone with an irregular cycle or who isn't also tracking their LH (peeing on a stick for at least week every month) or their basal body temperature (which you need to track every day) and cerical mucus (how much do you like staring at vaginal seretions? you'll be seeing them a lot). And its fail rate with typical use is similar to withdrawal, making around 1/5 of couples into parents for each year it is used. If combined with condoms and done consistently it CAN be reasonably effective for some people whilst they get experienced at it, but multiple people have sued period tracking apps for false claims that they can reliably help you prevent pregnancy.

Condoms are OK (typical fail rate of 15% in a year) but for some of us that doesn't feel reliable enough on its own - and you're allowed to combine non-hormonal contraceptives with other non hormonal options or a hormonal option.

But we should be extremely suspicious of anyone telling us to detox from BC as if hormones are a toxin. What are their qualifications? Why are they telling us this? What is their agenda? Are they the same people whining about the crashing birth rate and how we should all be tradwives? Why are we listening to them over actual clinicians? Because they are almost always also anti-choice and looking to control your body and tell you how to live your life.

In the UK where I work as a doctor, we noticed an uptick in pregnancies around the time that 'BC is unnatural, cleanse your body of BC to balance your hormones" became a thing. And whilst on an individual level this probably led to as lot of stress for the people who fell for the hype, at least abortion remains generally readily available via MSI, NUPAS and BPAS - I imagine the effect in places where abortion has been criminalised could potentially be catastrophic. I genuinely think this trend will (and almost certainly already HAS) led to more abortions and more unwanted pregnancies.

The funniest part of the “ummmm actually ☝️🤓 birth control can be REALLY bad for you” responses on my ‘hey I think the current health fad demonization of hormonal birth control is right wing propaganda’ post is that I can’t take hormonal birth control. It reacts badly with my body’s chemistry. But I am wise enough to understand that it is a lifesaving medication for many people and encouraging people to get off birth control if it is working for them with no adverse reactions is bad. Birth control is bad for me and it can have terrible side effects but the potential of pregnancy and periods are worse for many people.

[starkeyvhs]

unhook

PAIRING: nerd!rafe cameron x nerd!fem!reader

SUMMARY: it’s rafe’s first sleepover with his first girlfriend – who is equally shy as him – but she needs help with unhooking her bra.

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

WARNINGS: shy rafe & reader; she/her pronouns used for reader; slightly suggestive (?) but it’s soft and fluffy 🫶

EDITH SPEAKS: we don’t just have nerd rafe now, we now have nerd reader too 🥰 I loveddddd writing the two of them, just a couple of soft and shy teenagers who like each other so much but are just so anxious 🥹 I have a cool idea on the background lore of this pairing and hopefully I’ll be able to write their full fic one day 🫶 anyways! if you enjoy reading, please reblog and share any feedback you may have 💞💞 also, my inbox is open to discuss all kinds of thoughts && hcs!!! xx

masterlist / join my taglist / requests

Rafe Cameron was an expert at a lot of things: physics, maths, programming, robotics, chemistry, but there was one thing no book could ever teach him. 

And it was how to act around girls. 

Throughout his life, he thought keeping a safe distance from girls was best for him; relationships and everything else would come to him when the time is right. 

But he definitely didn’t think that time would come this soon – in high school. 

He was best known for his concentration, and how he could sit still and study for hours on end, not giving up until he was done learning what he wanted to. But this one girl, she was becoming a distraction. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was as if he could see her name hidden between the words of the book he was reading, tucked safely as a sweet memory of this new person who had just waltzed into his life. 

And somehow, the one thing that made all of this sweeter was that the girl – you – was also just like him. Just as inexperienced, just as nervous, and, he didn’t realise it, but also just as adorable as him. 

It was hard for Rafe to get his mind off someone who had so many common interests as him. You loved science and technology just as much as he did, and you both were somehow just always on the same wavelength with almost everything you talked about. 

Now, fast forwarding past the awkward talking stage (well, what’s to say it sometimes still isn’t awkward), Rafe finally bagged you, yes, that’s right, Rafe Cameron got a girlfriend. 

And a damn intelligent one at that. 

So, after everything, he has you invited over to his place for your first ever sleepover. The nerves are even more than usual, but he’s trying his best to make this work, just for the two of you. 

Starting from when you arrive till the dinner with his family, everything is super smooth. You both talk a bit, and Rafe can feel the nervousness between you two is beginning to die, to create something that’s more comforting and warm instead. 

But, all the effort he puts to make everything light hearted comes crashing down when he realises nighttime is nearing closer and closer. Meaning, the time to share a bed is getting closer. He makes the offer of his own clothes for your nightwear, which he’s super happy you accept. 

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his fingers fiddling nervously with the hem of his own shirt as he waits for you to finish changing and freshening up in the washroom. He can feel his mind go absolute berserk, an infinite number of thoughts looping themselves in his head and playing like a broken record. He’s attempting to get his mind off these thoughts, oh he is trying so hard, but he just can’t.

Rafe nervously looks up at the clock hanging on his wall and realises a little too much time has passed since you went to the washroom. It concerns him a tiny fraction, but he attempts to relax that thought by telling himself you must genuinely take time in the washroom to freshen up. 

But then he hears your voice calling out your name – oh how he loves the way his name sounds so sweet on your lips, but more on that later – and it seems as if you’re a little uneasy. 

“Yeah?” He asks, and his voice automatically takes that softness that somehow only comes up when he’s talking to you. He gets up from his bed and makes his way to the closed washroom door, gently pressing an ear to it. “Everything alright?”

A long moment of silence passes and Rafe doesn’t hear anything from across the door, which almost tempts him to call out to you again, but your voice finally crosses the wood. 

“I uh… I need help,” Your voice is already muffled due to the hardwood barrier between you two, but the obvious timidness in your tone makes it even more difficult for Rafe to catch your words. 

“Yeah yeah, what is it, sweets?” He says softly, the nickname rolling off almost effortlessly. Whoa, where did that confidence come from? Again, a topic reserved for a much later conversation. 

Another long moment of silence passes, and Rafe can now sense the anxiousness through the door, understanding that whatever it is, it’s making you feel more shy than usual. 

“My, my bra hook’s stuck… I need help with it,” Somehow, your voice has gotten even quieter. 

Now it’s Rafe’s turn to get quiet. 

It takes time for your words, and their implication, to settle in him. His limbs feel permanently tethered to the ground below him by a strong force, and that nothing can make him budge. But he soon realises that force is entirely superficial and it’s his own nerves keeping him fixed. 

Fighting the strong nerves he musters the courage to speak up again. “You, you need my help?” He asks. 

“Yes please,” comes your reply and he hears a heavy exhale escaping you along with your words, as if you’re letting go of the heavy weight of having to tell him what your current situation is. 

But god, Rafe doesn’t have a single clue how he’s going to react on what’s bound to happen next. 

He hears you unlock the door from inside, and he wraps his fingers around the doorknob, slowly twisting it to open the door. 

You’re standing in the center of the washroom, your back towards the door. He can see you’ve changed into his old shorts he gave you, but the t-shirt is sitting on the counter and you’re standing in just your bra. When you hear the door creak open, you turn to look over your shoulder and meet Rafe’s eyes. 

The moment you see him, you shy your gaze away from him. “Uh, it’s stuck real bad…” you mumble quietly. 

“Oh uh, I’ll… I’ll have a look,” Rafe mutters, moving closer to you so there’s barely any space between you two. He can feel the warmth of your back against his chest and it seems so inviting and soft. 

His heart begins to thump loud in his chest, and the deep curtain of silence that envelopes you two makes it even more loud to his ears. 

Rafe swallows the lump in his throat and lifts his hand up. He brings his fingers close to your back so that the fingertips are almost hovering over the inviting skin. 

Do it, Rafe, do it. You’re here to help her, that’s it.

Subconsciously nodding to himself, Rafe lets his fingertips gently press over your back and oh my god your skin is so damn soft. The situation is making heat rush to his face, and he just knows his cheeks are tinted with a champagne pink which is very hard to miss.

He can hear the hitch in your breath the moment his fingers touch your skin, as if the small contact is spreading an electric current throughout your body. Rafe lets his fingers linger over the bra hook, and he brings his other hand up too, attempting to sort the stuck hook out. 

“It’s a little stuck…” he murmurs under his breath as he has his way with the hook, but also makes sure none of his movements are too harsh that it hurts you in any way. 

“That bad?” You ask meekly, glancing at Rafe over your shoulder. He catches the look of sheepishness on your face, knowing how awkward you might be feeling in this situation. 

“I just need a minute, yeah?” He tells you softly, and allows himself to be a little bold, letting his hand drift over your shoulder and squeeze it softly. As much as his heart is beating fast in his chest and his fingers are itching to feel the expanse of your soft flesh, he also knows he should be a little confident because that’ll help you feel a little more comfortable. 

His actions do the expected, your tense shoulders relax a bit and you nod to let him continue. Rafe brings his hands back to the hook and lets out a deep breath. Okay, lets just look at this carefully. He takes a moment to inspect exactly how the hook is stuck, and then, carefully, he lets his fingers work through the stuck hook. 

It takes a long moment, both him and you standing in the quiet space of the bathroom with bated breaths, but finally, Rafe pops open the hook. That is the moment when your body gets fully relaxed, and he understands how relieving it must be for you to not have a tight constraint around your chest anymore. 

He can’t convince himself to bring his hands back down to his sides, his palms now fully resting on your back above your shoulder blades. You stand there, keeping a hand over the bra to keep yourself covered. 

“Are you feeling better?” He asks softly, feeling a little more bold as his fingertips begin to trail over your back, tracing over the length of your spine till your tailbone and coming back up right at the nape of your neck with a touch so slow and gentle. 

“Yeah…” you murmur, “thank you so much, Rafe,” 

Rafe can’t help the small smile that pulls his lips at your words. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your shoulder, letting his lips linger against your skin for a moment. “You’re welcome,” he mumbles softly into your skin, before pulling back. 

He clears his throat and reluctantly gets his hands off you, taking a step back towards the door. “I’ll uh, I’ll let you change yeah?” He says softly and watches you nod, but this time you don’t turn to look at him. He makes his way out of the washroom and steps out, closing the door behind him and resting his head back against the hardwood. 

He closes his eyes, letting out soft puffs of air through his exhales as his mind plays back the last few moments: his fingers on your skin, soaking up its velvety feel. 

He doesn’t know where he got the wave of confidence from which allowed him to touch you that beautifully, but somewhere, he’s glad he got it, because now, he absolutely can’t even think of anything else besides you, your supple skin, and how he might ultimately get to feel more than just your back under his hands. 

Well, this only makes him ecstatic about the impending sleepover. 

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

taglist: @oxpogues4lifexo / @inthelibrarybtw / @mccaffreyswifey / @chenslucy / @totalswag / @wearemadeofstardust0 / @percysley / @superswaggycooch / @kaileashiftz / @weirdowithnobeardo / @chimchimjiminie16 / @ursovaine / @mariamadison6-blog / @snowtargaryen / @htlkira / @hrtshapedblg / @cherrys-muses / @mattyskies

specific tags for this fic: @maybejj / @appleciderlove / @starkeyszn

tagging a few moots: @runningfrom2am / @ilyrafe / @zyafics / @nemesyaaa / @ladyinbl00d / @jjsbank444 / @b1mb0slvt / @maddsxfall / @congratsloserr

[wordsofyore]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem. Reader

You know this isn't really normal.

It would have been one thing if this was just a good old crush. Typical stuff, as far as crushing on someone usually goes for you--someone forever distant, forever unattainable--the perfect candidate to pin all your hopes and dreams on for a time, until you inevitably become lucid and tear down the billboard-sized image of the man in your heart. Rinse and repeat. The distance keeps you safe and comfortable.

And a part of you dares to admit the quiet part out loud--you enjoy the yearning. The sting, the bittersweet soup of emotions and what-ifs.

But now, that all-important distance is the very thing you are breaching without even deliberating on it, a compulsion akin to a moth being drawn to a flame. Perhaps it wouldn't have been a big deal if it had been any other man. Yet, it is.

Because you're crushing on Lieutenant Simon fucking Riley.

It isn't hard to miss the guy, with how he is, of course. The forever skullface-masked behemoth of a man has a habit of drawing one's eye to him the moment he enters a room, without having to utter a word. Half the time he merely grunts anyhow, but your ears pay their due attention any time he deigns to quip something in his no nonsense Mancunian accent.

And your poor little battered heart sings in delight, every single time.

Of course, as a lower ranked service member, your schedules don't really match with someone of his tier, so you make sure to linger around the gym and common areas, and certain entry points to catch sight of him, whenever you can. Observing. Noting habits and preferences. Carefully penning them down in the personal journal you like to hide under your pillow. He's a creature who's as enigmatic as it gets, and the mask makes it that much harder to get a read on him. It's only when you're 20 pages deep into your journal, recording your stream of consciousness in the dead of night, that you get the inkling that maybe, just maybe, this might be a little too much.

