#and all of it because of a god damn pen

[ineffable-suffering]

Ceci n'est pas une plume.

(from this doc of all of Neil's answered asks)

The meta goes a little like this: I like nerdy stuff about language (and also Good Omens), so I wanted to elaborate on why Angels and Demons don't actually ever speak any language except their own. They simply have the ability to flick a translation switch and (make anyone) understand what's being said in whatever other language.

Also, I end up making a way deeper point of it and why it's so telling that Aziraphale would learn French (and magic) the hard way, in the end.

Find out with me under the cut!

(Word count: 1820 | Reading time: ~8 minutes )

Aziraphale and Crowley's exchange in front of Marguerite's restaurant started me down this path and I'm pretty sure that this is actually how it works. Because it ties together a few other loose strings that have been floating around in my head about the whole langue deal in Good Omens.

Let's structure this by the questions Neil has already answered about it.

The Lead Balloon

I feel like the "in the beginning"-scene in S2 showed us that Crowley did not actually have much of an idea what exactly the plan for Earth and the humans were (instead, Aziraphale did). He might have found out later still, after asking his questions, but I feel like the second part of that answer is more likely to be true, since they both seem to understand this metaphor. This is further supported by:

Ergo: They're speaking in the language of Angels but we understand it in English (or whatever language we selected on our Amazon Prime). Automatically translated for us because Crowley and Aziraphale wanted us to understand them.

"Ciao. It's Italian. It means Food."

They sort of are, yes. Idiots who either forgot to turn on their own auto-translator, or idiots who aren't aware that they have one for other languages except English, or idiots who were miffed that Crowley actually knew-knew a word in another language and didn't want to admit that they didn't.

Où est la plume de la jardinière de ma tante?

Right, so. The exchange that fuelled this meta. First of all, as a funny side note, the origin of that peculiar sentence:

La plume de ma tante ("my aunt's quill") is a phrase in popular culture, attributed to elementary French language instruction (possibly as early as the 19th century) and used as an example of grammatically correct phrases with limited practical application that are sometimes taught in introductory foreign language texts. As Life magazine said in 1958, "As every student knows, the most idiotically useless phrase in a beginner's French textbook is la plume de ma tante (the quill of my aunt)." The phrase is also used to refer to something deemed completely irrelevant. [link]

So basically, it's historically the most nonsensical and dumb phrase any student of the French language gets taught. And yet Aziraphale has been "wittering on about it for the last 250 years". Even looking smug about it, to this very day. Gave me a good chuckle.

Also:

In the 1973 horror film The Exorcist, Catholic priest Damien Karras interviews [...] a girl believed to suffer from demonic possession. While Karras probes to determine whether the possession is a hoax, the demon Pazuzu—who has possessed the girl—speaks in Latin and French, languages presumably unknown to the girl. When Karras demands "Quod nomen mihi est?/What is my name?" in Latin, the demon exclaims "La plume de ma tante!", using the phrase as a non sequitur to mock and evade Karras' line of questioning. [link]

Using that particular phrase to avoid answering a question you're being asked? Like: "You speak every language in the world perfectly ...

Neil, Neil, Neil, *shakes head fondly*, is there anything that you don't give layered meaning to, ever? No. No, of course you don't. And I adore you for it.

The whereabouts of the aunt's gardener's pen questioned, Aziraphale then says "But you still understood me" when Crowley calls him out for his bad French.

This is curious and affirming of my auro-translator theory for two reasons:

1) Aziraphale wouldn't have said this if he'd uttered this sentence in the language of Angels and simply hit the auto-translate button. Because if he had done it that way, of course Crowley would have understood him. But the reason Crowley understands him is not because Aziraphale used his language auto-translate, but because, again, Aziraphale, for two hundred and fifty years, has been wittering on about the plume of his imaginary tante.

2) Point one is further proven by a tiny French nerdy fact I can provide because I actually did learn and graduate in French back in school, lol. Because Crowley actually makes a mistake while trying to not-automatically translate the sentence. He says:

But "jarndinère" is actually a female gardener (le jardinier = male, la jardinière = female). So, when Crowley says "he doesn't have a pen", he actually gets it wrong, which further proves to me that he (as well as all other angels and demons) doesn't actually understand the phrase like someone does who has learnt the language in a human way.

Crowley doesn't have the automated translation on in this moment, so he doesn't translate it correctly. Because he doesn't actually speak French. At least not in the sense that us humans interpret "speaking a language".

Comment ça?

Basically, what I'm trying to get at is: Would you say that Google Translate speaks every language in the world? That it's native and fluent in every tongue ever spoken? Or is it simply a program that can access all the language knowledge its been fed and as soon as you hit enter, it translates any and every language back to you?

Google Translate never learnt any language, it never sat down and went through the onslaughts of vocabulary and grammar that studying a language comes with. It never got frustrated with seemingly nonsensical sentence structures, subjonctifs (French-learnes, you know what I mean) tenses and conjugations. It never spent ages trying to understand different dialects and accents, never spoke with natives to figure out the hidden slangs and sarcasms that would never be translated on paper. It never went to night classes where the teacher wittered on about pens and gardeners and aunts.

No. Google Translate is being told a sentence and it soullessly, programatically recognizes the language through its binary coded translation filter and mirrors the equivalent in whatever other language you want it to.

It's furthest any-a thing could be from speaking a language.

And exactly like that.

Exactly like that is how angels and demons "speak" every language in the World. Hitting an imaginary auto-translate-and-auto-recognition button.

Aziraphale and French (and magic)

Just like with Aziraphale being giddy about the idea of human magic, of learning card tricks and pulling coins out from behind ears, Aziraphale chose to never hit his translate button when it came to French.

Why does Aziraphale learn magic the human way? Because he knows how to do it the ethereal way but that's "no fun."

And why does Aziraphale learn French the human way? Because he knows how to do it the ethereal way, but that's "no fun".

Let me recap real quick: Two of the very base principles of any angel's job and/or purpose (on Earth) is to 1) do miracles for humankind to ensure their souls will at some point be added to Heaven's tab and 2) be a being of Love and love all of Her creations.

Or, the condensed version: Magic and Love.

And what are the two things Aziraphale finds no fun (= boring and unsatisfying) to do the way it was intended for all angels?

Magic and (the language of) Love.

Aziraphale chose to try and learn magic as well as the language of love organically, without the God-given ability and the binary coded translation system Heaven provided his corporation with.

He wanted to learn it the human way. The hard way. The fun way.

Neil: "It's like magic tricks, which he is terrible at but loves to do, and miracles, which are no fun, but which he does very well."

Because that's the point, isn't it? Most of us think: "Wow, wouldn't it be great to be able to do actual magic? Simply snap your fingers and have any-a wish come true? Speak every and any language in the universe and never have to pick up a dictionary ever again?"

Sure, for the first few exciting moments, miracles and conversations maybe. But sooner or later, it renders everything meaningless. Soulless. Flavourless. And who loves flavour more than Aziraphale?

It's somewhat similar to why typing a sentence into Google Translate is never going to be as exciting as being able to finally translate it yourself after years of practising. Or why telling an AI to conjure up a picture of a beautiful landscape will never, ever be the same as working years on your own painting skills to one day finally be able to paint it yourself.

Heaven (and ultimately Hell) don't care about the process. The hardship. The pain and passion of putting work and effort into the journey. They only care about the end result. The means to an end.

Crowley: "They don‘t care how it gets done, they just want to know they can cross it off their list."

Want to speak any language in the world? There you go, automatic translator. Want to ensure humans will be added to the Heavenly/Hellish soul tab? Boom, you can do real magic. Get to work, then!

So, for Aziraphale to choose to learn the two things he was provided with to do his Heavenly work in the most efficient, soulless and flavourless way possible the human way instead, really says it all, doesn't it?

But he learnt the most important one the hard way, without his auto-translator.

The one language all angels are supposed to know fluently and wordlessly anyway.

The one language that makes an angel.

The language of Love.

Except that when it's programmed into you with the intent to only ever work as a means to and end instead of the beautiful journey it is, it will never be the real, organic, passionate, hard and wonderful thing it was meant to be.

And Aziraphale knows this.

Which is exactly why he learnt magic and French the real, human way.

***

Small addendum that I couldn't really fit into any paragraph up there: I think it's also really telling that Aziraphale only properly committed to learning French the right way by going to Monsieur Rossignol's (for those who haven’t seen it yet: rossignol means nightingale in French) night classes in 1760 after the first time we see Crowley rescue him (Bastille, 1739). There might have been a time before that where Crowley got him out of a precarious situation, but for all we know, it was the first one where Crowley really showed up for an angel in need who was absolutely swooning over it. Time to let the nightingale to teach you how to become fluent in Love!

[dollypopup]

'colin needs to grovel' 'colin should suffer' 'pen can't let him off easy'

please, his mother in law is about to be PORTIA, doesn't the man have enough curses in his life?

[audiblehush]

Listen, Polin has been my Roman Empire for months now, but this fandom is WILDIN’.

Chunks of this fandom who claim to be Polin fans seem to hate either Colin or Penelope and I’m just like… why are you here, then, if you refuse to empathize or even TRY to understand either critical half of the pairing?

“Colin can’t see what’s in front of him and he insulted her in front of his peers!! GROVEL; I hope Pen moves onto Debling!!!”

First of all, you’re not a Polin fan if you hate Colin so much you want her to move on to someone else. Second of all: yeah, no. Yes,Colin put his foot in his mouth, arguably in a big way because of status, but plenty of people in real life have experienced saying something that came off poorly to a group of people. Everything we know about Colin’s character tells us he is going to feel horrible about it; he’ll apologize, MEAN IT, and she’ll forgive him. She has her own apologies to make.

