#SLights

[percydoodless]

anything to be free again

(click for better quality)

[spaciebabie]

trauma therapy has been swell

[stealingpotatoes]

tried to tell my faithful eunuch Tucker that he was basically tumblr famous, but he was too focused on defending the homestead to care

[daftpatience]

minecrap in the librarby

[snail-day]

Satoru thinks he might actually be going insane.

Not in a funny way. Not in a "haha I'm so in love” way, no, like actual, clinical insanity.

Because you’re curled up in his lap again, cheek pressed against his chest, humming happily to yourself while scrolling through your phone with your legs draped over his thighs and he’s just… sitting there. Letting it happen. Pretending to watch the movie while his brain is trying to process the weight of your affection.

He doesn’t move. Barely breathes. If he breathes too hard, you might remember he’s just your roommate and move.

His hands are hovering like he doesn’t know where to put them. He wants to hold you so bad it physically hurts, but what if that’s weird? What if you’re just cold and he reads too much into it? What if you get up and say “God, Toru, you’re so clingy,” and then never touch him again?

So he just lets his fingers twitch uselessly against the couch cushion while you hum something under your breath and burrow deeper into him.

He’s so. Pathetic.

He lets you steal bites of his food. Lets you nap on his chest. Lets you crawl into his bed in the middle of the night with sleepy eyes and say “Nightmare,” expecting that to just explain everything. (It does.) He always opens the blankets and pulls you in, holds you until your breathing slows, until his heart stops threatening to burst through his chest.

He thinks you might be dating. Maybe. Possibly.

But you’ve never said anything.

And he doesn’t just want to assume.

What if this is just… how you are? Sweet. Clingy. Affectionate with everyone. What if you’re just playing house and he’s the idiot who fell in love with the fantasy?

God, he’s so embarrassing.

And then, you go and do something stupid. Like kiss his cheek when you get up. Like pout and say “Toru, come cuddle me,” attempting to guide him back to your room. Ignoring him when he tells you to stop being cute.

He doesn't follow. He just wants to ask.

To clarify.

Yet, anytime the words start to form his mouth goes dry. He stares at you. You glance over your shoulder, sipping from your cup. Waiting.

He opens his mouth.

And then closes it.

Because if he asks… if he really asks…what you are.

What would you even say?

And, can he even handle your answer?

------

Next Part: Wait, we're dating?

[homewrungt]

kiss break

[xaviergalatis]

[sunlit-mess]

niffty styled his hair for sure

[lotus-pear]

dancing in starlight fits go hard asl 💯 (ref)

[szxvivi]

mornings

[cuntphoric]

you’ve been skipping class, flunking labs, and now you’re in his office with a bad throbbing ache between your legs and an even badder grade

you don’t even bother knocking when you walk into his office, because he’s the one who told you to “come in after hours if you want to fix this."

he’s lounging behind his desk like he always is, legs spread wide, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a sliver of his chest. those ridiculous black sunglasses are perched low on his nose, and when he sees you he smiles.

“look who finally showed up,” he sighed, gesturing lazily to the stack of unfinished lab reports on his desk. “thought you’d given up.”

you shift awkwardly, heart pounding that you swore that felt like . “i just.. didn’t know what to say.”

“good thing you’re not here to talk, then,” he murmurs, pushing his glasses back up. “you’ve been slacking all semester. skipping lectures, half assing labs.. think i wouldn’t notice?”

you try to look apologetic, but it’s hard to think when he stands up and walks toward you, all tall, slow, and hot as hell. he stops when he’s just behind you, so close you can feel the heat of him against your back.

he stops just behind you. doesn’t touch. doesn’t even breathe too loud. but he’s there. close enough to set your skin on fire.

“so,” he says, voice lower now, almost lazy. “what are you gonna do to make up for it?”

you swallow hard. it’s too quiet in the room, and his words feel like a trap you’re already tangled in. “i don’t know,” you mumble, not trusting yourself to meet his eyes. “whatever you think is fair..”

he lets that hang for a second. then laughs softly. “you’re asking me to decide what’s fair?” his breath brushes your neck now, and you feel it—finally, his fingers ghosting over your hip like he’s testing how far you’ll let him go. “baby, that’s dangerous.”

you say nothing. can’t. your pulse is screaming under your skin.

he leans closer, like he’s about to bite out something cruel, but he doesn’t. just murmurs, “you walk in here after weeks of disappearing and tell me whatever i think is fair? you sure you wanna give me that kind of control?”