Stalkers were supposed to be creepy, maladjusted, sinister little characters, preying on their victims until things reached a boiling point. And while you had a low opinion of yourself in many regards, you didn't quite consider yourself to be that level of depraved. Yet isn't this what it was, really? Stalking, despite keeping a sizeable distance between yourselves (because Lord knows being observant is an essential requirement in this line of work, and you are more than aware someone of Simon's calliber would be even more so. The last thing you want is to be caught by one of his mates, or God forbid, Simon Riley himself, in this shameful act).

This rare moment of precious lucidity casts a fog on your spirits, a thick concoction of shame and desire and guilt.

You know what? Yeah.

Maybe this is a bit much. Maybe you shouldn't be leaving little gifts for the guy (fairly practical supplies, really, things like good quality tea brands you couldn't find on base), despite making sure you wouldn't be caught on surveillance. There were things at stake here, important things like your goddamn career and reputation. You might be addicted to pining and habitually putting your heart through the wringer for no discernible reason, but you knew your limits. You had to.

And no, you certainly didn't want his attention on you--you wouldn't know what to do with it, the very thought makes your palms sweat and legs jittery.

The gifts were all unsigned and without notes, at least. And generic enough that he could assume one of his mates left them out of the kindness and generosity of their golden hearts. Something like that.

Reduce the frequency with which you hover around him--another no brainer. And of course, one last, critical step, getting rid of that stupid little journal, regardless of how sad it made you feel.

It has all these cute little tidbits about him, things you like to read over when insomnia grips you in its capricious hold. Some dry joke he muttered to his Scottish sergeant, the way he drinks his tea, a little too detailed description of his lips and jawline the times he lifts his mask to eat at the mess hall. Even a few amateur sketches. And of course, generous amounts of waxing lyrical about his forearms and thighs while he's working out at the gym. Bloody embarrassing.

So the next time you find a chance to finally breathe, you reach for your pillow, flipping the sad little sack over to reveal the incriminating piece of evidence, armed with a pair of cheap scissors. Only for your heart to drop to your stomach at terminal velocity when you find nothing beneath. Your right hand helplessly clutches the scissors while your left pats the bed as if doing so would conjure up the well-loved journal out of thin air. Did you misplace it somewhere yourself? Or were your mates being little shits, snooping around like rats for a practical joke, and accidentally discovered the little paperback? If so, fuck them--you won't be living this down. If not get outright in a little hot water were a senior with a stick up their ass gets word of it. The worst outcome of course would be if Simon Riley himself was to somehow learn of this too, the cherry on top of a shit cake.

You force yourself to take a few calming breaths--if nothing, your stint in the military at least taught you this much. It's okay--you'll just have to check every spot you frequent and cross them off your list. At this hour, the juniors will at least be out of your way with their curfew. Silver lining and all that.

_

Except, by the time you make a whole damn lap of the base and come full circle, you're tired to your bones and miserable beyond words. Because no amount of keeping calm and carrying on is helping you when you can't see skin nor hide of your purple prosed diary.

Leaning your forehead against the door of your room, you sigh in defeat, the rattling of your heart loud in your ears in the silence of the hallway. Everyone else seems to be asleep at least, missing out on being an audience to your soap opera.

"Fucking hell..."

Just as another quiet string of expletives leaves your mouth, in what's like the blink of an eye, you feel the presence of a looming figure, causing you to whip around in defense, fists locked, ready to fight.

Except when you have to crane your neck to meet the person's gaze, you already know who it is before you, standing so close, his hulking mass invading your space with the casualness of an aloof cat. Your hands drop uselessly the moment you are pinned beneath his gaze, pressing yourself up against the door in a bid to create some breathing space.

"Lookin' for somethin', love?" Simon Riley gruffly asks with a tilt of his head, placing his hand against the wall next to your head. His very first words to you. Your head almost goes blank.

"Uh," you avert your eyes, voice hitching, "N-No? I'm not sure what you're talking about, LT-sir."

"Is that right, soldier," he more so states, leaning in ever closer, cutting off your viewpoint of anything besides himself. "Been watchin' ya."

You balk at the matter of fact statement.

"Watching... me?" you grimace.

Riley merely grunts, before adding, "Got myself a cute little stalker, ain't I?"

All you can do is impersonate a dying fish as you stare up at him in abject horror, overworking heart beating out of your chest.

"Not seen you down the gym in a bit. Or in the mess," he stops for a moment, as if remembering something, "Or the shootin' range."

"Again, I have no idea what you're implying here, sir," you quickly lick your dry lips and decide to stare at his broad chest with great interest instead, propriety be damned.

"Let's not play dumb, love. You're a smart girl," Simon huffs, almost as if holding back one of those dry laughs, "You like me?"

This time you can't restrain the soft gasp you let out as you jerk up at his frank question.

"What...?" you faintly ask, stomach churning.

"Do you like me?" He enunciates his words this time, as if that was the core of the issue. The corners of his eyes crinkle with what looks to be amusement. His brown eyes almost look welcoming. Like home. Like a warm hearth in the dead of winter.

Of course you like him.

You like him so damn much you don't know what you should do with these feelings. And you do want to be frank, just like he's encouraging you to be. But you're equally terrified of verbally confirming what you've been up to, straight to the man himself. You can't help but want that layer of plausible deniability.

"You," Simon leans down further as if that's somehow possible, with how he's hovering over you, mere centimeters away, "like your egg banjos wi' a daft amount o' raw onion. Listen to the same three songs when you're workin' out," he tilts his head, thoughtful. "Like sneakin' off to that cat shelter when you're off-duty. Even helped 'em name one of the kitties after me."

By this point, you'd qualify as a mute. You feel lightheaded even.

"Want me to carry on, love? Or shall we just sort a proper date instead?" he sniffs, looking a touch bemused. "You got a few things wrong about me in that little journal o' yours. I'll be settin' those straight, don't you worry."

[katscki]

hiiii it’s me 🌷 currently obsessing over kats using my throat as long as he wants :3

also random but do u think he’s a titties or ass guy ? i really can’t decide im leaning more towards titties but idkkkk!

Omg

Sex Hcs for bkg

He would loveeeee when you lay down on the bed asking him to fuck your throat. He could never ask you himself because he doesn’t want to hurt you but when you ask… one hand is on your tit and the other is feeling him fuck your mouth through your neck. He loves it even more when you spread your legs to play with your pretty pussy while he does it, gives him a show.

He loves every single part of you but I believe he is an ass man through and through. It all started back in your third year when he began to have a crush on you. He noticed all the little things and that lead to him staring at where your perfect legs met your uniform skirt, dying to see what underwear you had over your gorgeous ass. He was a very respectful boy but he couldn’t help tilting his head a little bit as you walked away trying to get a good view.

Speaking of third year, you were his first everything. So when you finally made out for the first time and he got two handfuls of your ass? He was a mess.

He loves watching your pretty pussy stretch around his cock then looking up at your half lidded eyes that beg him to keep going. And once his thumb finds your clit they flutter closed in the most beautiful way.

He’s a slut for dirty talk, he knows that you can’t really respond to him, just moan out his name. And that’s why he loves it so much. It makes you make the noises he’s addicted to and your cunt tighten up around him. “Yeah~ that’s it baby… look so fuckin perfect under me. Feel good sweet girl?” All to have you nod uncontrollably.

He can get off on the sounds you make alone, nothing even has to touch his dick but when you’re moaning so sweetly it’s like the cum is already dripping from his cock. However It becomes a problem when you’re sitting in the common room just stretching out and then moan a little, the poor boy is so fucking hard and all it took was a little “ngh~” while your arms are above your head.

He would never tell you this but he knows exactly when you’re going to ovulate. As sad as it is he waits all month for this time because he knows that when he goes home you’re going to jump his bones and fuck him till he can’t speak. Waits at the agency all day like a teenager touching a girl for the first time. And he was right, when he got home you’re kissing him sweet nothings, asking about his day but not really caring. Then somehow you’re riding him right there on the floor. He loves when you ovulate because you force him to cum five times just to “make it stick Suki~”

As much as he wants to deny it, he was so horny when he was a teenager n when you get him in bed, it’s clear he tried to make up for lost time fucking you over and over again. He tries to have sex or at least make you cum once a day at least. Unless one of you is sick or he’s gone for work.

The first time he knew he wanted to marry you was when he came home to your shared apartment and found you in your room, wearing his hoodie moaning his name, as you plunged a dildo, that he got specially made to be like his dick, into you. Instantly he opens the door and comes over to you on his knees to eat you like a mf. Fucking you with the toy himself as he tongues at your clit.

All in all he is just fucking addicted to everything about you and wants to experience all the lovin you have to give.

[meruhenshoujo]

Religious reference, but this reminded me of a hadeeth. (I also wound up talking about a success story about bringing an animal back from extinction in the wild, because I love deer and gazelles, stick around for a hopeful story, even if there are also horrible poachers.)

Anas ibn Malik reported that the Prophet, may Allah bless him and grant him peace, said, "If the Final Hour comes while you have a shoot of a plant in your hands and it is possible to plant it before the Hour comes, you should plant it."

We are never supposed to give up on this earth. Even if literal Judgment Day comes, when people abandon those closest to them, from spouses to children, worrying only about themselves and the fate of their own souls, if we can finish planting a sapling, we should do it.

We cannot give up on Earth.

Also... for a lovely local gazelle species, the Arabian oryx (Maha, so if you hear of Arab women with names like Maha and Reem, they're named after the oryx and rhim gazelles respectively) that once roamed free in large herds, but were hunted to extinction in the 1970's, with the last wild Arabian oryx killed in rhe Empty Quarter [Rub'il-Khali] desert in Saudi Arabia. However, some remained alive in captivity, zoos and personal ownership.

A common Yemeni citizen (because we barely have official government wildlife organizations here in Saudi Arabia nor in Yemen where he's from, although that's changed!), Basil As-Saedi bought all the Rhim gazelles he could from captivity, and raised them, letting then multiply, wanting to save them.

A Hadhrami man from Hadhramout (a mountainous region bordering Yemen, Oman, and Saudi Arabia), 'AbdulLah Al-Duweila, did the same thing with the Arabian oryx, buying them from various sources, and building a reserve for them.

There have been tragedies, like one recorded where they found either recently freed or escapes (I forget which) gazelles from a reserve and scumbag poachers or even just one stupid, idiot poacher killed them all, and left their bodies lying dead, a complete waste of their lives, which must have been so heartbreaking for the rescuer(s) who freed them...

Sadly not the only incident, there were other Saudis recording themselves, quite proudly, on social media, having massacred a great number of gazelles from a reserve (a government-funded one!!!)...

[CW dead animals]

But despite all setbacks, the Arabian oryx is no longer extinct, not even critically endangered, and it is now classified only as vulnerable! As its habitat is still at risk, so it could go extinct in the wild again unless conditiona improve, but they are helped by great numbers in captivity enabling breeding programs.

The Arabian oryx now exist in the thousands (1100 in the wild), 6000~7000 in wildlife reserves, zoos, and some under private ownership in gardens still. ♡

why bother caring about the environment when 1. It’s so obviously a lost cause and 2. There’s definitely going to be a nuclear war?

And what are you doing about it Anon? Learn about ecological restoration or get out of my way.

[yamumsyadadd]

the end of the road

The start of a new series :) alexia Putellas x Leah Williamson!ex wife. Other writings about it here: 4 times

When you were thirteen you thought you met the love of your life, but now at twenty-six you realised you were wrong. 

Leah had always been the pretty, popular girl. When you immigrated to Melton Kaynes in 2013 with your papa, you were intimidated by her. Her natural blonde hair and blue eyes made everyone fawn over her. Everyone but you. Though that would quickly change. 

After an assignment threw the two of you together, she wanted to be around you. You didn’t think you were anything special, your ordinary brown hair, brown eyes and Spanish skin but to Leah, you were the most beautiful person she’d ever seen. 

There was something about your demeanour that drew her in. Maybe it was the fact that you didn’t care what people thought about you, or the way you helped others in class when they didn’t understand. She wasn’t sure, but she was ready to risk everything for you. 

Leah would follow you around like a puppy begging for a crumb of food. She wanted your attention, for you to see her. Truthfully you did see her but you weren’t confident in your own sexuality, so why would you be confident in hers? 

Slowly, your walls around her came down. You had a lot more in common than you realised. Her parents were divorced and so were yours. The only difference was who you lived with. Your mami had stayed behind in Spain, continuing on with the group homes and foster care foundation she had started. Your papa opted to move back to England and extend the foundation to more European countries. 

It was a random Tuesday when you first kissed Leah. She was rambling on about some football thing she disagreed with and you couldn’t help it. After the initial confusion Leah kissed back. It didn’t even get to the end of the day before she asked you to be her girlfriend, you were slightly hesitant, but said yes nonetheless. 

You tried to hide the relationship from both your parents. Your mami was the one that caught it first, secretly telling your papa not to freak out if and when you decided to share the news. It took a few months before you felt confident and comfortable enough to share it with them. 

Since their divorce, they remained friends. Real friends, there was no huge fight or cheating that caused it, they simply just grew apart and no longer loved each other in that way. As all three of you sat around the dinner table in Barcelona, you started to cry. The overwhelming feeling that your parents would be disappointed, angry or even resentful.