Believe it or, it is NORMAL for people to grow into romantic feelings slowly. Stop punishing Colin for discovering who he is by experiencing his own character arc with his own mistakes. He’s allowed to have flaws; he’s allowed to work through his insecurities!

Tbh, most of the criticisms I see of Colin are pretty surface-level and petty, so I don’t give them much real estate in my brain because they’re just… bad, lol.

On the flip side -

“Penelope feels entitled to Colin’s feelings; she’s selfish and the fucking worst!!”

S3 Penelope: *overhears Colin say he would never court her; BELIEVES him - decides she’s going to stop wasting her time, move on, and look for a serious suitor and marriage prospect a) as is expected of her in this era and b) so that she has security, especially considering her family’s dire financial straits.*

“Oh my GOD, this is so anti-Polin, how could she POSSIBLY even THINK about accepting a proposal from anyone but Colin?! GTFO”

SIGH, 1) we have NO IDEA how this plot line is going to pan out: Lord Debling may or may not be serious about her, we don’t know what that even looks like, or for how long. The show synopsis historically likes to play with the fandom expectations a lot. He may possibly propose… and if he does, it would clearly exist as a sort of parallel to S1…. but 2) GOD FORBID Penelope entertain the idea, despite very real fears and evidence that would lead her thinking it would likely be her ONLY proposal… or that even if Colin proposed post heavy-petting session, how on EARTH could she think that he would be doing it out of honor-bound obligation and not love. 🙄 Her potentially considering a proposal isn’t anti-Polin; it’s a realistic response and consideration to two (and likely an additional half) seasons worth of external and internal stressors that are tying into her character development.

Penelope’s heart is fragile for a multitude of reasons due to her home life, her prior experiences with Colin and Eloise AND the rest of the ton - it’s incredibly frustrating for people to ignore why she would potentially not believe Colin even if he DID confess / give her a marriage proposal, just like it’s frustrating when people don’t try to understand why Colin might struggle with his own feelings.

Some of y’all really don’t understand people like Penelope who have been told their entire lives that they are not enough, are terrified of putting themselves out there by being emotionally vulnerable and potentially rejected for the fundamental aspects of who they are… even though some of y’all claim to identify with Colin when he has his OWN STRUGGLES WITH SOME OF THESE SAME FEARS. And it’s almost worse because Pen is painfully SHY: You don’t just magically become confident one day because you decided to be; it is a constant battle against negativity that eventually becomes heavily internalized… it takes years of work unlearn those thought patterns, especially when you’re surrounded by people insulting and rejecting your to your face (her family) or behind your back (the way the ton talks about her family… it’s likely Pen heard gossip about herself, whether individually or as an extension of her family PLENTY)… with an added dose of also being ignored when not actively insulted.

It would not shock me at ALL if Penelope genuinely considers a Debling proposal. All of Colin’s actions in S1 and S2 have ultimately taught her that he is never going to return her feelings; she is likely going to be pretty oblivious to his own romantic realizations this season because why would she look for or entertain those hopes again? Some of y’all complain that she is selfish about Colin’s romantic feelings (which lol, I disagree strongly, but sure hypothetically, I’ll allow it) … so then when she tries to move on by listening to him and his actions she’s suddenly… punishing him and undeserving of him?? When she would have every reason to be skeptical of these feelings coming from seemingly nowhere when he starts of the season trying to find her a husband? NAH fam, she’s doing what anyone with any sense of emotional self-preservation would do: move on and try to be content, even if she knows she’ll always love Colin in her heart.

AND even if Penelope develops potentially fond feelings for Debling… do you really think it’s unrealistic for a 19 year old young woman who has done nothing but pine over a man who is oblivious to it (or worse, finds a romantic relationship with you laughable… in her eyes), who has not had ANYONE be romantically interested her… to maybe get a little fluttery around someone who is reasonably nice looking and shows her genuine interest right off the bat? Spoiler Alert: that is probably exactly what would happen because it’s a heady feeling!!!

This entire plotline is either a parallel to the Marina situation, or a reference to the book line that basically has Colin going “Oh shit, what if I had never realized Pen is the love of my life?? What if someone else had seen how amazing she was and snatched her up??” - Maybe it’s even both! Deep breath: it’s a just plot device for Polin to realize they’re made for each other.

Colin and Pen are going to be on their own journeys this season that fly in the face of what the other is going through. Colin is grappling with newfound romantic feelings for Penelope (while likely struggling to trust them because he thought he loved Marina but lol no he didn’t, so how is he supposed to know???) while also battling against former (and potentially current) impulsive actions… and Penelope is fighting for her LIFE trying to bury her feelings and move on because she’s trying to protect her heart because Colin literally said out loud he’d never want her AND she’s likely thinking of her security. They are both grappling with internal conflicts that oppose the other and THAT is what is going to make the tension and development so good… and that’s without even addressing all the LW stuff that needs to get worked through!

I need y’all to flex that empathy muscle a little and realize that this isn’t about fucking fan-service, or you projecting your own experiences onto these characters (or even the weird self-insert “I am/want to be this character” or “I want to fuck this character”) - you can relate to these characters but ultimately it’s about the STORY - it’s about exploring these characters realistically in how they would react to their own traumas and lived experiences, and how what they think they want/need comes into conflicts with their counterparts.

This is a romantic DRAMA, and these characters are going to have their ups and downs… and it’s a Shondaland drama for better or worse, so you KNOW it’s going to get messy (good lord just look at S2 and how far that “love” triangle went… I’m hopeful for the new show runner because she’s a fan).

Polin will be canon because they unreservedly CHOOSE the other and it will be glorious, so everybody chill the fuck out and stop shitting on my imperfect, emotionally fragile yet beautifully relatable, evolving lovers. They are the BEST fucking ship, but most of this fandom doesn’t deserve them tbh. They’re both messes in their own ways, and honestly? If they were real, neither Colin nor Penelope would tolerate this slander y’all are throwing at the other.

LEAVE COLIN AND PENELOPE ALONE AND LET THEM MUDDLE THEIR WAY TO TRUE LOVE. 🤬

[tsuncda]

so am i right or am i right in my assertion that bridgerton doesn't actually do character work, it just rebrands it's main characters before their season begins and tries to recontextualize them as poor little meow meows.

[pilmyeol]

return of the disaster class hero is a lot of fun. wouldnt call it good necessarily but it is highly enjoyable and also i really like the weird gay thing lee gun and hugo have going on

[missdynamighttt]

so.. giving bf! katsuki his girlfriend bill and he pays.. WAY too much tax.

it started as a joke.

you sat on the couch, scribbling away at a piece of paper while katsuki was busy scrolling through his phone. when you were done, you slid it across the table to him with a smug grin.

KATSUKI BAKUGO - GIRLFRIEND BILL

• snacks (your girl gotta eat, and no, your portion does not count as mine even if i eat it): 500

• unlimited cuddles package (its like a warm cozy prison): 1,000

• tummy tax (you hog my tummy all the damn time, rent is due.): 3,000

• sex damages (broken furniture, excessive laundry, my LEGS, my BACK, my SANITY): 5,000

• miscellaneous (for anything i want because you love me): 8,000

TOTAL: 17,500

DUE DATE: NOW. PAY UP 💜

you leaned back, arms crossed. “you owe me, boyfie.”

katsuki stared at the paper, then at you. his eyebrow twitched. “the fuck is this?”

“since you love spending money on me, i figured i’d make it official,” you teased. “just the essentials. cuddles, snacks, emotional labor fees, suffering damages—”

he snorted, shaking his head. “suffering damages?”

“i am dating you.”

he clicked his tongue but didn’t argue. instead, he grabbed the paper, pulled out a pen, and started writing.

you blinked. “uh… what are you doing?”

“fixing your shitty math.”

you leaned over to look—only for your jaw to drop when you saw him doubling the charges and adding even more things to the bill.

• snacks (you always say you don’t want any, then eat mine)

• spa days (so you don’t stress out)

• hair and nails (because i know you like getting them done)

• shopping sprees (you never ask, but i see you eyein’ shit)

• being the best damn thing in my life (consider as future investment. i’m keepin’ you forever, dumbass)

your eyes trailed down the list, heart pounding. meanwhile, katsuki was casually typing on his phone.

a notification buzzed on yours. you glanced down—and nearly choked.

Deposit: 50,000 from katsuki bakugo

you gawked at the absurd number. “katsuki—what the hell?”

he grinned, crossing his arms. “what? you think i don’t know what you deserve?”

your face burned, your heart doing somersaults as you stared at him in disbelief, acting like he didn’t just casually triple your joke bill. "katsuki, this was supposed to be a joke.”

he leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “not to me. i’d pay more if it meant spoilin’ my girl the way she deserves.”

you swallowed hard, heart pounding. “you—you can’t just—”

“too late,” he interrupted, tugging you onto his lap. “the hell kinda cheapskate boyfriend you think i am?”

you stared at the new total, eyes wide. “katsuki—this is, like, a small fortune.”

he just smirked. “yeah? guess you’re worth it.”

your face burned.