“i’m here, aren’t i?” you whisper.

his hand finally settles on your waist, grounding, a little too firm. “yeah,” he says. “you are.”

but he doesn’t move. doesn’t do anything, not yet. just lets the tension stretch and snap in the silence, dragging it out because he wants you to squirm.

“bend over the desk,” he says quieter now, “just so we can talk.”

you hesitate this time. you know what he’s capable of when you’re like this - open, stupid with need, desperate for something rough to erase the guilt of failing repeatedly pooling in your chest. but still, you lean forward, hands braced, chest against the desk’s cold edge.

he stands behind you but doesn’t touch. just talks.

“do you even know what you want?” he asks, tone unreadable. “or are you just hoping i’ll figure it out for you?”

your mouth is dry. “i want to fix it.”

he hums. “no, you want to get fucked and pretend that fixes it.”

your breath catches.

“you think showing up wet and pathetic is the same as putting in work?” he presses a hand between your shoulder blades, not to hold you down, but just feel you. “you think that’s gonna cut it?” he sighs.

can this man just do something—

oh. and then—then—you hear the belt.

you don’t hesitate. your hands brace against the cool wood as you feel him behind you, tugging at your waistband, baring you like you’re some toy he gets to play with when the lab’s closed.

and then you hear it. the soft click of his belt.

“count for me,” he says.

the first strike is loud and hot and sharp, making your hips jerk forward and your breath catch in your throat.

“one,” you gasp.

“you can take more than that, right?” he murmurs, and god, he sounds pleased.

he spanks you again, then again, harsh and slow, pausing just enough to let the sting settle before the next. by the seventh you’re trembling, thighs pressed tight, skin burning.

by the twelfth you’re dripping, trying not to grind against the desk to get some- any kind of friction. he leans forward, pressing a kiss just under your ear, voice thick.

“look at you,” he breathes. “all shaky already. i haven’t even fucked you yet.”

when he finally pulls his cock out, he drags the tip along your slit just to pull a reaction out of you and then he pushes in, all at once, no warning, making your body jolt forward as he buries himself deep.

he fucks you like he’s trying to drill the periodic table into your spine—slow at first, grinding deep, then picking up pace until the desk creaks under you. one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip, dragging you back onto him like he owns you.

“gonna fix that grade right here,” he pants. “maybe if i fuck you dumb enough, you’ll stop skipping class.”

you’re crying out now, clenching around him, brain static.

“f-fuck—professor—”

he groans, hips stuttering as he slams into you harder, until your legs give and your moans turn into needy whines. and when he comes, it’s with a low growl and a handful of your hair in his fist, cock buried so deep it feels like he’s made a mark inside.

you stay there, folded over the desk, skin warm and used, every nerve fried and twitching. the world’s gone fuzzy around the edges, and your thighs are trembling, stuck between the aftershock and the hot cum inside.

he slides out antagonizingly slow. his hands stay on your hips a second longer than they need to, thumbs brushing over the marks he left. then he leans in, and you feel the scratch of his stubble as he kisses the base of your spine—soft and mocking.

his voice is a low purr when he speaks.

“look at you,” he murmurs. “can’t even stand up straight.”

you groan, forehead still pressed to the desk, too gone to argue.

he pulls your panties back up with a tenderness that doesn’t match anything that just happened, then palms your ass one last time that felt too smug.

“extra credit approved,” he says, and when you glance back, he’s buttoning his shirt as if he didn’t just rearrange your guts.

the belt’s still hanging loose around his hips. his smile’s a little crooked. and he’s already reaching for a red pen.

[stealingpotatoes]

[through gritted teeth] I love summer as a cat owner

[chloesimaginationthings]

I hope we see ghost kid Charlie in the FNAF 2 Movie

[eunnieboo]

another year another yuri