“Querida, what’s wrong?” Your mami was alarmed, one minute you were all laughing then you burst into tears. 

“I’m in love with Leah. She’s my girlfriend, I’m a lesbian.” It came out in a mumbled mess. “Please don’t be mad.” You quickly added once you realised neither of your parents were talking. 

“Pumpkin, we know.” Your papa smiled at you. 

“You do?” 

“Of course. Why do you think you have to keep your bedroom door open when she’s over? Or that she has to sleep in the guest room for sleepovers?” Oh. You never thought about that. 

“Why would we be mad?” 

“I don’t know. I guess because I won’t give you grandkids?” 

“You can have a baby another way. I’m sure if and when the time comes, you will give us the most perfect grandchildren.” Your mami wiped your tears. She was wrong though. 

As the years progressed, so did your relationship with Leah. Throughout the final two years of highschool you were an anchor to each other. When your mami was diagnosed with breast cancer, she was there. 

When your mami died eighteen months later, she was there. Holding you on the hospital floor as you sobbed so hard you made yourself sick. The entire time Leah was by your side, refusing to leave, letting you cry into her until you passed out. 

At twenty, Leah proposed in the country side of England. Without hesitation you tackled her to the ground repeatedly saying yes. You were going to marry the woman of your dreams. 

It felt like a dream, telling your friends and family, throwing an engagement party, having everyone congratulate you. Never in a million years did you expect for this to happen. 

Thanks to the inheritance you received from your mami, you were able to buy a house big enough for you and Leah, maybe a few kids down the line. It wasn’t the biggest or fanciest house, but it was yours. It felt and smelt like home. 

After being engaged for two years, you had set a date. The wedding was everything you and Leah had dreamed of. Her teammates from throughout the years, high school friends and your family from Spain were all in attendance. There wasn’t an ounce of doubt in either of your minds. 

After the reception, you and Leah were able to sneak away for a few quiet moments. 

“You look so beautiful.” She said as she wrapped her arms around your waist. 

“So do you. I love you.” Your hand ran along her jaw as you took in the way she looked. Wanting to savour this moment forever. 

“I want to have a baby.” You were slightly taken aback with her serious tone but agreed straight away. 

Almost as soon as the honeymoon was over, the fertility treatments started. It didn’t take long, your second try, and you were pregnant. The pregnancy was a dream, you had limited morning sickness and no stretch marks. You and Leah were in heaven. But then the world shut down.

The COVID-19 restrictions awoke something inside of you. The feeling of missing your home country, the people who helped run the foundation and your mamis best friend, Marisol. You longed to go back to Spain, but with Leah’s football career kicking off you knew it wasn’t a possibility. 

The birth of your first child, a boy called Oscar, was something so magical and beautiful. You laboured at home with Leah for as long as you could, she was there doing whatever she could. Getting ice, massaging your lower back, swaying with you. You name it, Leah did it. 

After 49 hours, Oscar came into the world screaming incredibly loudly. As soon as he was put on your chest, both you and Leah burst into tears. 

Oscar was a dream baby. For a while it was just the three of you. While it was completely exhausting, it was worth it. You and Leah had created the most perfect little boy. You were happy with the life you created but you still longed to return home. 

It was harder to run the foundation from England then you anticipated. Marisol was taking care of the Spanish part of it, your dad looking after Germany and Switzerland. The UK was on you. Everything would go perfectly and then, in a blink of an eye, things would fall apart. 

Cracks started to appear in your marriage too. Leah was in the prime of her life, travelling all over for football, but you were stuck. Oscar was in nursery throughout the day when you worked but you couldn’t help but feel empty. 

Leah was coming home later, sometimes close to midnight. The sex had dwindled to maybe once a fortnight if you were lucky. You were the one that did everything. The laundry, house cleaning, paid all the bills, took Oscar to swimming and little kickers, read his bed night stories. It was as if you were a single parent. 

Then you noticed the signs. The change of the her phone password, no more flaunting you on social media, inviting you to team events. She made it seem like she was single. 

Oscar was only fourteen months old. You could see the future you hoped for disappear in a flash. Amanda, Leah’s mum, had taken Oscar for the night. It was supposed to be your date night. 

But as you sat there in the couch, heels thrown off near the door, dress started to feel constrictive, you realised that Leah wasn’t coming home. 

It was well past midnight when Leah came in. smelling like alcohol and someone else’s perfume. 

“Where have you been?” You asked, anger evident in your voice. 

“Out with mum.” She couldn’t even lie properly. 

“That’s a lie.” You said as you stood up, “your mum has Oscar. He’s been there since 3pm.” You watched her reaction. You walked closer to her, wanting her to know how serious you were, “I don’t care who she is. If you keep seeing her, we are done. Oscar and I will go back to Spain.” 

“Babe-“

“No.” You put your hand up to stop her, “it’s us or her. You decide.” 

She chose your family. You never asked who the girl was, you suspected, but it was never confirmed. You made her go to therapy, then for you both to go to marriage counselling. You worked hard to regain trust and Leah proved to you again why you loved her. 

It took six months but then stupidly you agreed to a second baby. For the first two trimesters Leah was there. Helping more with Oscar, doing house work, taking you out on dates and being the loving wife you knew she was. 

As you were nearing your final month of pregnancy, things were getting harder. Leah was barely around, the love you once shared seemed to be a distance memory. Most nights you cried yourself to sleep, hand in your belly as you did so. 

You needed help, Leah would have excuse after excuse so you hired a nanny. Isobel was from Spain too, spending the year studying in London. She was perfect, you were able to speak your mother language to her, Oscar picked it up quickly too. 

It was a relief. To have the help with Oscar and household chores. You got to focus on the last few days of work before you went on maternity leave. The due date of your daughter was approaching fast, as was Christmas. 

The Christmas market was a favourite of yours. The light snow dusted the ground, the smell of cinnamon and hot chocolate filled the air. Oscar looked so cute in his winter suit with his gloves and hat, and there was Leah. Looking as beautiful as you remembered. 

You felt giddy like a children when she told you she’d be joining the two of you tonight. This would probably be your last outing as a family of three. By the time you were at home in bed, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. You were incredibly happy that your family was slowly coming back together. 

It didn’t last long though. On December 21st, you sat at home on the couch. Oscar was already in bed asleep and the time was nearing 8.30pm. All day you had been having slight contractions, but the sharp pain that ripped across your stomach was nothing you’d ever felt before. 

Something was very wrong. 

You tried ringing Leah. Over and over again. But each time she declined the call. You texted and she left you on read. The final text message you sent that she did reply to broke your heart. 

You: somethings wrong Leah. I’m bleeding and the pain is horrible. 

Leah: what do you want me to do about it?”

You: I need to go to the hospital. Oscar is asleep. 

Leah: call an uber or something. Idk. 

The anger you felt was very quickly replaced with fear. Your two and a half year old son was sleeping upstairs, your wife was being a bitch and there was no other option than to call for an ambulance. 

So that’s what you did. First you rang Amanda, Leah’s mum, then you rang an ambulance. As you potted around the loungeroom, blood was dropping onto the floor. You knew it needed to be cleaned before Oscar woke up otherwise he would freak out. 

Thankfully, Amanda arrived quickly and so did the ambulance. 

“Leah’s not coming. Please stay with Oscar.” You begged her as they loaded you up. Something flashed across Amanda’s face, probably anger and disappointment in her daughter but at that moment all you could focus on was your own daughter. 

Somewhere along the way you rang your dad and Marisol begging them to come as fast as they could. They tried but ultimately you gave birth to your beautiful daughter alone, at 4.44am. 

You were exhausted and didn’t even bother looking at your phone, missing the millions of instagram notifications until it was too late. 

Marisol was the first to get to the hospital, meeting your daughter, Amelia, a mere 45 minutes after she was born. She told you how proud she was of you, how you did such a good job and you couldn’t help but cry. 

Since your mami had died, Marisol took over that role. She was your mamis best friend, your godmother, one of the best people you knew. After a few hours and minimal sleep, you decided to message Leah. Letting her know that her daughter had been born. 

Before you could though you were overwhelmed with the amount of notifications on your phone. As you clicked on one, it lead you to the comments section of an instagram post. 

A post that contained your wife and a teammate. Kissing. At the same Christmas markets you took your son to a few days prior. You couldn’t stop the sob that came out of your mouth. Both your dad and Marisol stopping what that were doing immediately.

“What’s wrong!” 

“Is something hurting?” 

“Leah-“ was all you were able to get out, shoving your phone into Marisol’s hand. Their hearts broke for you, less than 10 hours after giving birth you found out your wife was cheating on you. 

It started to make sense. The distance, the late nights and early mornings, the way she separated herself. It made you nauseous. Was she cheating when she begged for a second kid? Did she fuck someone in the house you lived in together? In your bed? 

Before you had the chance to completely spiral, Oscar ran into the room. Excited to meet his baby sister and see his mama. There was a look of anger on Jacob’s face when he walked in and saw Leah still wasn’t there. 

For an hour they kept up appearances but then you politely asked everyone but Amanda to leave. 

“Leah cheated on me. I don’t know details, and I don’t want to know details but I want all of her stuff out of my house by the time I’m home.” 

Amanda was confused so you took the liberty to show her the photos. Confusion turned into anger. She called her own family to organise the removal of Leah’s belongings, your dad took the chance to call a locksmith. 

If or when Leah decided to return to the family home she would find all of the locks changed and her belongings at her mother’s. 

You were good in a crisis. Level headed and calm, always the first point of call when something went wrong with the foundation and this was no different. The crisis was now your life and you had to fix it. 

Christmas was a good distraction, Leah had attempted to reach out, to promise it was a mistake, a one time thing. but the wound had been created and she couldn’t fix it now. 

Over new years Oscar struggled. You all did. thankfully your dad and Marisol hung around for as long as they could. 

Leah had only met Amelia twice. By the second time she didn’t seem interested at all. As if this baby was just a burden to her. Amanda visited often, as did Jacob. One night you decided to break the news to them. Oscar was already passed out in bed and Amelia was asleep in the bassinet. 

“I’m moving back to Spain. The kids will obviously be coming too. I’m selling the house.”

“What about Leah?” Amanda asked. 

“She can see the kids whenever she likes. I won’t keep them from her. However in the last week she hasn’t reached out at all.”

“That’s it? You’re giving up?” Jacob asked, raising his voice. 

“There’s nothing to give up on Jake. She cheated, she ruined this family. Not me. I gave birth alone, I have been raising our son alone.” 

“Have you told her?” 

“I tried. She left my message on read. I sent in the divorce papers, I don’t want any money from her, I don’t want to fight over this but I will if I have to.” 

Amanda let a few tears slip before she spoke up, “you deserve better.” 

“Mum!”

“No jacob she does. Leah broke this family, Leah left her wife alone to give birth, she went out to a public place and snogged a teammate. You can love your sister but this, this is her fault. Y/n, I will support you through this. You’re a wonderful mother, both those kids are incredibly lucky to have you.” You cried as she hugged you goodbye, the chapter was closing and while it is what you wanted, you felt incredibly heartbroken. 

Leah fought the divorce. It was ugly and it was messy. The prenup prevented either of you from getting each other’s money, you would keep the house. The judge agreed that sole custody would reside with you for the mean time and in a year it would be revisited. 

The alienation started almost immediately. Leah would tell Oscar it was you that broke up the family, that you were taking him away from her. Never once did you correct her, there was no way you wanted to mess up his toddler mind more than it already was. 

Spain was a breath of fresh air. You had reached out to Isobel, explaining most of what had happened and said if she was to find herself in Barcelona anytime soon, you’d happily hire her again. 

Oscar settled into his new daycare easily, at home he wasn’t so settled. You tried to be understanding, but it was so incredibly hard. Your marriage was over, your soon to be ex wife was alienating your son, the friends you shared with her slowly stopped reaching out. 

Once your maternity leave ended, you threw yourself into the foundation. Wanting to make it grow, fix everything you could. 

The idea of a compound came to you in the middle of the night. Amelia was teething and as you sat there comforting her you thought about all the teen parents doing the best they could. Fostering teenagers wasn’t something many people did, so foster a teenager who had a baby was even more limited. 

You drew up a rough plan, something to discuss with Marisol later in the day. It consisted of an apartment style complex, 6 or 7 houses, 1 and 2 bedroom apartments with one on the end for a caregiver. 

When you bought the idea up with Marisol and Miriam, the manager of the under 10s portfolio, they were on board immediately. It wouldn’t be easy to pull off but you were sure you could do it. 

While you threw yourself into work to get over the heartbreak, Leah threw herself into the beds of other women. No matter how hard to tried to avoid it, there was pictures and comments plastered on the internet. 

Oscars behaviour was getting worse. After every phone call, every quick visit, he would come back rude and mean. You knew he was struggling but you also knew that he couldn’t talk to people like that. Leah refused to help, she claimed he was the perfect child for her and this was all your fault. 

As the months pushed on, you worked tirelessly to began this project and when it started, you couldn’t help but shed some happy tears. All the extra hours you put in once the kids were asleep was finally going to pay off. 