"just shut up and take my money, sweets," his lips brushed against your ear. "tell you what—how ‘bout i add another big... tip?"

but before you could react, he was already throwing you over his shoulder, carrying you straight to the bedroom.

you had a feeling he wasn’t talking about money anymore.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ been feeling burnt out lately lmao😵‍💫 didnt include any money symbols so yall dont have to go through the trouble of converting it😭 thank god my husband is rich >< trying to clear my bazillion drafts, hope you guys enjoy this💜

[arkhambug]

JASON TODD with a mouth fixation.

jason who has no idea how it even started, and has absolutely no clue why he’s so attracted to something so specific, but is anyways.

jason who stares at your lips every time you talk to him, and even when you’re not, cause they’re just so pretty and perfect.

jason who watches your tongue run over your teeth and tuck into your cheek when you’re thinking. who loves the way you pout, and fucking adores your smile. who starts saying things he knows will get you to grin up at him just to see it more.

jason who could watch you suck on the lollipops you buy by the box, claiming you ‘think better with something in your mouth’, for fucking hours, because its just so mesmerizing.

jason who watches you chew on your pen as you’re taking notes on a case, the plastic slotted between your pretty teeth, and wishes so hard that it was his finger that he ends up crossing the room to you like a man possessed.

jason who pushes his fingers between your lips, and presses the pads against your tongue, and watches as you start to drool around them.

jason who drags his fingers across every inch of your mouth, grazing your molars, and pushes his knuckles into your canines, and pressing into the muscle at the center, and watches as your eyes nearly roll back into your skull as they meet the resistance of your throat.

jason who’s eyes blow wide when your teeth graze against his knuckles, just the right amount to feel like the action is meant for something else.

jason who all but fingerbangs your mouth, digits hitting your gag reflex and curling against your tongue like it’s a god damn g-spot, his other hand coming to cradle your head, your hands wrapped around his wrist as you start to follow his movements — bobbing your head to swallow them down.

jason who can’t help but need to see those pretty lips wrapped around something else, to see how desperate you’d get for that instead.

jason todd who really fucking loves your mouth.

[shroomyv]

ᢉ𐭩GOOD BOY(‘S) [1]

Pairing: mark grayson x sinister mark x Mohawk mark x viltrumite mark x F!reader (god damn)

Synopsis: been awhile since the invincible war ended. A few of them ended up being captured in your world and kept in the prisons. Cecil allows you to visit them and (clearly) has not a damn clue as to what you’re saying or doing with them. Usually, it’d be complete chaos and nothing would change or happen in the room. However, you finally try something new with them…all of them…(should be good to mention here that you have powers…if u didn’t you’d honestly be stupid going into that room with confidence 🧍🏾‍♀️)

Warnings: story will lead to smut, slightly suggestive, harsh words (like bitch, pussy, or slut), not proofread, some corny dialogue (bear with me pls)

W.c: 2,086 (rlly doing my big one)

A/N: (there’s alot I have to say so pls bear with me 😭) first off, thank all of u for all the constant support on my other fics and even my shitty little doodles I posted. Means a lot to me. This is my first series/series writing and it’s also the first fic I’ve made with multiple ppl speaking let alone mark variants. So I’m begging you, please bear with me. If anything is overly fucking terrible or bad feel free to dm me advice. Also I’ll be making a master list soon for all my writings. Or wtv. This is part one to the series and it’ll get super smutty in the next one so I hope u js enjoy this one for now. It’ll be meh…(I highkey think it’s bad but wtv)

Long after the Invincible War, you were still intrigued by all the versions of your boyfriend that had come into your world to reek havoc and chaos. Most were dead, some were in prison, and some were thrown into whatever place they went to. Being a superpowered scientist under Cecil had its perks–you got to not only examine and see these variants, but you also got to speak to them (only with the supervision of your world's Mark of course). Your visits grew more and more frequent to them, it went from once a month, to once a week, to 3 times a week. They had memorized the times you visited, the clack of your heels, and your pen clicking before you entered their cell each time.

Your Mark always complained–sometimes it was genuine concern for your safety and reasoning, other times, it was clear and blatant jealousy. 

“Why do you always want to go see those bastards, they almost destroyed the entire world. Not only that one of them almost crushed you to fucking death! If this gets too bad we're not seeing them again…” he was annoyed–making good and fair points. Sadly, you were too stubborn to attempt to listen to them. 

“You've almost crushed me to death before,” you said with a shrug as you kept walking down the long hall getting ready to get to the cell that held the marks. 

“WHAT!? When was this?” Mark had stopped for a second now having genuine concern as he hadn't remembered ever doing that. He tried his best to make sure you were protected from anything and everything.

“You crushed me plenty of times in bed–it's ok though because I've crushed you back just as much so we're even.” you had one smug ass smirk on your face seeing Mark's annoyed one before you two finally made it to the room. Before you could swipe your keycard to enter the room, Mark grabbed your arm having you stop and listen to what he had to say. “I'm serious babe…let them get out of line and we aren't seeing them again, they'll just rot in here till Cecil finds something to do with them.” 

You used your free hand, swiping the keycard as the door opened. You turned to your mark lifting his chin with your pen as he looked prepared to hear whatever you had to say. 

“I will decide when this research is over. However, you know if you want it to truly end and for me to stay out of this cell, you would only need to tell Cecil you won't accompany me anymore. Until you do that…we're continuing.” 

You were stern and stubborn, meaning every single word you said. You finally pulled the pen down—giving his cheek a soft kiss before walking into the cell.

“Well, we see who wears the pants in your little relationship.” The mark with the mohawk said before he just started laughing trying to bother and mock your mark as best as he could. 

“Hey well at least I get to leave here, I'm not locked in a fucking cell with my arms hanging up!” your mark snarled back–getting closer to Mohawk Mark as they glared each other down.

Sinister Mark cut into the conversation, having a lot worse to say about your mark and his “submission” to you. 

“Hey, does she fuck you too? I just wanna get a full scope on how pussy you are! God, you're pathetic…weak…” 

They were being little assholes ganging up against your mark, all besides the viltrumite one. He was just silent, observing your behaviors. As those 3 bickered,  you walked up to him with crossed arms.

“Nothing to say?” You asked leaning in closer to his face. He backed up as best as he could, struggling to even move a bit because of his restraints but he found small ways. 

“No…bitch…” he said before scrunching up his lips. You just leaned into him closer and closer knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. “Don’t your people have a thing for respecting higher-ups? Am I not higher up right now?” You were absolutely smug watching as his expression kind of dropped. He knew you were right and he hated every bit about it. 

The cell was silent now…the other marks wondered why he stopped fighting back, falling silent. 

“Don’t tell me you're all pussy now too!?” Mohawk Mark had said in a snarky tone. Your mark was walking up to you to pull you back from him. You raised your hand stopping him from coming closer as you used your other hand, softly rubbing viltrumite Mark'sk'sace. 

He jolted from your touch for a second—not being used to anything like it at all. However, he had been in that cold cell for days, weeks even, with no warmth whatsoever. He melted into your hand as you kept rubbing it softly—he felt odd…like he had never felt before. He released soft huffs the whole time until you finally stepped back. 

“W..wait-“ he exclaimed trying to get your attention again. Before he could even say what he wanted, sinister Mark butted in.

“What the hell did you just do to him!? He’s never been like that ever!” 

Your mark wanted to be filled in as well, waiting for your response.

“I just touched 'em relax.” You were honestly shocked yourself. 

“C'monn…let’s go, your mark said wanting to get the hell out of there. The other marks were getting angry and you were touching another mark…one that wasn’t yours—it made him a bit jealous. 

                                      

“Wait wait…I wanna something…” you said with a grin as you rushed to Mohawk Mark. He looked a bit annoyed but intrigued. You drew closer and closer as the other marks watched once again—it’s all they could do…

“Listen whore, I’m not your mark…so hands off.” He said in a snarky tone. You just kept moving your hands towards his face not giving a damn, you were testing every ounce of patience he had.

“I will fucking bite you! I promise it…” Mohawk Mark tried to move his head back as quickly as he could to get away from your hand. Eventually, it landed right on his forehead before moving upward, softly stroking his hair. He tried to bite you for a second so you used your powers. With a hard glare from your eyes, his body was paralyzed in mere seconds as you rubbed it softly. You released your hold on his body just as fast as you used it.

You kept stroking his head, you saw him moving his head forward as best as he could so you could keep going. Your other hand reached up to his face, squishing it softly before you began to stroke it. He let out a noise of pure satisfaction…a soft moan. As soon as he realized, you backed up satisfied with your work on his behavior. He went from snarling and snapping to melting in your hand.

Your mark grabbed your shoulder, making a notation to get the hell out of there. You just gave him a soft kiss trying to keep him satisfied as you had one more mark to deal with. You knew your mark was getting jealous quickly so you had to hurry it up.

As soon as you walked over to sinister mark in his restraints he spat on your face. The other marks watched waiting to see what happened your mark dashed over to you as he began a screaming match with sinister mark. 

Ignoring them and all their noise, you just spat right back on his face as the room fell silent. You were even now—the only difference was you could wipe the spit off of your face but he couldn’t get it off of his. Your hand reached up to his face as he prepared to bite you but you flicked his nose before continuing. You rubbed his hair—making it messy in mere seconds before you looked him dead in the eyes, smiling warmly.

“I promise you, if you ever spit on my face again I will break your face in.”

Your mark was just frozen in the spot waiting for this interaction to finish. Sinister Mark's eyes widened a bit before going back to normal—he was surprised at how you could look so gentle while threatening him. 

“Yes bitch…” he said in a snarky tone trying to get some power back in the situation. You smiled before pinching and twisting at his nose. He couldn’t do a single damn thing about it.

“Huh? What’d you say?” You waited for him to change his manner of speaking. Your mark reached to pull your arm down as you 2 shared a look. He was trying to figure out what you were even doing but you gave him a glance that said you could handle it.