When Leah tore her ACL you were conflicted. On one hand you were sad she wouldn’t be able to captain her team in the World Cup, but on the other hand she would be able to be move present in your children’s lives. 

Her relationship with the now five month old Amelia, was practically nonexistent. You weren’t breastfeeding, finding that it was causing you more stress than it was worth. When offered to have her over night, Leah would straight up refuse. It was getting to a point that was concerning to you. At no point did you want your daughter to grow up feeling less Love from her own mother. 

Oscar’s third birthday was fast approaching. Leah, who had done her knee, wouldn’t be attending the pre-world cup camps. Her family and yours would come together in Spain and celebrate him. As much as it hurt seeing her and her family, you had to swallow your own feelings to put Oscar first. 

He loved every second of it, all the attention, the food, the love. It had been a while since he had been that happy. As the day came to a close, Jacob and Oscar were outside on the trampoline, Marisol and Amanda were pottering around tidying up and you had just put Amelia to sleep when Leah came up behind you. 

“I miss you.” She whispered, learning up against the door frame. 

“Leah-“

“No I do. I know I fucked up but I want to fix it. I love you, only you.” She looked at you like you hung the moon, as much as you still loved Leah, you couldn’t do that to yourself. 

“I can’t Leah. You cheated on me, left me to have a baby alone. I know you’re sad and scared and whatever but I’m not the person to find comfort in. I’m sorry.” You tried to push past but she grabbed on your arm. In an instant her mouth was on yours, kissing you. 

For a moment you let yourself melt into it. Forgetting what it was like to be kissed by here but then you realised what was happening and pushed her off. “Leah no.” It’s all you could muster before you headed back outside to collect Oscar. 

After that night, something in Leah switched. She started to be more cruel, not just to you but everyone around. 

You tried to co parent with her, but ultimately you had to take her back to court and get help. From that point on, all communication went through a parenting app. The lawyers and court could read it all and see what was being said. 

The worst part of it all was watching the fallout on social media. Leah’s fans were coming for your throat. Everything was your fault, it didn’t matter that she cheated, that she ruined your family. To them, their favourite captain could so no wrong. 

things changed when you met alexia. You were scared, nervous but mostly excited.

[karmavongrim]

Field Trip to my Heart fanfic idea

One of my favorite stories to read are those of Casper High class on a field trip somewhere and causing havoc in their wake. In almost all of them there’s a common rule of “no raising the dead” which I find hilarious, and I got an idea for my own take on this trope.

DPxDC AU where the Casper High class are now in Casper University (these kids are Amity Parkers through and through so every other place is too tame for them so they ain’t leaving their turf), their ages ranging from 18 to 19. Danny and his grew (which composes their entire class now) are casually sight seeing when le gasp! What do we have here: a hulking revenant Red Hood. Just the perfect match for their sad single twink halfa who seems to be incapable of catching himself a decent partner! Operation ‘Get their twink a love life’ is a go!!

P.S. I was watching Lady and the Tramp movie while writing this.

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

Red Hood has experienced many things in his life; he’s done many things, most of them which he’s not proud of. But out of all the bullshit his fucked up existence has thrown at him, this might just take the proverbial cake. He was doing his rounds without any issues on a very quiet night, which should have already raised some flags. Gotham was being too quiet, at least on his side of the city when it happened. He was ambushed from all sides and packed pretty easily without him getting even a glimpse of the perpetrators. Only thing he managed to do was press the emergency button!

Since his captors have shoved a back over his head he couldn’t see them, but he could hear them as could rest of the bats.

“The fuck is the deal!? Where are you taking me?” he demanded.

A female voice had answered him, and he could make out a clear mid-western accent mix in with a Spanish one.

“Oh don’t get your helmet in a twist lover boy~ You’ll find out soon enough.”

And so here he is now.

Sitting on a chair free of his restraints, seemingly having a candle lit dinner in an allay way decked out in fairy lights, softly scented candles, flower petals; really, the whole shebang. On the one other seat across the clothed table sits a well dressed twink. He can’t see what he looks like exactly since he’s hiding his face in his hands.

And if things couldn’t get any weirder, an older teen with glasses and curly hair walks to them with an accordion along with a burly asian carrying a guitar, both dressed to the nines. The accordionist starts to play and- no fucking way…

When it registers what the two boys- men? are playing and singing, his coms start to flood with laughter and hooting. It’s the fucking song from Lady and the Tramp movie.

Red Hood, or rather Jason is so confounded that he doesn’t do much other than nod in thanks when a blond chick comes in with some italian pasta. The twink mumbles something and curls further in on himself. Jason just stares; was he seriously kidnapped (rather efficiently he has to admit) for a date of all things? He allows himself relax a smidgen since it appears he wasn’t brought here out of malice.

Alright, focus and take stock of the situation. These kids seemed to be older than high schoolers, and they have some training under their belt if they were able to get a drop on him in his own territory. The bats share some of their own tidbits they’ve been able to gather from tailing these particular teens. Apparently their here on a three day field trip from Illinois and have been causing mayhem ever since they’ve arrived. Tim’s caffeine infused theory is that they are magic users from a magic school that taught necromancy which Jason chooses to ignore indefinitely.

The twink finally raises his head and Jason stills.

Oh, oh no.

He’s not just a twink.

He’s a really pretty twink.

No, focus and catalog!

They have raven black hair that is playfully tousled, making him look even younger than his short slim build already does. His ivory skin is dusted with freckles like decoration help bring out his big doe eyes, and oh those eyes, like baby blue sapphires frames perfectly by dark luscious lashes. He wonders if those rose petal lips would taste like-

No! No, bad Jason! Bad!

The poor boy, all blushing and overwhelmed apologizes, “I’m so sorry Mr. Hood! I-I told them not to do anything drastic since I don’t need a boyfriend o-or partner, but they won’t listen!”

The asian dude intersects from the side, “Of course we won’t. Otherwise you’ll never get a date who isn’t a back stabbing brick or world conquering megalomaniac like your creepy uncle Vlad.”

“Were are doing this for your sake Danny!” shouts the curly haired boy.

Okay, ignoring those concerning remarks for now Jason turns back to the pretty twink named Danny.

He smirks “So… this happens often?”

Danny groans and blushes more all the way to his ears, “Only twice before thankfully. I mean I appreciate that they want me to be happy but… after all my past relationships I’ve gotten in terms with the fact that I might never find someone right for me; after all who would want a half dead guy like me as their boyfriend.”

Jason’s heart kinda breaks at the resigned smile forming on those soft lips. He can hear Stephanie cry vehement denials and righteous encouragements trough the link.

“Hey now, don’t say that. You seem like a nice guy so it’s their own fault for not seeing the beaut that you are. Hands down this has been most pleasant kidnapping I’ve experienced so far.”

Jason smirks when he sees Danny blush even more at his complement, while ignoring Damian’s demands to seize fraternizing with the other party.

“And since were both here why not make most of it. Care to tell some about yourself?”

Danny shifts a bit and thinks, “Umm… Well, I should probably introduce myself since it’s kinda my fault your here; I’m Danny Fenton and I study engineering at Casper University. I really like space and astronomy, I also like animals and volunteer at the local zoo and animal shelter when I can. And I’ve also started to take interest in reading, mostly sci-fi and murder mysteries.”

So far so good, he thinks as he discreetly looks the other over. He says he’s in university but-

“Quick question: how old are you if you don’t mind me asking?”

Please be legal, please be legal, please be legal-

“Oh, I’m eighteen soon to be nineteen.”

Thank fuck.

“What about you? I can you tell about yourself, it doesn’t have to be anything too personal with secret identities and all. I actually used to be a teen hero before going fully public so I understand.”

Jason blinks. The coms are silent.

“What do you-”

His words die on his tongue when pair of gloved hands grip Danny’s shoulders. Green rage fills his vision when he seen the face of the monster that plagues this city. The Joker.

He growls and craps his gun.

“Well what do we have here? Couple of love birds~” comes a grating voice right above Danny, causing him to turn around.

He screams and throws a punch.

The Pit Rage coursing through Jason’s veins that was demanding him to attack, to kill, to protect, to take-Danny-and-never-let-go came to a freezing halt. He watches in awe as his gorgeous twink decks the clown fucker in the face, eliciting a satisfying crack. Joker goes flying in beautiful arch and lands on his neck.

They all watch his limp form. He doesn’t rise.

“Damn it, not again. Third one in two months, hopefully this time they won’t seek compensation.” One their musicians mutters.

Danny turns back to him and begins to ramble and gesture with his bloodied hand, “O-Oh gosh! I’m so sorry, please don’t tell Batman! I don’t want him to kick us out just yet; I haven’t gotten to visit the planetarium yet.”

Welp, now Jason knows where to take Danny on their second date. He takes his helmet off as his siblings yell at him but he doesn’t care about that, all he cares about wooing the fuck out of this murder twink. He fixes his hair a bit and leans on the table, giving his most charming smile.

“Never dream of it. Anyway~ ever read Jane Austen?”

In his opinion the name Jason Fenton has a nice ring to it.

[em1i2a3]

Adore Me

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: When the air conditioner of the Watchtower breaks during peak summertime, Bob finds an odd solution to your overheating problem.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff yall. Bob and Reader are in an established friends with benefits relationship (that has hints of something more), Bob is a problem solver lol.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up yall), Temperature Play, Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Nipple Play, Dirty Talk, Bob is a bit freaky in this, but it’s a great change up, Spit Kink (kind of…An interesting take on it lol) Bob is totally a super soft dom in here to be completely honest and he’s an absolute tease, Aftercare (cause it’s essential and we love aftercare scenes!)

Authors Note: It is disgustingly hot where I live at the moment and I got this idea when I was writing something else and thought ‘Jesus Christ this is perfect’ and EUREKA 💡 it’s been made and created. And it’s so fitting cause today is supposed to be one of the hottest days of the year where I live and I’ve been sweating it up, so CHEERS TO THAT! Enjoy the read yall ❤️❤️

Word Count: 9,364

You felt like you were choking on the air you were breathing. It clung to your lungs like steam in a sauna, heavy and thick, each inhale a sluggish, labored thing that coated the inside of your throat with undeniable heat. The Watchtower had become a pressure cooker–walls sweating, tempers rising, body’s slowly melting into puddles of collective misery.

The central air system had sputtered its final breath two days ago, and since then, the compound had been thrown into environmental purgatory. Val, of course, couldn’t be bothered.

“You’ve been trained in worse conditions? So there’s a little bit of heat…” She said over the comms, dismissing the situation with a lazy flick of her tongue, “Adapt. Hydrate. Be resourceful. You guys are a bunch of trained professionals. Jesus.”

Bucky had tried to find a solution by rush-ordering industrial-grade fans for everyone’s room. It was a notable effort, but ultimately it turned futile–the machines just churned around warm air like oversized hairdryers, only adding to the misery. Everyone had begun to crack in their own unhinged little ways soon after.

Walker had abandoned his bedroom entirely, calling it a hotbox of death–because it was facing the sun head on–and was now taking refuge on the cool concrete floor of the weapons bay, curled up beside an icebox and using a half-eaten bag of frozen peas as his pillow. Nobody knew if he was the one who ate the peas, and truly no one wanted to ask.

Alexei had opted to walk around shirtless, unapologetically drenched, swearing in Russian every time his back stuck to the leather chairs of the common room. You hadn’t seen cotton touch his torso in thirty-six hours.

Ava had tried to stick her head in the freezer at least three times–silent, dead-eyed, standing with the door propped open like a statue. She once murmured, “There’s no use…Not even the freezer can cool me down,” Before slamming the door shut and stomping away angrily.

Yelena didn’t even pretend to tough it out. She booked a hotel in the city with central air and an infinity pool and sent a group text that read: Temporarily unavailable. Followed by a photo of her in a robe, flipping everyone off.

You, on the other hand, were stuck in the sweltering hellhole that used to be the Watchtower. Unfortunately, you had responsibilities. Paperwork, of all godforsaken things–an Everest-sized pile of clearance reports, post-op evaluations, requisition forms, and incident debriefs that needed to be reviewed and signed off yesterday. As you worked through it though you were convinced the paper pile was actively multiplying every time you blinked.

You had stripped down to bare undergarments midway through the first day of this whole ordeal–tank tops and boy shorts, cycling through a mix of fabrics and colours, and faded cotton that clung to your skin within minutes of putting it on. A real outfit felt like a joke at this point. The way your thighs stuck to chairs, the way your bra would turn into a soaked band of torture across your ribs–it was all unbearable. So you stopped pretending, cause everyone had seen you in much less–unfortunately. A little skin in the name of not dying seemed fair game.

You’d made camp in the common room, spread out across the wooden floor: limbs splayed, eyes half-lidded, lips dry, surrounded by open folders and half-filled forms. Your pen was stuck between your fingers, and your knees were damp from the humidity clinging to the floorboards. You used half-complete reports as manual fans, your wrist flicking back and forth in a tired desperate rhythm.

Under the dim overhead lights your skin was shimmering. Sweat collected in the hollow of your throat, slicked down your back in slow, miserable trails, and glistened across your chest in a sheen that was just enough to be maddening.

Especially to Bob.