“Yes…ma’am” sinister Mark said in an annoyed tone this was basically his version of surrendering defeat. Your hand went to his face stroking it just like you did to the others. At first he acted like he didn’t give a single fuck about you or your touch—seconds later he was melted into your cheek moving his own face to have it happen faster. You stroked his face slower and began scratching his hair as Mohawk Mark began complaining how that wasn’t fair. Sinister mark was losing himself—lifting his chin to have that touch and rubbed to. He bit his lip trying to keep in any sounds he would’ve made but eventually one slipped out.

“F…fuck…” he moaned out roughly before you moved your hand away from him

“Good boy.” You said back with bliss in your voice. You honestly felt aroused by the fact you had 4 Marks folding for you just at the simple touch of your hand and sternness in your voice.

“God…what did she do to us…” Viltrumite Mark said sounding embarrassed or even frustrated that that even happened. The other Marks (sinister and Mohawk) just told him to “fuck off” as they kept their heads down in a bit of shame. They were absolutely in shock at how they folded that fast but knew they wanted more. They were pissed that they clearly weren’t getting more.

You had them fold enough for the day. Plus, your Mark looked like he wanted to snap sinister Mark's neck for spitting on you. He was tired of being in that damn room for the day. Your mark grabbed you by the waist giving you a look that said “You needed to leave” You just nodded and let him lead you out of the cell. You and your mark left the cell making your way out of the building. Mark was flying you 2 home as he wanted to talk about what the hell happened. 

“So…what was that..” he asked in a genuine and jealous tone. He wanted to know what was up with all of it. Why did you guys keep going back, why were you touching them, how did you make them fold that easily? He wanted answers…

“Honestly…I don’t know. I didn't even think it’d work on the viltrumite one but as soon as it did I just had to try it on the rest of them and it worked. Guess you’re just weak for me in every universe?” You gave the best answer you could to your mark waiting for his response.

“Not gonna lie…I was a bit jealous. They practically killed everyone and now they wanted to fold just cause you touched them!” Mark exclaimed before you kissed his face softly. He had calmed down quickly just from your lips. 

“Relax... you're the one who gets to take me home. You win either way. However...I do need you to take me back there tomorrow. It’s something I wanna do with you there. All of you…” you had something a little sinister and against the rules on your mind.

“Again!? What is it…I’m so sick of that place…” your mark wanted to know what you’d do if you went back. He was tired of going there and honestly was ready to never go back again. However, he was trying his best to trust your judgment and see where it’d go. 

“Don’t worry about it…just know that you’ll have fun. All of you, trust me. You said with a smile before Mark finally landed, bringing you two to your house. You had plans…foul plans…and you couldn’t wait to put them into action tomorrow. 

[my-castles-crumbling]

flight - may 4 - black brothers - jegulus - @black-brothers-microfic - word count: 491

Sirius: I forgot, I can’t pick u up from ur flight. I hav a thing. But someone’s coming, dw. Can’t wait to see u, reggie.

Scowling, Regulus stared down at the screen of his phone while standing awkwardly in the Arrivals area of the airport. He was trying not to feel too upset, but he’d just run away from home, for God’s sake. The least Sirius could do was get him at the damn airport.

He knew it was about time. Sirius had stopped talking to their parents years ago. It’d taken Regulus until he was nineteen to finally sever those ties, but now that he had…all he wanted was to pretend that part of his life never happened. To never talk to Walburga and Orion again. To start over. 

He so wished he had done this sooner. Taken Sirius up on his offer years ago, stayed when the Blacks had moved back to France, or at least left after he’d realized that things were even worse without Sirius. He’d left so much behind: his brother, his friends, his school, and…what could he call him? He wasn’t his boyfriend, not really. But he still held such an important place in Regulus’s heart, even after three years of no contact, that he couldn’t help but hope…

Regulus: Fuck you, Sirius. Who are you sending? And when? I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes. Sirius: Patience, young padawan. Ull see.

He snorted angrily and resisted the urge to stomp his foot like a toddler in the middle of the airport. Instead, he turned this way and that, hand still on his giant suitcase, looking for an empty bench to sit on while he waited.

It was when he turned that he finally saw him.

Walking toward him, a piece of torn-out notebook paper in his hand with the word ‘Reg’ scrawled on it in what looked like three different pen colors, there was no mistaking who it was, even after three years.

“James,” he breathed, completely forgetting his luggage and staggering one step forward.

James, however, seemed to have full control of his leg movements, because as soon as his hazel eyes met Regulus’s, he began to jog, covering the ground between them and pulling Regulus into the best hug he’d ever felt, the safety of being in James’s arms again making him nearly light-headed. 

“Hi,” Regulus choked, refusing to let go of the other man, even after a socially acceptable time had passed.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” James murmured into his hair, pressing his lips there over and over. “So fucking proud.”

Finally, Regulus pulled back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…I missed you, so much,” he said hesitantly, trying to explain, without actually explaining, that James had never left his thoughts. Not for a moment.

But James’s answering smile was dazzling. “Me too, love. Let’s get you home, where you belong, yeah? We’ll figure everything else out later.”

Regulus could only nod.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Look at Me Like That Again

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Waitress!Reader

Summary: Bucky desperately needs your attention while you’re on shift in his bar.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: so much longing; Bucky is a man in love; mild alcohol use; bar setting; Bucky being a dramatic kicked puppy

Author’s Note: Oh I enjoyed writing this so much. Thank you for the idea, my lovely!! I hope you like what I made of your cute little prompt ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

It’s the fifteenth time you've passed him.

Fifteen.

And Bucky Barnes is counting.

Because you don’t look at him when you pass.

And it’s been over an hour since you walked in wearing that stupid little apron that hugs your waist and the shirt he hates because it’s too tight and too low and everyone looks at you too long when you wear it. Everyone except him, of course.

Bucky doesn’t look.

He watches.

There’s a difference, you see.

You breeze through the bar as though you’ve got the whole damn place in your pocket, and maybe you do. These guys love you. They light up when you laugh, when you lean in to hear them over the music, when you call them hon in that voice soft enough to sew people back together.

You’re the only brightness in this place and you don’t even know it.

Your hair is already starting to come loose. You are balancing three empty glasses in one hand and a notepad in the other, reciting someone’s order from memory while still smiling, still glowing.

Bucky is leaned up against the bar like a damn decoration. He’s been standing here, useless, for at least twenty minutes. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes strained on your every step. You haven’t spared him so much as a glance since the jukebox changed songs, now crooning some worn-out rock ballad from two decades ago. Since the light shifted and the golden hour crawled in through the windows as if it was chasing you.

God, you look good in gold.

He doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He’s cleaned the same spot three times. Cleaned the same glass four times before he realized he wasn’t even holding it anymore. He doesn’t even drink soda but the can of Coke next to him has been sweating beside his hand for half an hour. Warm now. Forgotten.

Just like him apparently.

You walk by. Don’t see him. Or maybe you do - but you don’t stop. Don’t smile just for him.

He can’t have that.

Not when you just smiled for that asshole in booth seven who licked his lips when you placed his beer.

He doesn’t know what his expression might look to others but he doesn’t care. He is sincerely displeased.

Sixteenth time. You float past, apron flaring, pen poised, eyes stitched to your tray or the screen or the sticky table by the window, but it’s never him.

He doesn’t like that. At all. He needs your attention, and he needs it now.

So when you swerve past again, too busy balancing an order for the back booth where one of his patrons is dramatically retelling some story to the others like he isn’t loud enough for the whole bar to hear, Bucky does what any reasonable man would do.

He pokes you. Right in the side.

You jolt mid-step, the drinks on your tray tilting before you balance them out. “Bucky.”

But he doesn’t hear the warning edge in your tone. Because your eyes meet his and suddenly everything inside him goes very, very quiet.

“I've been standin’ here,” he says, calm as ever, trying to sound like someone who isn’t folding from the inside out. “Watching you walk past me like I’m invisible. That’s cruel, sweetheart. Cold-blooded.”

You roll your eyes, though there is amusement tugging at your mouth. “You’re not invisible.”

“Oh, good,” he drawls, leaning forward, eyes shining beneath dark lashes. “Then I don’t have to haunt the place. Thought maybe I died and no one told me.”

You sigh. “You’re a child.”

“You’re the one ignoring me in my own damn bar.”

“I’m working, Barnes,” you emphasize.

He shrugs, a slow, unapologetic shift of his shoulders. “And I’m just standin’ here. Bein’ patient. Watching you ignore me in new and creative ways.”

You step back, turn, face him fully this time. He meets your gaze like he’s been waiting for it all night. Maybe all week. Maybe always.

You stare at him as though he’s something between a hurricane warning and a kicked puppy at your feet.

“You poked me,” you deadpan.

“Did,” he says, grinning. Not even a little sorry. “Would’ve waved, but my hand’s all tired from waiting.”

You huff. But it’s not annoyance. It’s the laugh you’re trying not to give him. The soft kind. The one that lives behind your teeth when he says dumb things with that mouth that should know better.

His chest warms. Truly warms. As though someone struck a match behind his ribs and the light spills into his bloodstream.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you, Bucky. But I do have work to do, alright? So you’ll have to excuse me.” You don’t look that apologetic either when you turn around again and trek down the bar to the booth where people are waiting for you.

But he’s waiting for you too. Tragically so. He doesn’t take his eyes off you when you place the drinks, when the guys thank you, when you smile that smile back, when you turn and walk away, when you are about to pass him again.

Poke.

You sigh as if you expected it.

He leans in slightly, as if he could soak in your heat and keep it. But your smell already makes him dizzy. “I’m not gonna stop poking you until you give me some attention, doll.”

You stare at him as if you want to throw a napkin at his face. Or kiss him. He prefers the latter. Although the former surely would be a privilege since it’s you throwing it.

“I do give you attention, Barnes. I’m literally talking to you right now,” you counter, slightly exasperated, but there is that fond smile forming, you just don’t let it out fully.

But it still does things to him. Hits his heart first, then spreads - to his cheeks, his fingertips, down his spine. That smile is a gift, a spark. It makes him foolish. Hopeful. It makes him dream in full color.

Bucky taps the counter, shaking his head. “You know you’ve walked by eighteen times now?”

“Eighteen?”

“Eighteen. I counted. Steve’s my witness.”

You glance behind the bar. Steve’s got two glasses in his hands and is pretending not to watch. Is pretending not to smirk.

There’s a pause. You’re still close enough to touch. The fabric of your shirt brushes his arm when you move. You smell like citrus and cinnamon gum and whatever soap you use that’s probably way too fancy for a dive like this.

But you don’t belong in places that are easy.

“You’ve been runnin’ around like you’re holding the ceiling up,” he says quietly, not even meaning to. “Just wanted to remind you I’m still here.”

And for a breath - a half-second crack in the wall you’re keeping up - you look at him. Really at him. He might even believe you see the thing he’s too afraid to name, but you don’t run from it.

“I know, Buck,” you say, smiling sweetly. Like a secret sunrise just for him.

And his body shuts down. Doesn’t even let him take in some air. Who needs that anyway when he’s got you?

Your eyes catch and hold. The noise of the bar slips sideways. Everything tilts.

Then someone calls out your name - loud, without the care he uses when saying your name, just another order. You turn with a smile already forming on your lips, moving back into your orbit, back into theirs.

But before you go, you look at him over your shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to ruin him for the rest of the night.

He watches you walk seven steps to the bar's edge.

He grins. Leans back. Taps his boot against the counter.

That’s alright, baby.

He’ll be here waiting.

Poking.

Always.

[yujisdreamgirl]

“i don’t get it.”

kuroo looks up from across you, putting his pen to the side to look at your paper. “hm?”

you furrow your eyebrows and huff, “how the hell do you balance this damn equation?”

“let me see?” kuroo makes his way to the seat beside you, leaning in closer to look at the question you’re stuck on. “this is like.. the basics.”

you groan at his remark, laying your head flat on the table. you tell him off for making you feel dumb and encouraged him to teach you instead. little does he know, you only wanted to get closer to him;3

kuroo sighs, leaning over on the table to write the equation out and break it down for you in simpler steps. he starts explaining and you act focused, but all you could concentrate on were his biceps laying right in front of you. it doesn’t help that he’s wearing a compression shirt too😵‍💫

you let out small mhm’s and nods, letting him know that you’re listening. or in this case, pretending you are.

of course, kuroo’s not dumb—he’s a damn nerd for god’s sake.

“and H in the periodic table stands for oxygen, isn’t that right?” he holds a chuckle back in once you agree with his statement, side-eyeing you side-eyeing his biceps him.

he puts the pen down, crossing his arms and turning to face you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“what?”

“if you wanna touch my biceps you could’ve just asked.” you let out a small hiccup and looked away immediately.

“the fuck? I wasn’t looking at that.”

“yeah? were you looking at my abs then? my, y/n, how scandalous!” he laughs. you immediately shush him once you noticed everyone in the library was staring at you and even the librarian gave you warning stares.

you glare at him, cheeks burning, and swat his arm—not the bicep, though you’re painfully aware of how solid it is. “you’re the worst,” you whisper harshly, eyes darting back to the textbook in a desperate attempt to seem unbothered.

kuroo leans in, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “you’re blushing. don’t think i didn’t notice.”

you roll your eyes, flipping a page a little too aggressively. “i’m red because of secondhand embarrassment. everyone’s staring because you’re loud and obnoxious.”

he hums, clearly unconvinced. “mhmm. sure. not because i caught you eyeing me like a protein bar after leg day?”

you choke on air. he beams.

“you’re not even studying,” you mumble, trying to redirect the conversation. “what was that about hydrogen being oxygen?”

“i was testing you,” he says with full confidence. “making sure you’re paying attention. you passed, by the way. i’ll allow you to celebrate by finally admitting you’re totally into me.”

you meet his smug gaze and raise a brow. “i’ll celebrate by shoving my foot down your throat. how ‘bout that?”

“feisty.” his grin widens, “just my type.”

you shove your notebook between you two like a shield, muttering something about regretting every life choice that led you here—but your smile gives your true feelings away.

and kuroo knows it.

͙͘͡★ dividers by @enchanthings & @hyuneskkami 🏐

[colourfulbisexualities]

SUITS AND SASS ; aaron hotchner x female medical examiner

you’re the bau’s new medical examiner, oozing dark humour, sass, and a killer sense of style, ready to shake up the team. but when you butt heads with aaron hotchner on day one, sparks fly while the rest of the team bets on how long it’ll take for you to win him over.

YOU STRUT into the BAU like you own the damn place, and honestly? You should. The overhead fluorescents do their best to wash out your glow, but even the most soul-sucking government lighting can’t dim this.

The emerald green suit hugs you in all the right places, a sharp contrast against the deep red silk blouse that’s unbuttoned just enough to toe the line between ‘professional’ and ‘distracting.’ Your heels which are Louboutin, naturally - click against the floor with every confident step, the sound sharp, decisive, commanding attention even from the most sleep-deprived agents around you. And your jewellery? Impeccable.

Large emerald studs in your ears, a matching ring resting on your manicured fingers. Each piece a carefully curated display of wealth, taste, and an undeniable presence. You don’t just walk into a room; you arrive, and anyone with half a brain can feel it.

Today is your first day as the BAU’s new medical examiner, and if you’re being honest? You’re already unimpressed. Not with the job itself because you live for the thrill of carving open a fresh corpse before most people have had their morning coffee, but the aesthetic of this place is tragic.

Beige walls, government-issue desks, the faint, ever-present smell of burnt coffee and bad decisions hanging in the air. It’s the kind of environment that breeds stress wrinkles and caffeine addictions, and you’ve already decided that you will not be another victim.

No, you’re here for something new. Something interesting. The only reason you transferred was because your last job had become boring, and you refuse to let your skills stagnate among mundane cases and lackluster conversation.

The BAU, at least, promises a bit of excitement—new cases, new killers, new mysteries to unravel. And, if nothing else, the chance to shake up an office full of straight-laced federal agents with your dark humour and sharp tongue.

The bullpen is exactly what you expected. Agents in various states of exhaustion, stacks of paperwork threatening to topple, and the subtle hum of tense conversation punctuated by the occasional ringing phone. It’s an atmosphere of constant movement, of minds working overtime, and while you appreciate the energy, you can’t help but sigh dramatically as you glance around.

“This place is hideous,” you mutter to yourself, brushing a speck of imaginary dust off your sleeve. “Jesus, does the FBI have something against interior design?”

And then you see her ... Penelope Garcia, dressed in an explosion of colour, exuding the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly who she is and not giving a damn what anyone thinks about it. Finally, someone with taste.

The second her eyes land on you, she lets out a dramatic gasp, one hand clutching at her necklace like she’s just seen the Virgin Mary herself descend into the bullpen. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “Who are you?”

You smirk, tilting your head just slightly. “The new medical examiner. And, from the looks of things, the only other person in this building with a sense of style.”

Her eyes sparkle like she’s just found a long-lost soulmate. “Oh, honey, we are going to be best friends.”

“Obviously,” you reply smoothly. “Someone needs to help me cope with the tragedy that is this office décor. Do you think the Bureau would let me expense a new couch? Maybe some curtains? Anything to make this place feel less like a funeral home for the aesthetically challenged.”

“Oh, sweetie, they barely let me expense my glitter pens. You’re asking for a miracle.”

Before you can reply, a voice cuts through the air. Sharp, authoritative, and entirely unimpressed. “You’re late.”

You turn slowly, already knowing that this is going to be fun.

Aaron Hotchner stands before you, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes intense, scanning you like he’s already profiling your entire existence. And damn if he isn’t gorgeous. You hadn’t expected that. The way his suit fits just right, the sharp angles of his face, the sheer command he exudes—it’s almost enough to distract you from the fact that he’s clearly about to be a pain in your ass.

Almost.

You blink at him, deliberately slow, before glancing at the large digital clock on the wall. “It’s 8:59.”

His jaw tightens just slightly. “We start at eight.”

You sigh, placing a perfectly manicured hand over your heart as if this news has wounded you. “Oh, tragic. If only someone had told me that I was expected to conform to the outdated concept of ‘morning people.’” You let out a dramatic sigh. “Next thing you’ll tell me is that I’m expected to function without proper espresso. What kind of barbarism is this?”

There’s a pause, the kind that suggests Hotch is not used to being spoken to like this. Behind him, you catch the subtle exchange of money. Morgan handing Reid a few bills, Emily shaking her head with an amused smirk. Oh, they were betting on this. Good. At least someone in this building understands entertainment.

Hotch, to his credit, doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he exhales, slow and controlled, the only sign that you’re even remotely testing his patience. “Garcia, show her around the building.”

“Oh, I absolutely will,” she says, looping her arm through yours like this is the best thing to happen to her all day.

As you walk away, you can feel his eyes on you—calculating, assessing, already irritated. You turn your head just slightly, meeting his gaze with a slow smirk.

“He’ll recover,” you murmur to Garcia, low enough that only she hears.