Bob wasn’t bothered by the heat–not one bit. In fact, he seemed to be thriving in it. While the rest of the compound staggered around like melting wax figures, Bob was walking proof that some unholy fusion of celestial physiology and boyish stubbornness could, against all logic, turn a heatwave into a personal spa retreat. His body already ran hot, warmer than any humans should be, so the shift in temperature just…Matched him. Balanced him. He was in his element. You’d caught him once humming as he refilled your water bottle and didn’t even look winded. It had taken every ounce of your willpower not to throw a folder at him out of sheer spite.

But as much as Bob was coasting through the inferno like a Sun God in July, there was one thing the heat did make difficult, and that was you.

More specifically: being around you without physically attaching himself to every available inch of your skin. And that was a problem. Because all you wanted was to peel your limbs off your own body and shove your head in the freezer next to Ava’s.

The first night the central air had gasped its last breath, you had trudged into your room in a haze of exhaustion and heat delirium. Your tank top was soaked, your shorts were riding up in ways that made you irrationally furious, and your entire back felt like it had been slow-roasted on a rack. All you wanted was to collapse onto your bed, cool yourself down on your fresh pillow, and not die.

Bob had followed in behind you a few minutes later. Barefoot, shirtless in his boxer shorts, and radiating heat like a bonfire. You had barely flattened yourself on the mattress before you felt the bed dip and a very warm, very clingy arm wrap around your middle.

“Bob–no. No. You’re a human space heater. I am going to combust.” He had blinked down at you like you had kicked him, lip tugging downward, but he didn’t retreat. His eyes shimmered slightly.

”Just–Just my arm. I won’t move around and make it hotter! I pr-promise! How about my leg? Just a little le-leg.” You tried to slither out from his trap, but he was persistent, curling his body around you like a cat trying to fit into a shoebox, “You know I ca-can’t sleep without cuddling you…Please.” He begged.

In the end, you had given up just enough to let him have his victory–an arm draped over your waist, a thigh tucked between your sweaty ones. His skin was boiling, his breath stuck to your neck, and you were sweating so much your sheets were damp. But he sighed with such softness and content, like that moment of closeness was everything he needed. And even though you mumbled curses and threatened to sleep on the floor next time, you didn’t push him off.

Now, he was watching you from his usual perch in the common room, planted in one of the worn armchairs, looking relaxed, comfortable-and absolutely lovesick in shorts and a t-shirt.

Every movement made your tank top shift and stick in new ways. A bead of sweat curved down your chest, catching the attention of Bob’s traitorous eyes before he jerked his gaze away, returning it to the book in front of him, like he hadn’t been staring.

You weren’t even trying to be provocative. You were just trying not to pass out. But the heat had made you soft-limbed, loose-spined, and languid. It made you sigh out loud and stretch like a cat, chasing relief. And every time you did, Bob’s eyes trailed after you like he was tethered. He swallowed thickly when you adjusted your posture again, thigh flexing, tank top riding up a bit more, your sweat-dampened back arching ever so slightly as you reached for another form.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke, but your voice was low and teasing. “Your eyes are gonna burn holes in me if you keep staring like that.”

Bob stiffened in his chair, legs snapping closer together. “I–uh. Wasn’t–” You snorted softly, not buying it for a second.

“You forget how I can feel when you’re looking at me.” You said, still not looking up from your papers, “Your gaze is like a goddamn laser. Feels like I’ve got sunburn from the inside out.” You could hear the hesitation in his breath, the soft rustle of fabric as he fidgeted in his seat, gathering the courage to speak. And then–

“Well…Ev-even though you’re melting…” He started, voice cracking like a sun-baked sidewalk, “I still th-think you’re… pretty.” You paused, pen hovering above a requisition form like you were about to stab a signature into it, then slowly tilted your head up. Your eyes locked onto him from across the room, narrowing ever so slightly.

“Bob,” You warned, a soft edge to your voice. “You know I’m a softie for compliments and your face…”

His lips twitched into a nervous smile, hopeful–but you cut him off.

“…But I swear to God, I think I would kill you if you even attempted to take my clothes off to have sex with me right now.” Bob’s lashes fluttered rapidly and he swallowed hard, the book lowering to his lap slightly.

”I-I was just s-saying you looked p-pretty…” He mumbled, face turning scarlet. You squinted, pointing your pen at him accusingly.

”Yes. And then it escalates. It always escalates.” Bob’s mouth opened like he wanted to object, but you were already rolling, “You say I look pretty, then it’s something about how good I look in the outfit I’m wearing–which is barely even an outfit, mind you–then you get all sentimental and say something sappy like ‘I’m so lucky to have a friend like you’ and ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you’ and blah, blah, blah–I’m not falling for it.” Bob looked like a man trying to explain himself at a trial with no legal counsel.

”I–I didn’t–this time, I wasn’t gonna–“ You lifted a brow, and he wilted a little further into his armchair, “Okay…I might’ve said something sappy later…Maybe.” You snorted and went back to fanning yourself with a requisition form.

”Exactly.”

“But–“ He tried, hands wringing in his lap, “You do look really go-good right now. Even with the sweat…And the uh…Paper stuck to your thigh.” He added. You glanced down and sighed, peeling a requisition form off your leg and flinging it to the side. Bob let out a small laugh at the sight, before lowering his voice.

”I really wasn’t trying to escalate. I know you’d kill me if I even–tried. I’d pr-probably turn into the sun the second I touched you.”

“You would,” You replied firmly, wiping a drop of sweat from your collarbone, “I’d light you up like a match.” There was a pause, then he hummed.

”…It’d still be wo–worth it.” You looked up again, slowly. Bob looked sheepish, guilty, and totally sincere.

“You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to throw something at you.” Bob smiled a little wider now, cautiously hopeful.

”Could I at least get a hug?” You groaned.

”No…”

”A sweaty hug?” He corrected, as you dragged your hands down your face, shaking your head. He stood anyway, walking over with slow, careful steps. You felt his shadow fall over you, tall and soft at the edges, and when you peeked up, he was grinning down at you–dimples and all.

”I’ll just hover then,” He said, crouching next to you and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, tasting a bead of sweat on his lips, before settling down beside your paper fortress, legs stretching out beside yours.

You let out a soft laugh through your nose–quiet, breathy, the kind of sound that would’ve floated past someone else entirely. But not Bob. Never Bob. He absorbed everything you did like a sponge pressed to water–hyper aware, quietly observant, and always aching in the silence between moments. No matter what you were doing, he always made it feel like he was watching an artist paint their biggest masterpiece.

You could’ve been cleaning blood off your boots, half–catatonic from fatigue, or wearing yesterday’s tank top turned inside out, it didn’t matter to him. He looked at you like he was witnessing a miracle, and it was never just lust that filled his eyes, never only want–it was that stunned, adoring kind of interest that made you feel like the world quieted when you moved.

Even now, in this godforsaken heat, when your skin felt slick and your hair clung to the back of your neck, he sat beside you like he was somewhere sacred. His shoulder barely grazed yours, but you could feel it–the press of his attention, the steady warmth of his presence folding over you like a second sun.

And despite your endless complaints, despite telling him time and time again that you were overheating and one more inch of skin contact might kill you, you were glad he hadn’t listened. Not fully. Because the truth was–you liked that he didn’t give you space. Not really. You liked the orbit of him. The magnetism. The strange, constant gravity that pulled him to you no matter the setting.

Ever since the two of you started hooking up though, that tether had only grown stronger. It didn’t matter if you were in bed or on opposite ends of the training floor–your bodies reached for each other instinctively. Your minds always seemed to be aware of one another in a way that felt cellular.

And though you were actively trying not to spontaneously combust under the heat dome that was the Watchtower, though you’d explicitly told him not to try anything, you still craved him. The pull of his voice, the shape of his breath, the way he sat beside you like you were something holy that made him forget himself.

But until something–anything–cooled you down enough not to literally die during sex, you had to suppress it.

You kept working, even as the sweat made your pen slippery in your grip. Even as your thighs stuck to the hardwood and your spine ached from the sticky angle of your slouch. You scribbled notes into the margins of reports for Val–“Slight concussion, extreme belligerence. Unsure if it was the wound.” All the while, you felt Bob watching you.

Now that he was close, it was worse. His gaze was warm. Not burning. Not greedy. But hot–like you’d stepped into late afternoon sunlight and knew it was going to follow you until dusk. He watched the way your collarbone caught the light, the slow trail of sweat that disappeared beneath the line of your tank top, the rise and fall of your chest like a tide he wanted to wade into.

He could smell you now, too. Your body wash–the mix of basil, blueberry, and lemon–had softened and bloomed in the heat, curling around you like a halo of late-summer air. You smelled like a drink he wanted to taste, a memory he wanted to bottle and keep forever. It made his throat feel thick. It made something ancient and hungry stir in him.

You swiped a hand across your forehead again, let out a huff, signed another sheet–and that’s when you felt his gaze sharpen.

”Bob,” You said dryly, not even glancing at him “Keep your eyes to yours–“

”There’s ic-ice in the freezer,” He interrupted, voice cracking slightly like it was tripping on the edge of his desire. You paused, turning your head toward him with a squint.

”Yeah? And why are you bringing that up so randomly?” His eyes widened at bit, then he flushed, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck–a tell that he was nervous.

”Maybe I want to…Cool you do–down?” Your eyes narrowed, the corner of your mouth twitching up in slow suspicion.

“Yeah? And how would you do that?” He hesitated–just for a moment–and then leaned in ever so slightly, his voice low, uncertain, trembling with barely-leashed tenderness.

”Why don’t you let me sh-show you?” God, the way he said it–it wasn’t a line. It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t even seductive in the traditional sense. It was something softer than that. Sweeter. Gentler.

It was Bob wanting to worship, not possess. To soothe, not seduce. It was in the way his voice cracked around the word show, like he meant something more than just a practical gesture. Like he wanted to lay you down and press ice to every patch of you that felt too hot, not to make you moan, but to make you breathe again.

Like cooling you down would be an honor.

He wasn’t talking about sex. Not entirely at least. He was talking about the intimacy of care. The small, slow rituals that said I see you, I know you, I’ll take care of this part too.

You felt it in your spine–the way the suggestion settled, the weight of the moment bending inward like a candle flame curling toward its own wax. You turned your head slowly to look at him and found him already watching you with that same melted-lovely stare. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Hope curling behind his lashes.

He looked like he was waiting for permission to make the heat bearable. Waiting to touch you only if it meant relief.

Your throat worked once, then you set your pen down.

“…Alright then, Bob,” You murmured, tilting your head. “Show me.” Bob shot to his feet like a firework, the shift from softness to sudden motion making you laugh a bit. He offered you both hands, palms open, eyes bright with some boyish spark you hadn’t seen since before the heatwave hit.

“C’mon,” He urged, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips like he was already proud of whatever plan had rooted itself in his head. You glanced down at his hands, then back up at him.

”You’re not gonna do it here?” He shook his head quickly, his light brown, sun-kissed strands of hair flopping slightly.

”Tr-Trust me,” He said with a nervous unmistakable glimmer in his eye, “You want to do it in a be-bedroom.” Your stomach flipped. Not because it sounded dirty–though your traitorous mind was already sprinting toward some variation of shirtless–Bob dripping ice water down your spine–but because of the tone, and the way he said it. So sure. So gentle. So full of barely concealed affection. Your skin prickled from anticipation. He helped you up from the floor with ease, and turned, starting for the hallway.

You followed closely behind, your legs stiff and heavy from too much time on the floor. He stopped at the kitchen, and you caught the distinct sound of the freezer opening, the crinkle of plastic, the quiet clatter of something.

Curious, you poked your head around the corner–only to find Bob standing in front of the counter, brow furrowed in focus, tearing open a large bag of ice with his teeth and pouring generous handfuls into a wide stainless steel mixing bowl. The ice chimed and cracked as it landed, a sound almost obscene in the still, overheated silence of the Watchtower.

Your eyebrows rose.

Bob caught your expression immediately and looked sheepish, shrugging one shoulder at you.

”The mo-more the merrier,” He commented, lifting the bowl like a trophy. You huffed a laugh, low and incredulous.

”This is either going to be really sweet or very dumb,” You muttered, shaking your head as he approached.

”It’ll definitely be both.” He replied, not missing a beat.

He took your hand in his free one, fingers warm and steady even as he balanced the cold weight of the bowl in the other. His thumb slid along your knuckles as he led you back down the hallway, his touch grounding despite the faint sheen of sweat that coated you, it only took a few steps until you finally reached your room.

It was hot there. Thick, slow, swampy heat. The kind that stuck to the corners of the ceiling and refused to move. The blackout drapes you’d thrown up were trying their best, but the sun still managed to bleed in around the edges–gold streaks slicing through the air like knives. The only saving grace was the cracked window above your headboard, which at night had allowed the barest hint of a breeze to creep in. It didn’t help much–but it was something at least.

Your room was a lived-in kind of mess. A fan sat on your desk, humming uselessly. There were two half-drunk bottles of water near your nightstand, a crumpled hoodie discarded on the floor, and the sheets were tangled from restless nights. Still, it smelled like you. That same clean, citrus-sweet scent that clung to your skin. Bob inhaled it without even thinking.

He moved with purpose now, stepping around you to the bed, placing the bowl of ice on your side table before grabbing the nearest towel from your hamper–fresh, fluffy, cream-colored. He spread it over the foot of your bed carefully, smoothing out the creases like he was setting a picnic for something sacred.

“Okay,” He said, crouching slightly and patting the towel with one hand, “You sit th–there. And I’ll sit behind you.”

His voice was soft. Intentional. No teasing now–just quiet care threading every syllable. And it did something to you. Something that reached down into the heat-numbed center of your chest and gave it a gentle squeeze.

You obeyed without a word, stepping forward and sitting on the edge of the bed, the towel rough and cool beneath your thighs. You could hear the clink of ice behind you, the shifting of his body as the mattress shifted under his weight. And then, slowly, the warmth of him pressed close behind–legs on either side of yours, his knees bent so he could sit just barely higher, his breath ghosting near the back of your ear.

”Ready?” You nodded–immediately, instinctively–before the word even had time to form in your mouth.

The air was still thick and stifling, but the anticipation split through it like a thunderclap. You heard the soft rustle of movement behind you–the dip of Bob’s arm into the bowl, the telltale clink of shifting ice. A pause. A breath. And then–

Cold.

Your spine arched in reflex as the first piece of ice touched your upper back, the sensation so stark against your overheated skin that you gasped. The cube dragged in a slow, deliberate line between your shoulder blades, leaving a shivering trail in its wake. Your breath hitched.

Bob’s free hand came to rest against your waist–not forceful, not possessive, but anchoring. His palm was hot, fingers splayed across your damp skin like he needed the contact just to stay grounded.

He was slow with it.

The ice danced across your skin, trailing up and then outward over the curve of your right shoulder blade. And then the left. The path was meticulous, methodical, melting little rivers that trickled down the curve of your back until they disappeared into the band of your tank top.

You shuddered–eyes fluttering shut–just as you felt his breath behind you, warm and steady, before his lips grazed your skin.

Bob leaned in.

And then he licked the droplets off your back.

Your entire body jolted like it had been kissed by lightning. His tongue was hot, a perfect, obscene contrast to the cold that came before it. He followed the rivulets the ice had left behind, slow and deliberate, his mouth brushing against your skin with almost unbearable care. You could feel his breath between licks, the air stirring goosebumps in its wake.

“Jesus, Bob…” You whispered, voice already shaky, barely above a breath.

He didn’t respond. He just kept going.

He trailed the ice once more–lower this time, letting the cold slip just beneath the band of your tank top before dragging it back up in a long, trembling sweep. Then came his mouth again. His lips. His tongue. You felt his teeth graze your shoulder–not biting, just there, like he couldn’t help but taste the saltiness of your skin.

Every time he kissed the water from your spine, it felt like he was drinking in something sacred.

You leaned forward slightly, head bowing as your hands clutched at the towel beneath you. Your breathing was shallow, pulse thrumming behind your ears. Bob’s hand on your waist squeezed just once, steadying you.

And then his voice, soft and low and trembling with something barely restrained, broke the silence against the shell of your ear.

“Take off your sh-shirt.”

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even a request.

It was a prayer. A plea.

Like he couldn’t bear the barrier between you a second longer. Like he needed more of you, not just for heat or for want, but for relief. For whatever spell that had overtaken both of you in the dense summer silence of your bedroom.

Your fingers moved before your mind caught up. You gripped the hem of your soaked tank top and–slowly, shakily–peeled it upward. It clung to your skin in stubborn patches, lifting in jerks until it passed over your head, leaving you bare from the waist up. Damp. Glowing. Breathing hard.

Bob’s breath stuttered.

You could feel his eyes on your back–devouring, worshiping, stunned silent. You started to turn your head over your shoulder, to ask what he was thinking–but you didn’t get the chance.

Because the next thing you felt was the ice again–this time sliding down your spine unburdened by cloth. And then his mouth. Hot. Open. Worshipful. He let out a soft moan against your skin, the sound low and trembling like it had clawed its way up from somewhere deep. His breath was hot, reverent. “Tastes s–so good…” he whispered, the words pressed into your spine like a confession–fragile and feral all at once.

You felt the faint scrape of his teeth next, dragging along the sensitive ridge of your lower shoulder blade, making your back arch into him involuntarily. His hand–still splayed wide on your waist–tightened once, then slipped away with purpose. A soft clink sounded beside you. Another piece of ice.

And then–

Cold.

This time, not against your back, but your chest.

You gasped–body jolting forward, spine bowing–as the ice skimmed the swell of your breast. The contrast was devastating. Your skin was already buzzing from the heat and his mouth, but the sudden bite of chill stole your breath.

Bob’s lips chased the line of melting droplets down your spine, tongue trailing them like he was memorizing every bead. Every curve. Every shiver.

And then the second piece of ice–still in his other hand–dragged across your chest in slow, deliberate passes. He brought it lower, tracing under the curve of your breast, then–so slowly it almost broke you–up toward your nipple.

Your mouth fell open. A moan spilled out before you could stop it.

“Bob…H–Holy fuck, Bob.”

You felt the corners of his lips lift where they pressed to your back–smirking. Smug and innocent like he hadn’t just unraveled you with frozen water and heat.

“Wh–What?” He asked, faux-innocent, his voice thick and trembling with barely restrained want.

He circled your nipple with the ice–quick, swirling passes that sent lightning through your chest. Then, without warning, he moved to the other, just as devastating.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, half a prayer, half a curse.

Your body leaned back instinctively, seeking him. The moment your spine met his chest, you felt it–all of him. His warmth. The racing thrum of his heart. The hardness pressed beneath his shorts. The quiet tremble in his hands as he reached around you again.

His mouth hovered near your ear.

“Can I…” His voice was barely audible now, so close it vibrated in your bones. “Can I lick the droplets off?”

“Yes,” You breathed, without hesitation. “Yes…”

You felt him smile against your temple. Not greedy. Not cocky. Just grateful. Devoted.

He slipped off the bed slowly, deliberately. His palms ran down your thighs as he sank, and then he was there–on his knees in front of you, golden in the streaks of sun that leaked through the curtain’s edge. His eyes were glassy, wide with awe, his curls damp from sweat, sticking to his forehead. He looked like he was looking at a fever dream.

He reached for the bowl of ice beside him and set it gently on the floor, then looked back up at you with a question in his eyes. You nodded once, breathless.

Bob guided you forward with careful hands, his fingers feather-light beneath your arms as he encouraged you to lean down toward him, your chest close to his lips.

And then–

His mouth latched onto your nipple.

His tongue was warm and needy, lapping at the cold water like it was something holy. You cried out–soft and broken–as he sucked gently, pulling the chill into his mouth and swallowing your heat like he needed it.

At the same time, his hand reached into the bowl and lifted another piece of ice. He guided it slowly to your other breast, circling the nipple with glacial focus, letting it bead and drip while his mouth worked the other in steady, wet rhythm.

Your fingers tangled in his hair.

He moaned softly at that, tongue pressing flatter now, lips tighter, like he couldn’t help himself.

And when you looked down at him, flushed and kneeling between your legs, worshipping you with his mouth and melting ice, you swore you’d never been touched more sweetly in your life.

He pulled off your nipple with a soft, wet pop, licking it one last time, tongue circling tenderly before he released it. His lips grazed the curve of your breast in a gentle kiss, trailing heat in their wake. Then he shifted–slow, purposeful–toward the other, where the ice had melted into a glossy sheen over your skin. He didn’t rush. He paused to admire you, blue eyes glazed with something more than lust–adoration, worship, the kind of awe that made your chest cave in. He was drunk on the taste of your skin, and all he wanted was more.

His mouth sealed around your other nipple with a desperate hunger softened by devotion. His tongue moved languidly, drinking the cold from your body and replacing it with his heat, like he needed to balance you out. As his lips worked, he moved the piece of ice in his hand–down your ribcage, trailing it along the edge of your ribs with devastating slowness.

You gasped when it passed the under-side of your breast, the chill biting in contrast to the molten heat of his mouth, then lower, across the dip of your stomach, inching toward the space just above your navel. You flinched as it reached the sensitive skin right above the waistband of your boyshorts, and he groaned low in his throat in response–like your every twitch was a prayer answered.

Your hands tugged gently at his hair, not to pull him away but to feel something tethered, something grounding, because your entire body was floating–adrift in heat and cold and sensation.

He pulled away from your breast with a breathless sigh, mouth shiny and pink, and leaned in to chase the wet path down your stomach. You watched his tongue trace the same line the ice had carved, warm and wet, mouth open and panting against your navel as he moved lower and lower. Every kiss was a blessing. Every lick, a declaration.

And then he stopped at the waistband.

His nose brushed it gently. His breath was a humid puff across your lower belly. He looked up at you through damp lashes, cheeks flushed, curls curling slightly with sweat, his tongue running absently over his lower lip before he tilted his head–so soft, so careful.

“Can I take these off?” He asked, voice low and quiet, almost bashful despite everything. You nodded immediately, breath hitching.

”Y–Yeah.” He helped you stand with that same steady grace, his thumb sliding along the elastic at your hips, eyes never leaving yours–not even for a second. Then he slowly tugged them down. The fabric peeled from your thighs with a sticky reluctance, damp with sweat and tension and heat. He bent as he went, lowering himself with each inch until he was on his knees again, breath ghosting across your inner thighs.

Your hands trembled as he sat you down at the edge of the bed once more, steadying you with one hand on your hip, the other bracing your thigh. You watched as he pulled your legs gently over his shoulders, a smile coming up on his lips.

Bob’s breath hitched the moment he saw you–already glistening, already soaked, slick with heat and want and sweat. He stared like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like he’d stumbled into something mythic, something divine. And then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for the bowl.

The ice clinked gently as he dipped his fingers in, searching by feel. When he pulled one out, the cube was already slick in his grip, catching the dim light like crystal. He held it there for a second–then looked up at you.

“C–Can I put this on you?” He asked softly, voice breathless with awe.

You nodded without a pause, lips parted, heart thudding somewhere in your throat. “Yes… do it.”

He smiled.

And then he moved–slow, reverent, a priest in the presence of a miracle.

He brought the ice to your center, resting it just above your clit, and immediately–you felt it. A single drop fell.

You gasped.

The cold dragged across your head, contrasting so violently with the flushed wetness of your core that your hips jerked. Another drop slid between your folds, trailing downward like a teasing finger. Your whole body shivered–and that’s when Bob leaned in.

He licked the first droplet as it passed your clit.

And then he lost himself.

His mouth met you with heat so sharp it made your knees lock around his shoulders. His tongue licked up the length of your folds, slow at first, but with increasing urgency. The chill of the ice was still there–he never removed it, just held it against you, letting it drip while he worshipped you with his mouth.

You moaned–a high, breathless, broken thing–and your fingers dove into his hair, yanking just enough to feel him groan into you. It was obscene.

The ice kept dripping. His mouth kept moving. And the contrast was too much. Cold sliding into hot. Wet meeting wetter. His tongue was everywhere–flicking, flattening, curling against your clit, lapping up the melting droplets like he needed them to survive. Every moan that rumbled from his chest vibrated into you. He wasn’t holding back. He was devouring you.

Feral. Controlled. Utterly consumed.

You tried to speak–tried to tell him how fucking good it felt–but all that came out were broken syllables and a whispered, “Oh my God… Bob, please–”

He answered by moaning into your core, low and guttural, dragging the flat of his tongue up from your entrance to your clit in one long, devastating pass. The ice cube shifted slightly, grazing your skin, making you cry out as your body jolted again.

And then–he slipped two fingers inside you.

You nearly sobbed.

They pushed in slow but deep, curling instantly. He knew exactly where to touch you, exactly how to fuck you with his hand while his mouth never stopped moving. His lips sealed around your clit, tongue swirling, licking away each cold droplet before it even had the chance to fully fall.

“Fuck–Bob–don’t stop, don’t you dare–” You whimpered, legs trembling.

He didn’t.

His fingers thrust harder. His tongue licked deeper. And when you rocked your hips forward–desperate for more–he groaned again, rutting subtly against the bed, lost in the taste of you.

The heat in your belly cracked wide open.

You felt the wave before it hit–felt your thighs tightening, your walls fluttering around his fingers, your back arching towards him.

“Fuck!” You cried, one hand gripping the edge of the sheets, the other twisted tight in his curls. Your orgasm ripped through you like wildfire, your whole body locking up before it collapsed into tremors, your thighs clamped tight around his neck, shaking. He held you through it. Tongue still moving. Fingers slowing just enough to prolong it, to guide you down from the cliff as gently as he’d brought you there.

When your body finally eased, when the waves started to ebb and your limbs stopped trembling, he pulled back–slowly, reluctantly.

His face was soaked.

Completely, reverently drenched. His lips were swollen, his cheeks glistened with your slick, your sweat, and faint trails of melting ice. His eyes were glazed with something carnal, but soft–softer than anything should be after what he just did to you.

He looked like he’d just returned from the edge of something sacred.

He exhaled, licking his lips slowly, pulling his fingers out gently before looking up at you like you’d just changed the orbit of his universe.