She giggles, glancing back at him before whispering, “Oh, I hope not.”

Hotch watches you go, pressing his lips together as he forces himself to look away. You’re impossible. He already knows you’re going to be a problem, and the worst part? He can’t decide if that frustrates him… or intrigues him.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Johnny's knee hurts. Price helps him feel better.

cw: messy blowjob. For the @continentcakeshop, who love Johnny.

Johnny shifted his foot for the third time in ten minutes and felt the now familiar twinge through his knee. He couldn't decide what was worse; the constant dull ache of keeping it stationary, like it needed to click, which was driving him batshit insane, or the sharp burn of a quick stretch that made his entire body jolt, knocking the table he was sharing with the boss man himself.

“You broken?” Price asked, tapping the blunt nib of his biro against the manilla folder by his form.

“Naw, sir. Jus’ me bum knee. S’givin’ me grief cause it's cald outside.”

“You been t’ the physio?”

“Not fer a few weeks. No time, ye know…” Johnny gestured aimlessly at the paperwork in front of him. When he'd signed up at fifteen and nine months, he hadn't expected to spend so long with a damn pen in his hand instead of a firearm.

Price hummed and Johnny watched his whiskers twitch as they tended to do when he was mulling something over. Then came the full face grimace as he considered his options. The biro clattered to the table moments later, the chair legs scraping against the concrete floor. “Olrigh’, can't ‘ave ya fallin’ behind. Keks down, leg up ‘ere.”

Johnny blinked owlishly, first at Price's hands as they patted his lap and then at the intense blue eyes watching him from beneath thick eyebrows. “Come again.”

“C’mon, MacTavish. Don't ‘ave all day. Boot off, drop ‘em. Quick rub down will make it feel better.”

Oh, he wasn't taking the piss. Well, shit. Johnny glanced at Price's hands again, big, weathered, with long clever fingers and a scar across the knuckles from where Price had skinned them open on the steel-plated jaw of a Kortac operator. The thought of having them on his body in any capacity made a sudden surge of heat fill his belly.

His knee gave another unrepentant throb and he stood awkwardly to undo his belt, jamming the heel of his boot against the toe of the other to kick it off before loosening the laces. He managed to slide his leg out, the knee support catching on his waistband, before slumping back into the chair. His foot hovered off the floor, suddenly conscious of how fuckin’ filthy his sock was. And how tight his boxers were.

“Ain't got all night,” Price said. “Stop bein’ a pansy. Ain't gonna ‘urt ya.”

Johnny scowled and extended his leg, setting it gingerly across Price's lap while his hands cupped over his crotch. “Naw one says pansy any more, old man.”

Price raised an eyebrow as he hooked Johnny's knee support and coaxed it down his calf muscle, bunching it at his ankle as he wrinkled his nose. “This sock ever seen a washin’ machine?”

“Oh feck, now ye really sound like me pa.”

“I was eleven years old when you were born, I ain't yer dad, MacTavish.” Price chucked the support and the filthy sock onto the floor and ran his thumbs up the sides of Johnny’s leg, pressing into the swollen ligaments and tendons either side of his patella. The sensation sat keenly on the threshold of pain and pleasure; Price couldn't press too hard without oil, but his pressure was damn perfect.

“Oh, fuck… mmm, aye, but I c’n still call ye dad–”

“If ya finish that sentence, ‘m gonna dislocate yer knee cap.”

“Aye, sir."

Johnny tried to stay quiet. He yapped when he was nervous and Jesus wept he was nervous now. Not because it hurt - god, fuck, Price’s hands were a damn dream - but because the heat in his belly was spreading out through the rest of him; a warm, fuzziness humming just below his skin. As the dull ache ebbed into a low throb, Johnny’s chin tilted down and his eyes lidded. He watched those strong hands work, manipulating his muscles and tendons like putty, pressing to and fro in easy glides that left Johnny lightheaded.

Johnny bit back a moan. Price was good. He knew what he was doing. Didn't stay only around the knee, but rubbed behind it and slightly down the calf to ease the resulting tension from where the rest of his leg was overcompensating. That was all fine… it was when those thumbs went up his thigh, one on the hairy outside, the other up the milky soft skin of the inner, that the whole arrangement got a bit spicy.

Johnny was getting hard. Proper hard, not just a cheeky little chubby. He could feel the wet patch in the cotton where his leaking tip was pushing up against his palm. Fuck, fuck. His eyes squeezed shut, and he tried to distract himself. Mentally listing off the steps for stripping a gun, the ingredients for a pipe bomb, the starting fifteen for Man City–

“Ev’ryfin olrigh’, Soap?”

Johnny’s eyes blinked open and he realised he'd been damn panting. Price hadn't stopped though. One hand had wandered a little higher, massaging his thigh muscle while the other cupped beneath his calf. Just a little higher and he could slide his cock into his captain's palm. Those callouses would feel unreal against the silky skin of his shaft… no, no, normal thoughts. Normal.

“Aye, sir. Sorry. Jus’... Uh…”

“Feels good,” Price finished for him. “Been a while for more ‘an jus’ physio then.” There was a wry amusement to his tone and Johnny’s lower lip pushed up in a pout, his face flushing red.

“S’not what it looks like.”

“Looks like yer hard from a little tenderness, sergeant.”

“Fuck, don't tell anyone, ah’ll do dogsbody in officer’s mess fer a whole month.”

“Oof, humiliatin’.”

“Not as humiliatin’ as Garrick takin’ the pish cause ah got a stonner for me captain,” Johnny blurted out, making it infinitely worse. “Fuck.”

Price snorted a laugh and Johnny’s eyes blew owlishly wide again. Those big hands were still working; any pain had faded, and only a warm pleasure remained, pressure coiling in his groin. Price hummed. “Maybe I can help ya with that too. If yer up for it.”

“What?” Johnny squeaked. Price was a gay man. That was no secret. He was one of the few gay men in the service that Johnny had ever encountered that endured precisely fuck all abuse about it. No cunt was daft enough to even try. Johnny had been too feart to own his sexuality, but Price had probably heard Grindr ping one too many times to be left under any illusion that Johnny was straight.

“Yer not the only one goin’ through a bit of a dry spell. Offer’s there.”

Johnny swallowed thickly. He couldn't lift his eyes from Price's hands, watching those strong thumbs circle either side of his knee again, prick throbbing in the confines of his boxers. Of all the days to wear his snug Calvin Kleins that left nothing to the imagination. The bulge had filled his palms now. He could pull away, put a stop to it, but he didn't want to. He wanted Price’s hand wrapped around his prick. “Aye.”

“Whot?”

“Aye, sir… ah’d like some… help,” Johnny finished lamely, his fingers tightening over his cock as he shifted his arse in the chair.

Price blinked at him slowly, leaning back in his chair. Johnny’s leg shifted a little, foot tilting out, and he saw it for the first time. A huge fuck off bulge in the front of Price's Carhartts. “Oh-ho, fuck me, look at the size of it,” Johnny wheezed, and then clicked his mouth shut, lips sucked in so he could chew on them before murmuring, “Respectfully… sir.”

Price chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face, nails raking down through his beard around the edges of his grin. “‘m gonna be glad ev’ryone's on leave, un’ I?”

Johnny flushed to the tips of his ears. “Ah can be wheesht.”

“Nah, don't be.” Price took Johnny's ankles and lowered his leg slowly to the floor. Johnny licked his lips as anticipation bubbled in his chest, hands still clasped over his crotch despite the futility of trying to hide his erection. His eyes somehow widening further as Price slipped from his seat and onto his knees between Johnny’s feet.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” Johnny breathed, hands shaking as Price took them and guided them away from where they still cupped protectively over his cock. He felt the warm puff of Price's breath over the hair on his belly and the damp spot on his boxers, and his toes curled against the floor. Those weathered fingers stroked up his thighs, over soft cotton to the elastic of his waistband. Johnny’s cock flicked gratefully free, ruddy and dark compared to the rest of him, and he sucked in a sharp hiss through his teeth as cool air found his wet slit.

“Well, pretty all over, ain’tcha, sergeant?”

Johnny knew he had a nice dick, good girth, nice upward curve to hit all the right spots and a respectable length. He'd taken enough selfies with it and then had his phone blow up to know, but to hear Price say it in that silky rumble made him go weak. His hips squirmed, and he bit his lower lip as Price's beard rubbed on his inner thigh, followed by the softness of his lips as he kissed a trail up. Johnny fingers bit into the outside of his legs as they pushed out, urging Price to get to his destination. “Please, sir…”

“Relax, soldier. I gotcha.”

Finally, Price grasped Johnny’s cock, fingers pushing through the coarse thatch of hair at the base. Johnny let out a soft whine, shaft flicking in Price’s grip as a thick pearl of precum welled from his slit. It was sweet, sweet torture. A mixture of relief and yearning that made his entire body light up. Price’s thumb swept below his waistband, brushing the swell of his sac, before he stroked up, fingers brushing over the flare of Johnny’s crown.

Johnny groaned, head flopping back because he needed to briefly thank fucking God for blessing his dick and promise to visit confession at some point in the next decade to repent for lusting after his captain's hands and mouth. He couldn't take his fucking eyes off Price for long, and he looked back in time to watch Price ease his foreskin back, the wicked tip of his tongue pushing though Johnny’s slit to lap it clean of pre. “Fuck, fuck, fuck… god, shite, ahh, sir, mmm.”

The lines around Price's eyes deepened in amusement, and then his eyes slid closed in what Johnny could only describe as bliss as he kissed the thick vein down Johnny's length, brushing the tip of his nose across silky skin until it buried against Johnny's groin with a soft groan. “Mm, fuck, ya smell good.”