“…You ta–taste like fucking salvation,” He whispered, hoarse. Your thighs were trembling, your chest rising in ragged, shuddering breaths, your lips parting in the aftermath of the orgasm he had just wrung from you with nothing but his mouth, fingers, and a melting piece of ice. His tongue darted out again, slowly, to taste the last bead of wetness from your inner thigh.

Then, he lifted his hand–the one still holding the ice cube. It had shrunk to half its size now, slick and trembling between his fingertips. He raised it with the same care you might offer a relic, brushing it over your clit, before pulling it away completely.

”I wa-want you to open your mouth.” He instructed gently. You listened to him without hesitation. Bob brought the ice to his own lips, slipping it into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he chewed it slowly, the cold cracking and popping between his teeth. You watched every second like it was a ritual–like he was about to give you something sacred. And he was.

He slid your legs gently from his shoulders and rose to his full height, towering over you in the low, golden light. His face glowed with sweat and flushed a light red, as he cups your cheeks with his hands–fingertips damp, warm, trembling with care–and leaned in until his lips hovered just above yours.

Then–he parted his lips and let the water drip into your mouth.

You moaned at the first taste.

It wasn’t just water. It wasn’t just ice. It was you. Your taste lingered in it–your slick, your arousal, your salt and sweetness and heat. It tasted like shared sin. Like everything Bob had just taken from you with his mouth and was now giving back in liquid communion.

You swallowed slowly, lips brushing his, breath mingling.

And then—he kissed you.

Hard.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was intimate, filthy in how much love was packed between teeth and tongue. His lips crashed against yours, his mouth open, slick, tasting of melted ice and you and him. His tongue slid against yours, greedy and slow, like he was still trying to share the taste of you back and forth between your mouths.

You whimpered, hands flying to the waistband of his shorts, tugging at the tie. It loosened easily in your grip, and his hips jerked forward with a soft, broken sound.

Bob panted into your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re go–gonna get hot again…”

You shook your head, smiling through the haze of pleasure still coiling in your belly. Your voice dropped to a sultry whisper, lips brushing his as you said, “Not if my legs are on your shoulders and you’re fucking me with my hips on the edge of the bed.” His entire body shuddered. His throat bobbed in a tight, desperate swallow. He didn’t even respond. Just–moved.

His shirt was off in seconds, ripped over his head and tossed somewhere you didn’t care about. You moaned at the sight.

You always moaned at the sight.

His chest was flushed and glowing, the heat making every line of him more vivid–shoulders broad, chest rising fast, his skin glistening with sweat and want. And then–his shorts dropped. He stepped out of them like he was shedding a burden. His cock sprang free, hard and leaking, twitching at the air between you. He was painfully ready, his tip flushed, veins prominent along the shaft, his body trembling with restraint he no longer seemed interested in holding.

And still–he looked at you like you were a miracle.

He kissed you again before you could speak, devouring your mouth with a groan, hands gripping your hips with reverent, aching need.

Bob pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead still resting against yours, his chest rising and falling with ragged urgency. His blue eyes flicked over your face, searching, drinking you in like you might vanish if he blinked. You could feel the tremble in his thighs, the barely-restrained hunger in the way his grip tightened on your hips.

Then–gently–he guided you backward.

Your body yielded beneath his touch, melting into the mattress as your back met the damp sheets. The towel beneath you was bunched and wrinkled now, forgotten. All that mattered was him. The way he looked at you like you were something sacred, and the reverent hush that settled over the room as he bent to his knees on the bed, positioning himself above you.

He slid one arm beneath your thigh, guiding your hips down the bed ever so slightly, adjusting your body with the same care one might use to arrange something fragile–something precious. His touch was patient, but deliberate, until your hips were at the edge of the mattress and your legs could rise, slow and trembling, to rest over his shoulders.

The moment your calves draped across his skin, he paused. His breath hitched. You watched the awe flash across his face as he looked down at you–completely bare, flushed, and glistening with sweat. Your fingers reached for his hand, and he found yours instantly, weaving his fingers through yours, palms pressing tight like a lifeline.

Then–

He pressed his cock against your entrance.

The head of him was thick and hot, sliding slowly through your slick folds, smearing himself in the mess he had coaxed from you with ice and mouth and praise. He nudged your entrance gently, gliding in just enough to make your breath catch. Your lashes fluttered. His hips paused, trembling with restraint.

And then–he pushed.

You both moaned–broken and breathless–as he sank into you inch by inch. The stretch was slow, deliberate, perfect. His cock filled you in a way that made your whole body seize with need, the stretch burning just enough to make you tremble. He pressed forward until he was fully seated inside you–his hips flush with yours, his body rigid above you, the head of him brushing so deep you swore you saw stars.

Your hand tightened in his. His head dropped slightly, lips parting with a shaky groan.

“F-fuck…You feel so good…” He whispered, his voice hoarse, eyes screwed shut in overwhelmed bliss. Then, after a breathless second, he leaned down and kissed your calf–softly, reverently–before he started to move.

The first thrust was slow. Gentle. A pull and press that made your hips rock into his instinctively. He dragged his cock almost all the way out before easing back in, groaning at the way your walls clung to him.

You gasped, back arching. “Bob…”

He began a rhythm. Measured. Loving. Each thrust slow and deep, dragging against every aching spot inside you until your thighs were trembling and your core was fluttering with need. The sounds were obscene–wet, slick, breathless. Every push of his hips made you gasp. Every roll of your body made him moan.

“Feel so perfect,” He panted, his free hand sliding to your waist to anchor you. “So warm…So fucking tight…Fuck–”

He picked up the pace just slightly, hips rocking harder now, deeper. Your body jolted with each motion, the slap of skin against skin echoing beneath the hum of the useless fan in the corner.

Your walls began to pulse around him. You whimpered, breath shattering.

“I’m–I’m close…”

That was all it took for him to unravel a little more.

He let go of your hand and leaned down, bringing his weight forward until your knees were nearly touching your chest, his chest flush with yours, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss so hungry it knocked the breath out of you. He moaned into your mouth as he thrust harder, deeper, every drag of his cock stealing another cry from your throat.

Your legs tightened around his shoulders. His thrusts grew rougher, more desperate.

“I’m go–gonna finish so deep inside you,” He groaned into your mouth, voice low and trembling. “I’m gonna fill you up so fuckin’ deep–you’re ne–never going to get rid of me.” Your entire body convulsed.

The orgasm hit like a wave, hot and endless. Your mouth fell open in a soundless cry as your back arched off the bed and your walls clamped down around him, milking his cock with fluttering, pulsing waves of pure pleasure.

“Fuck–fuck fuck fuck–” Bob gasped, his rhythm faltering. And then–with one final, deep thrust–he came.

He buried himself to the hilt, cock twitching inside you as he spilled into you in thick, hot waves. You gasped as you felt it–his cum filling you, warm and devastating, the heat of it flooding your already over-sensitized body. His cock pulsed with every spurt, deep inside, pressed right against your cervix. Your hands clutched his back, fingers digging into his shoulders as you gasped in pure, broken pleasure.

You could feel it.

The way it filled you. Coated you. Seeped so deep it felt like you were glowing from the inside out.

Bob moaned against your mouth, his hips stuttering once, twice, as he gave you the last of it, trembling. He stayed like that, buried in you, his forehead pressed to yours, your legs still locked over his shoulders.

The room was quiet but for the panting–your breaths, tangled and uneven, and his, rasping against your skin like wind through trees. Your hands slowly began tracing soft, lazy circles along his shoulders, fingertips dragging through the sweat and heat still clinging to his flushed skin. You could feel the way he was still trembling–just a little–from the aftershocks. Every breath he took made his chest rise against yours, pressed so tightly together it was hard to tell where your heartbeat ended and his began.

And then–he laughed.

Quiet and disbelieving. Almost dazed.

You tilted your head, blinking up at him. “What?”

Bob shook his head, curls sticking adorably to his damp forehead, a flushed, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were half-lidded but glowing.

“You ju–just have so much control over me…” He murmured, voice still breathless. “And I lo–love it so much.”

Your lips curled in a slow, sultry smirk. You kissed him–soft and sensual, dragging your mouth across his like you had all the time in the world. You felt him melt into it, sighing, his hips still pressed to yours, his body heavy with contentment and heat.

Then–slowly–you slipped your legs down from his shoulders. The stretch burned instantly, a ripple of dull ache shooting through your inner thighs. You let out a soft groan, your face twitching at the sting.

Bob pulled back, eyebrows immediately knitting in concern. “You okay?”

You nodded, exhaling through the slight discomfort. “Yeah. Just…a little sore from the position. I may be flexible during missions, but when I have the weight of you pressing into me like that…” You gave him a pointed, teasing look. “It’s a different story.”

He flushed at the implication, letting out a shy little laugh before you reached up and brushed a strand of damp hair from his forehead. Your fingers lingered on his cheek, tracing the curve of it with a tenderness that made his lashes flutter.

Bob leaned into your palm instinctively, eyes slipping shut. Then he cracked a smile again, eyes twinkling with something mischievous.

“Y’know wh–what would be great?” He asked softly, voice low and hopeful.

You hummed. “What?”

He leaned forward until his nose brushed yours, his voice a conspiratorial whisper:

“A shower with you… Pr-Preferably a warm one. So neither of us are miserable.”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, shaking your head as affection welled up in your chest. “Sounds good…” You whispered. “Can you carry me to the bathroom?”

His brows raised like you’d just told him the sun rose for him. “Of co–course,” he said with no hesitation, already shifting. “Only you deserve the five star treatment.”

You let out a soft laugh as he gently pulled out, the stretch and warmth making you sigh, his cum slipping and pooling between your thighs with a hot, sticky glide. He moved carefully, placing a kiss on your collarbone before sliding his arms between your back and the mattress.

You yelped lightly as he scooped you up in one smooth motion–like you weighed nothing at all. His strength was effortless, infused with the serum but wrapped in the gentleness that was uniquely Bob. He held you against his chest like you were precious cargo, one hand tucked under your knees, the other cradling your back.

You looped your arms around his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder, your lips finding the warm skin there in a soft kiss. He smiled at the contact, turning his head to nuzzle your temple as he carried you toward the bathroom.

With one foot, he kicked the door open, stepping over discarded clothes and damp towels without missing a beat. The bathroom light flicked on, flooding the space with soft golden glow. You heard the quiet thud of the door shutting behind him and the click of the lock.

The air inside was warm already–trapped heat lingering from earlier, but not unbearable. You felt it shift as Bob moved toward the shower and set you gently on the counter’s edge, making sure you were stable before reaching for the faucet.

The pipes groaned as the water sputtered to life. Within seconds, warm steam began curling in lazy tendrils from behind the frosted glass.

Bob turned back to you with a smile, silhouetted in the hazy light, and asked softly, “Sh-shampoo or no shampoo?”

You grinned, eyes heavy, heart full.

“Shampoo,” You murmured. “Might as well go for the full spa package.”

He chuckled, Bob turned back from the shelf with your preferred shampoo already in hand, fingers slick from the steam curling up around you both. He stepped into the shower first, testing the water with his wrist, then held a hand out for you to follow. You took it wordlessly, skin still flushed and legs still weak, letting him guide you under the cascade of warmth.

The water streamed down your back in lazy waves, soothing the tension from your spine as Bob gently eased your head back beneath the spray. His touch was careful, reverent. Once your hair was wet enough, he tipped the bottle, squeezing a dollop into his palm, and then set to work.

His fingers threaded through your scalp like he was touching something sacred, slow and deliberate, working the shampoo in with gentle pressure. He never scratched too hard, never rushed. It was more massage than anything–his knuckles dragging lazy circles, thumbs brushing along your hairline, his eyes locked onto you the whole time like you were the most important thing he’d ever been trusted to care for.

Just before he let you rinse, he leaned in again–lips pressing to your collarbone in a kiss so soft it barely registered, just heat and breath and affection. And then his voice, low and warm and dripping with adoration, spilled over you like another layer of steam.

“You’re incredible…So fucking beautiful. Yo-You know that, right? So smart…So strong, and you let me–let me to–touch you like this, hold you like this. God, I’m so lucky. You taste like the sun. You feel like home. You make everything good again…”

You huffed a soft breath, overwhelmed and flustered, tilting your head just slightly to rinse the lather away. Bob’s hands helped guide the water down, careful not to splash you in the face. When you blinked through the droplets, still breathless from how he spoke like worship poured from his chest, you couldn’t help but murmur:

“You’re always so soft after sex.”

Bob stilled behind you for a moment, as if processing it. Then he leaned forward, voice tinged with surprise and a faint, teasing pout. “Am I no-not soft any other times?”

You laughed, turning in the warm spray to face him, droplets beading along his flushed collarbones. “You’re soft other times, Bob. But you’re way more soft after sex. Like…Melted marshmallow soft.”

He grinned, cheeks going red as he ducked his head slightly, the water slicking his hair to his forehead. “Well…We are releasing bo-bonding hormones, so…” He said with a small shrug, “How could I not want to be attached to you and be so–soft with you?”