Johnny spread his legs a little further, lifting his arse when Price tugged his boxers to bring them further down his thighs. The heat of his mouth enveloped Johnny’s balls, his tongue pressing down the seam, Johnny's cock resting against his cheek as he tasted his fill. Johnny panted through parted lips, one hand finally leaving his leg to slide around the back of his captain's head to pull his face closer. “Aye… sir, fuck… ahh.”

The moan that rumbled from Price’s chest rolled up Johnny’s body like an earthquake, and he heard the clatter of a buckle as Price fumbled with his belt to free his cock. Jacking himself off to the taste of Johnny’s sac in his mouth. When he finally drew away, he left Johnny's dark curls wet with spit, his blue eyes lidded, drunk on Johnny's musk and the pleasure of his hand pumping slowly up and down his own cock.

“God, yer a fuckin’ bonny picture, sir. Love tae suck cock, eh? Fuck.”

Price didn't say anything, just licked back up the underside of Johnny’s prick to draw the tip into his mouth. The wet glide of Price's tongue around his glans made Johnny groan, and he lifted his hips, pressing his tip over the ridges at the top of Price's mouth, fingers tightening at the back of his head. Price didn't need much encouragement to sink down, but he did so at his own pace, slowly, torturously, sucking Johnny deeper into the glorious wet heat of his mouth until Johnny’s head hit the back of his throat.

Johnny held him there for moment, admiring the stretch of his lips around the heft of his shaft, the lidded, fucked out enjoyment in his eyes, the way his broad shoulders were completely relaxed as he palmed himself lazily. Bonny was right. Johnny wondered what he'd be like on his back with his hands pinned above his head, what his moans might sound like when they weren't muffled by cock…

Price drew off, sucking greedily until he reached the tip, before lowering again in a steady glide, fucking his own mouth on Johnny's prick. Johnny moaned loudly with each dip of Price’s head, his thighs shaking as warm, irresistible pleasure curled in his hips, through his belly, his balls firming up beneath Price's chin. “Ah, ah, sir, fu-mm, fuck, yer mouth… is… ahh.”

And then Price swallowed him down proper. Johnny felt the pop as his head pushed into Price's throat, the clenching tightness made him choke out a low, trembling moan, Price’s nose buried against his groin. The sound of Price’s pumping hand, the wet slap of skin, grew more urgent and the thought that Price was even more turned on by having Johnny in his throat was dizzying. When he began to bob his head again, half choking on Johnny’s cock, Johnny knew he wasn't going to last much longer.

He didn't know where to put his hands, bunching Price's hair between his fingers, scrubbing them over his beard just to feel the bristles against his fingertips, sliding them down his throat to feel his Adam's apple bob and strain around his cock.

His heels lifted from the floor, toes pushing into the cold concrete, a sharp contrast to the blistering, pulsing heat of his captain's mouth as it milked him. He babbled incoherently, half Scots, half unintelligible English slurred out like a drunk at last orders, delirious with pleasure as saliva and precum pooled around his groin. His thumb stroked over Price's cheeks, pressing to feel the glide of his shaft through them and trace the damp of the tears that tracked from hazy blue eyes.

“Sir, ah’m, sir…” Johnny tried to tug him off because a gentleman didn't cum down a fella’s throat without asking, but Price fucking growled like a wolf having its meal stolen and that was enough to punch Johnny over into a heady climax. “Sir, fuck!” His stomach clenched, toes pushing against the floor as his hips lifted from the chair. Price kept sucking, drinking every drop offered by Johnny’s twitching prick. It coaxed him higher until he was whimpering in fucked out bliss, his fingers shaking in his captain's hair. Just as he was tipping over into oversensitivity, Price pulled off and pressed his face into the sweaty crease of Johnny's thigh, arm moving furiously, hips humping as he fucked his own grip.

“Yeah, g’won, sir, gonna come for me, liked havin’ my prick down ye throat, belly full of my cum.” Johnny stroked Price’s hair and watched his eyes roll back, his shoulders seizing, as he came hard into his fist. He panted between Johnny's legs, catching his breath for a moment, before he slumped back into his heels. Johnny took the opportunity to look down at his prick, still semi-hard, and he sucked in a breath. “Fuck, look at tha’ beast… ye top with tha’ weapon?”

“Only if you ya’sk nicely,” Price rasped. The sound of his throat, fucked raw, made Johnny's soft prick twitch against his thigh.

“How nicely?”

“State secret. S’classified.”

“I’ll steal L.T.’s clearance,” Johnny replied testily, and his hunch was rewarded with a quirk of the eyebrows. “Knew it.”

Price chuckled hoarsely. “Clean up. Got work t’ finish.” He rolled to his feet and for a beautiful moment his cock bobbed close to Johnny’s face. Be seein’ ye soon, sweet thing.

“Can't, ye jus’ sucked me brain out me prick.”

“Now, MacTavish.”

Johnny's mouth clicked shut, and then he mumbled a “yessir” as he pulled his boxers and jeans back up. He'd be lying if he said it was somewhat difficult to focus on the reports for the rest of the evening, especially when he lifted a foot to tease Price's crotch and the bastard spread his legs to give access. Didn't even flinch though. Wily git.

[aayakashii]

soooo I wrote this for the art god @devotion-disorder because

1- they're one of my favorite artists ever!!!!!!! And they're someone who portrays yanderes in such a 😙🤌 chef's kiss way that I can't help but admire

2- I am obsessed with their oc kuuya

but if you'd rather I delete it, just let me know!!

Warnings: NSFW, yandere behavior, unhealthy obsession !!! Minors DNI !!!

Part 2 of this fic here <3

The skin on the nape of your neck prickled, making you shiver at the strange sensation.

The steady gaze outside your window was so piercing and unmoving that it could be as sharp as needles nicking your skin.

Although, if you were to be fully honest, it felt more like a knife.

It would be just another night, if it wasn't for the fact that your co-worker lurked outside your house.

"Kuuya", you mouthed his name, just to feel how it moves against your lips, because you could never really say it during daytime without having him spiral headfirst into a meltdown.

Kuuya was a disaster.

He never talked to you.

You would sometimes catch him staring at you during work, which made him blush like an anime schoolgirl, but that was the extent of his interaction with you.

He was a regular employee, didn't stand out much, nor caused problems. He was just... there. Constantly looking exhausted, with his back hunched and in the verge of a mental breakdown.

And you were so attracted to that mess of a man.

Your friends would probably frown and sigh if they knew, but they were also pretty much aware of your type: sickly victorian-looking men, anemic, with extremely dark circles under their eyes, who probably sneeze a lot and shake like chihuahuas.

And, hey, that was Kuuya to a T. How could you not have a crush on him?

You soon realized, however, that he probably had a few screws loose.

It started slow, a few things going missing. First it was a pen, then some of your hair ties, then old post-it notes you had forgotten about, until their absence reminded you of their existence.

These things were inconsequential.

You wouldn't even notice their disappearance, if it wasnt for the fact that one day you saw Kuuya with a fluffy hair tie that looked way too similar to yours to be a coincidence. It even had the same little star charm that yours had.

And then you noticed the pens, carefully placed inside a cup near his computer.

And the erasers, the post-its, the pencils, all the other office appliances that you were pretty sure were yours.

But they weren't, right?

That was just your fertile imagination playing tricks on you.

Right?

One day, just to erase this silly idea from your head – I mean, you were probably just paranoid – you waited until you saw Kuuya take a break from his assignments and make his way to the bathroom.

You observed through the corner of your eyes how he stared at you while making his way to the other side of the office, anxiously shaking your leg as you mentally egged him to hurry up and go to the damn toilet.

As soon as you were sure he was inside and you were out his sight, you bolted towards his desk, earning a few pissed off glances from your other coworkers.

You had to work quickly though, since you didnt know how long he would take to come back. Looking over your shoulder constantly, you opened the drawers under his desk, searching for something and feeling silly all the while (what if you're the crazy paranoic one for real?), until your hands haphazardly touched some papers and you heard the sound of crinkles.

Looking over your shoulder one more time to make sure he wasn't around, you lifted the papers and mouthed a silent "oh." as you saw what was underneath them.

Dozens and dozens of candy wrappers, discarded notes and even more of those old post-its laid organized in what you could say was impeccable fashion, if it wasnt for the fact that it was all trash.

Your trash.

In the back, you saw some plastic bags with questionable contents, but your anxiety was in an all time high and you decided to just put things back were they were and close the drawer.

You had your confirmation. He WAS crazy and you were still paranoid, but at least you were right.

You made way back to your desk and sighed, sitting down.

Conflicted feelings pooled in your gut.

You knew all of that meant that he was indeed crazy and obsessed and potentially dangerous, but also... you couldn't really deny the excitement that made butterflies fly all around in your stomach and the giddy feeling that made your heart race with expectations – of what, you didn't know.

And as these feeling swarmed you, you failed to realize the pair of eyes that were locked tight onto your figure from the very start.

If Kuuya could properly express his feelings, he would be moaning and whining in pure despair.

They saw everything. They saw where he keeps all his treasures he had been collecting for the past months.

But why?! Why did they even think about looking for that? Has Kuuya been acting too obvious? But he made sure he wouldn't be too creepy! Well, at least not as creepy as he truly wanted to be. How was that happening all of a sudden?!

The taste of copper interrupted his mental breakdown and he looked down at his thumb, where tiny droplets of blood appeared after he anxiously chewed it.

"It's okay, it's fine" he kept repeating in his mind, like a mantra. He'd just need to see how you'd act around him after that.