You stepped closer, chest brushing his. Your lips met his in a warm, lingering kiss, water slipping between you as your hands smoothed up his arms. “You’re right…”

What followed was a slow, shared ritual of care. Bob washed your body in sections, treating each limb like it deserved a love letter. He murmured praise against your shoulder, your belly, the back of your knee. His hands glided with reverence, touching as if your skin might flake away like ash if he wasn’t gentle. And when it was your turn, you returned the care—rubbing slow circles into his broad back, tracing over his chest, lathering his curls with the same tenderness he’d shown you.

“You smell like sunshine and sin,” he whispered as you rinsed him off. “Like citrus and heaven. Like something I’m not supposed to touch, but I get to anyway.”

You giggled softly, pressing your lips to his neck. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it,” He breathed, eyes glowing.

You were just about to pull him into another kiss–foreheads close, smiles sticky sweet–when a shout rang out through the compound, muffled by walls but unmistakably furious:

“WHO TOUCHED MY BAG OF ICE!?”

You both froze.

Then, slowly, your gazes turned toward each other–eyes wide, lips twitching.

“…Oh no,” You whispered.

Bob’s eyes went round with guilt. “I-I’ll buy her another one–”

“She’s gonna kill us,” You said flatly.

And then the both of you burst out laughing, muffling the sound in each other’s shoulders as the water kept streaming, and the heat of the Watchtower still pressed in around you–but somehow, in that tiny sanctuary of steam and love and whispered giggles, you barely felt it anymore.

[billyranger]

I have seen this poem a few times by now and every time I wonder: is it common to have students write about personal things in essays?

I think I have written exactly 1 essay that featured personal information about me as a person and that was in my last few weeks in school (and we were free to make something up, no one cared). Even these "what I did last weekend" type of essays in foreign language classes were mostly treated like improv, no one expected them to be actually literally true.

Anyone got that poem written from the perspective of an English teacher where they know deeply personal things about their now adult students because of the essays they wrote

[ericshoney]

Forgotten Birthday ~ Avengers

Summary: Being the youngest Avenger usually means you get looked over for missions, but you never thought they'd forget your birthday.

Warnings: Possible swearing, angst, tears, fluff at end.

Reader's age: 17

Being the youngest Avenger had its perks. I could outrun a speeding car, manipulate energy fields, and occasionally, snag the last slice of pizza before Tony could. But it also meant being underestimated, sidelined on the ‘easier’ missions, and treated with a gentle, almost patronising, kind of care. I knew they meant well. They were protective, especially Steve, who saw me as the kid sister he never had. But sometimes, I just wanted to be seen as an equal. A capable, contributing member of the team.

And today, on my birthday, I just wanted them to remember that I wasn't just a little kid anymore.

The day had started like any other. I woke up, expecting at least a mumbled "Happy Birthday" from whoever was awake. Nothing. I figured they were busy, caught up in some impending doom I hadn't been briefed on. I made my own breakfast, a sad, solitary affair with a bowl of cereal and a heavy dose of disappointment.

The day dragged on. Peter came over, rambling on about something that happened in school - the one place I think I was happy I never attended, Tony deciding I could learn at the tower - listened patiently as Sam complained about the lack of decent bird-watching spots in New York, and somehow sat through a lecture from Bruce talking about gamma radiation.

I paced the common room, trying to look busy, hoping someone would notice the date on their phone, the faint decorations I'd secretly put up last night (easily dismissed as late Halloween ornaments, I supposed). The clock ticked with maddening precision, each second a hammer blow to my already fragile hopes.

Finally, around late afternoon, Natasha walked in, her face etched with a familiar weariness. “Rough day,” she sighed, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch.

“You could say that,” I muttered, trying to keep my voice neutral.

She glanced at me, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Something up?”

This was my chance. “Just… a little forgotten,” I said, carefully avoiding eye contact.

She studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she stood up. “Wait here.”

Hope flickered within me, a tiny, fragile flame. Maybe she remembered. Maybe she was going to orchestrate a surprise party, a cake with seventeen candles, a chorus of off-key "Happy Birthdays."

But no, she returned empty handed, “Tony needs help re-calibrating the repulsors. He’s about to blow up the lab. You're closest. Go.”

My heart sank. The flicker of hope extinguished. I forced a smile. “Sure thing, Nat.”

The lab was, indeed, a controlled chaos. Tony was covered in grease, his usually impeccable hair a mess. He barked orders at a bewildered-looking Peter, who was struggling to hold a wrench twice his size.

“Ah, Y/n! Perfect timing,” Tony exclaimed, without even looking at me. “Hold this. Tight. And don't breathe on it.”

I spent the next hour balancing carefully on a stool, holding a delicate piece of Stark tech, trying not to sneeze, and feeling utterly invisible.

Finally, Tony declared the repulsors “minimally functional,” and Peter, bless his heart, after being dismissed as a “potential explosion hazard,” whispered a quick, “Happy birthday, Y/n!” before scurrying off.

It was enough to make me want to cry.

I mumbled a thank you and slumped back into the common room, defeated. I couldn't even muster the energy to be angry. Just… sad.

The others slowly trickled back in, one by one. Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Bruce, all looking exhausted and preoccupied. Each of them passed me with a cursory nod, completely oblivious.

I decided to retreat to my room, to wallow in self-pity and watch bad reality TV. As I reached the door, Steve’s voice stopped me.

“Y/n, could you…” he trailed off, looking slightly sheepish. "You look a little down. Everything okay?"

"Fine," I lied, my voice barely a whisper.

He frowned. "You sure? You know you can talk to me."

I wanted to scream, to tell him that no, everything was not fine, that it was my birthday, and they had all completely forgotten. But the words caught in my throat, choked by disappointment.

"Yeah, Steve. I'm fine. Just tired." I turned and walked into my room, closing the door softly behind me. I leaned against it, tears welling in my eyes.

A moment later, there was a knock. I ignored it.

The door opened.

It wasn’t Steve. It was Bucky, looking uncharacteristically awkward.

“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice rough around the edges. “Heard you weren’t having such a great day.”

I glared at him, tears threatening to spill over. “What do you want, Bucky?”

He shuffled his feet. “Just… figured you might want this.” He held out a small, rectangular box.

I took it, my fingers trembling. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, was a silver bracelet. It was simple, elegant, and perfectly me.

"Natasha picked it out," Bucky said, avoiding my gaze. "Said it was…appropriate."

My breath hitched. “But… they forgot.”

Bucky shook his head. “We didn’t forget, kid. We just… we wanted it to be a surprise.”

He stepped aside, and I saw them. Standing in the hallway, all of them, looking sheepish and slightly apologetic. Tony held a half-eaten cake (chocolate, my favourite). Natasha had a stack of presents wrapped in brightly coloured paper. Steve was grinning, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. Sam was holding a boombox, which he promptly turned on, blasting a slightly off-key version of "Happy Birthday."

“Surprise!” they all yelled, their voices blending together in a cacophony of sound.

Tears streamed down my face, but this time, they were tears of relief and joy. I laughed, a shaky, emotional sound.

"You guys…" I choked out, unable to find the right words.

"We may not always show it, Y/n," Steve said, stepping forward and giving me a hug, "but you're an important part of this team. And you're important to us."

Tony clapped me on the shoulder. “Alright, enough with the mushy stuff. Cake time! And presents! And then, maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you drive one of my cars.”

The rest of the evening was a blur of laughter, cake, terrible presents (thanks, Tony), and surprisingly heartfelt speeches. I learned that Natasha had been planning the surprise for weeks and that Bucky had spent hours agonising over the perfect gift.

As I sat there, surrounded by my dysfunctional, chaotic, but ultimately loving family, I realised that being the youngest Avenger wasn’t so bad after all. They might forget things sometimes, they might underestimate me, but they would always, eventually, come through. And sometimes, that's all that really matters. Especially on a birthday.

Tags:

@riowritesitall @mandmilovehim @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @lgbtq-girl @parkjihoonsnudes @rajah-oliver

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[goaskangel]

older boyfriend!simon headcannons (slightly toxic)

older boyfriend!simon expects you to open the door for him every friday night. he comes with flowers of course, your preferred candy of the week too. he’ll scruff off his work shoes and hug you with one arm as he kisses the top of your head.

older boyfriend!simon who’s tired as hell after a long week and doesn’t say anything until he’s taken his freezing fucking showers in your bathroom. washing off grime from the earlier work day so he can get back to you all clean and tidy. he likes using some of your fancy scrubs so he can get a little feel of what it’s like to be all soft and smooth like you. especially likes how the fruity scent lingers. 

he’ll yawn as he gets back to you at the couch, tossing the towel on the back before melting right onto you. you wince at his damp skin and slowly warm up to him, stroking his wet blonde hair, twirling at the greys of his roots. he’ll groan at the shitty reality tv and turn his head to the other side, closing his eyes and yawning away to his sleep. 

older boyfriend!simon doesn’t realize how deep of a sleeper he is because how on earth did you get up with his heavy body laying atop yours on the couch without him getting up? he scratches his head and rubs the sleep off his eyes as the morning sun warms his face. he gets up to stretch and finds you scrubbing away at his printed mask at the kitchen sink. walking behind you, he slips his hands under your thin shirt and rests them on the curve of your hips. he squeezes the fat and drops his face to kiss and lick at your neck. sloppy and sleepy pecks below your ear. 

you ring his mask out, “yeah, good morning to you too, si.” 

he ignores your sarcasm and slides his hands on yours, “reckon it’s time for somethin’ to eat, yeah? know a spot not to fa’h that you’ll adore.” you comply. you’ve had no groceries and didn’t wanna cook something anyway, plus you know he wouldn’t let you pay for anything. 

older boyfriend!simon makes you put something more decent on. he got such a pretty little thing, he can’t just show her off so easily! you both compromise on his hoodie (it’s been at your pace for so long that it’s practically shrunken down to your size) and shorts. he’ll stand behind you to the right with his arm around you on the sidewalk (he follows the sidewalk rule without even knowing it, he thought it was just basically common sense.) 

he knows the staff and orders his usual, suggesting you try it. the waitress there calls you both darlin and love, squeezes her server book when simon holds your hand across the table a little too tight. he likes having you beside him but sometimes you’ll sit across, he likes the way you chub your mouth full when you’re hungry, grinning at the taste. he’ll make you try something new off his plate, feeding you with his fork and wiping a crumb off your lower lip as you nod with a oh yeah that’s good. 

he knows not to make a scene over paying the bill, it’s his natural language of care/ the last time you tried letting him know you could also pay it, he just gave you this dirty look. god forbid you feel a little guilty because he’ll stop you with a “don’t even start, love.” 

older boyfriend!simon wouldn’t call himself toxic, he wouldn’t call himself anything. so what if he likes the fact you’re not too close with anyone? if you’ve only got a few girlfriends to hang out with, he gets all the precious time with you in the end. he likes how you’re always free, anytime he calls you’re already out the door. it’s either you're bored at home or you’re finishing up your shift, he’ll pick you up and treat you. 

maybe you rely on him a little too much. simon never forgets his kiss before showering so what the hell could you have done to upset him? he’ll leave knick knacks like candy or a book you’ll like just around instead of handing it to you to see your reaction, does he just not care anymore? it’s just his way of being petty, even at his old age. 

he’s not big on solo trips. what if something happens? you’re all he’s got and so what if something goes wrong, the only close person you’ve got around is him. it wouldn’t look too good if the police had to ask a man twice her age where his lady went, now is it? it’s better if he looks after you. 

older boyfriend!simon is big on routine, he wouldn’t call it controlling. it’s just unspoken: don’t cancel friday night, nothing too scandalous unless he picks it, and definitely no declining his calls. its good for both of you, he swears it. the weekend’s where you both can wind down, he can’t have certain men playing cheap games around you, and he doesn’t see a reason you can’t accept his calls. he knows your routine and he barely does anyway. 

you like his little rules too. you don’t admit it but his guidance makes you wet like nothing else. he can tell—he can always tell. when he’s got his fingertips grazing your mound before sliding his hand under your panties, the way your cunt drools when he talks about why he doesn’t do this too often, “don’t wan’ you gettin’ too used to it, birdie. i know you can only take so much.” his gruff words make you twitch and you swear if he went on a little longer, you’d come. 

it’s anything he says mixed with the accent, if public humiliation weren’t a thing, you’d drop your panties any time he’d try to correct you. 

when you confront him about not kissing you, not touching you like he normally does, that you'd rather have him raise his voice at you, he tells you, “ain’t raisin’ my voice. you’ll know when i’m bitter, love.” his arms crossed with a smile tugging a little at his lips–what were you even upset about?

or when it’s late at night and he’s damn tired but you can’t help yourself. you’re rubbing up on him like a minx, he sighs and slides his hand to your ass, “don’t start thinkin’ you can get away with that pout every time. s’gonna stop workin’ one of these days.” you know it won’t. 

older boyfriend!simon makes sure to take care of you so you can take care of him. The best way to make sure he stays steady is to make you feel safe enough to soften. he despises when you ask for his help, he thinks of it more as since you look after everyone else so much, thought it was my turn, yeah? more like his purpose to have this quiet authority over you. 

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