If you stopped interacting with him (even if most of those interactions were just good mornings and good evenings coming from YOU), he would probably just... end it all for once. Or maybe kidnap you so you wouldn't run away. Whatever crossed his mind first.

With his heart beating loud on his chest, Kuuya walked back to his seat and forced himself to work, spreadsheets and numbers flashing on his mind, unnoticed.

All he could think was of your hands rummaging through his drawers.

Oh god, your hands touched his things.

Kuuya exhaled sharply, rubbing his thighs together to alleviate the sudden discomfort in his groin. What would he do if you never even looked at his direction again? Sure, you could even report him to the HR, but not being able to see you was a fate worse than being fired!

His mind tumbled, wandering through every worst scenario possible, and in his despair, he didn't notice it was already time to clock out.

"Good evening, Kuuya." You say as you pass by him, nodding your head, with a tight smile.

'Huh?'

Kuuya stares at nothing in front of him, until the fact that you talked to him registers in his mind.

'HUH?'

You talked to him?

Wait.

Did you really see what was in his drawers? Was he just hallucinating? No, there's no way he was. He saw how your colleagues stared at you when you ran to his table. They SAW you. Just like he did. So you saw everything. And you don't hate him? What the fuck. You don't find him disgusting? What? What the hell.

He didn't understand.

He couldn't understand.

He had to understand.

And so, he led himself towards your house, hiding in the bushes right in front of your bedroom window.

How lucky was he that you didn't live in an apartment building?

He was there to understand you better. Just for that. And it'd be just this time, he swore. Just to see what was up with you.

His breath was ragged and heavy and his cheeks burned red. He bit his bottom lip tightly to keep any moan from escaping as he palmed himself through his pants, while he watched the way you stripped yourself of your work clothes.

Quickly undoing his belt buckle and his pants, he let himself be completely overtaken by pure lust and began pumping his dick mercilessly as he was graced with just a little bit more of your skin, right in front of him.

He saw you sigh as you got rid of your pants and his eyes rolled back, imagining how you'd sound if he was the one taking your clothes off.

Oh, what would he give to be able to jump through your window and grab one of your dirty clothes and get drunk on your scent...

The thought made him buck his hips forward clumsily, and he gritted his teeth, hard.

Well, fuck.

He panted, while he observed the way his cum dripped from the leaves of the bush, and as coherent thoughts started flowing back to his mind, he suddenly hoped he wasn't moving too much to catch your attention.

You hadn't even looked his way, so he was safe, right?

Right?

You rubbed your thighs together as you kept your back turned to the window. The windowpane was open, in order to allow the wind to flow through your bedroom, and due to this little fact, you could hear a faint sound coming from the plants right in front of your window.

A quiet, almost indiscernible (if you weren't paying close attention) plap plap plap sound.

You bit your lip to keep your grin from spreading through your lips.

The dumbass was masturbating! Right there! Right in front of your room!

You sighed, feeling the heat pool in between your legs, but controlled your instinct to pull him out from wherever he was and fuck him silly in your bedroom.

You desired him so fucking much. You thrived in his attention, like a sunflower leaning towards rays of light.

The thing is: while you loved his obsession, you were also deathly afraid that he would lose interest in you as soon as he found out how much you also wanted him.

Much like a cat who discards a prey. Except this cat was wet, sad, pathetic and still, you were ridiculously eager to keep playing dead so he would put his grimy, sticky little paws on you just a little bit more.

How would Kuuya feel, you wondered, if he knew you were as obsessed with him as much as he was with you?

[midnightshindig]

could we get hc’s/a drabble for a reader who’s cecil’s daughter x rex? keep up the great work 🙏

Rex Splode X Cecil’s Daughter! Reader

(Omggg I love this request, thank you sm!!!)

You worked closely with your father, partly because you were the best supervillain profiler in the world and partly because he loved you dearly

After the life he’s lived, Cecil knew the safest place was with him and Donald at HQ.

But you couldn’t just stand around and look pretty, no no, he insisted you learned a trade

and I mean hey, you get good at what comes easy, right?

so you ended up being the top profiler for the GPA, figuring out a villains motive and analyzing the best course of action from hundreds of thousands of miles away, with only information gleaned from surveillance drones and the Guardian of the Globes’ radio comms descriptions

This is how you met Rex

Like your father, you were efficient to a fault

like your father, you made few mistakes and took pride in your work

Unlike your father, you sounded cute as hell

and Rex noticed.

it started off innocent enough, with him being the most descriptive of the Guardians when it came to villain descriptions:

”OH MY GOD FUCKING SHIT HES GOT A GUN OEJABTBNWNT-“

”Uhhhh temperament? Well shit Y/n he’s got a temper he’s TRYING TO MURDER ME AGRHAHR-“

“No I have no idea what her agenda is- but she kicks like a fu-cking mule and I can’t get her to back off of me!”

mostly just whining. Actually, almost exclusively whining.

You built up a rapport over time, like audio pen pals, or a really shitty podcast for the other to listen to.

eventually, you started chatting over comms even outside of missions.

”heyyyy y/n, are you online?”

”Yes Rex, you know I stay on during the day. Is there a threat?”

”Naw I just thought you’d want to hear me drink sixteen beers in five minutes”

”why would I want to-“

the sound of chugging and metal being crushed, followed by the horrific noises of a newly emptied stomach followed suite.

Your father didn’t approve, not because of intermingling work and pleasure, he knew the best source for companionship is within the industry

bit Rex?

*glances over at Rex trying to drink a beer immediately after throwing up sixteen beers*

are you trying to send him into an early retirement?

but he’s your dad and ultimately he figures you could do Rex some good

so at the Guardians Christmas party, he introduces you:

”Uhm, I’d like you all to meet Y/n, she’s the chief profiler you’ve been communicating with for the last few months. She is also my daughter, but I trust you will respect her as the professional she is.”

Rex is on you immediately

Cecil is regretting all his life choices

he should’ve gotten you a puppy and Rex a tomagatchi. Or actually nothing because he doesn’t care about Rex.

buuuuut he cares about you, and what kind of father would he be if he didn’t try and facilitate you being happy?

so you and Rex meet in person for the first time, and he’s a mess.

”Heyyyyy hot stuff, we gotta get you a video camera or something because god damn!”

you raise an eyebrow with a smile, and take a long, agonizingly quiet sip from your drink.

before spitting it into the cup

he can’t help but laugh when he realizes what’s happen

”Oh yeah! I spiked the punch, it’s so highschool Cecil didn’t think I’d actually do it!”

”Jesus Christ- what the fuck did you spike it *with*?” You ask indignantly, your mouth burning

His Face is smug as ever “Everclear”

After everyone (including you and Rex) get belligerently drunk, Cecil cancels workplace parties.

It brings good things, however, breaking the ice for future in-person hangouts

he may not be able to fly you around the world like Mark, but he can treat you to a pretty impressive firework show whenever you want

the first time he does this is the time he asks you out.

You’re on the mountain outside the base, and he says he’s got “something special to show you”

Please don’t throw up sixteen beers again please please please-

A mirage of colors and shapes flash across the sky

He looks back at you after finishing, the last firework delayed enough to erupt into a burst of pinks and reds when he asks you

”Uhm- I know it’s super unprofessional and your dad will totally kick my ass if I mess this up, but would you wanna go on a date sometime?”

Your profiling skills didn’t pick THAT up

You blink. Hard.

”like. With you?”

he furrows his brow in embarrassed anger and takes a few huffy breaths, folding his arms

”Uh. Yeah. With me!” He frowns even more, his anger breaking to reveal a glimmer of anxiety

this boy is so nervous please just answer him

and do you do, standing up from your perch on the snowy mountainside and putting your gloved hands in his

”Yeah- I mean- that’s agreeable to me if it’s agreeable to you.”

somewhere like hundreds of miles away, Cecil sighs in relief for the first time in decades.

so you and Rex start dating!

he’s a bit of a gym rat, and most of your interaction is still over comms, since he’s so busy saving the world and stuff

wow your boyfriend is so cool!

but you also carve out time to show Rex the cool stuff your dad has taken you to see over the years.

its a little weird for Rex

”Yeah- this is my dads favorite painting- and this is where we go to get ice cream- and-“

Rex isn’t sure he knows how to interact with Cecil after learning his favorite broadway musical. Or that he has one at all.

Cecil isn’t sure how to react when your bedroom cork board is no longer sparse, but filled with Polaroids and photo strips of you and his employee slash superhero lackey. Kissing. Eugh.

Rex values your skills, and often makes a game out of people watching with you

”The guy with the huge dick energy, in the green hoodie.”

”Mmmm…. Kelptomaniac with a fent problem, looks like he has early onset arthritis and an iron deficiency. Most likely to rob a combination grocery store and pharmacy.”

”that’s brutal! Okay what about the girl with the huge… um… tank top. Striped, by that statue!”

”Developed quickly, has crow feet and probably did ballet as a child, but stopped around middle school. Her hair looks natural but is dyed, likely from ginger to brown based on the undertones. She has a twitch in her arm and a shakiness in her eyes, probably low blood sugar. Hence-“ you gestured to the ice cream cart next to her “Why she’s in line. Like we should be, cmon!”

you pull him over and get ice cream, he gets rocky road every time, and always insists on getting a bite of whatever you got

Bonus:

Rex and Cecil are both relatively bad at the traditional family dynamic

but Rex wants to”meet the parents” like he never could with Eve for obvious reasons

so you bring him to hq for the Superbowl

Every year you, Cecil, and Donald stream the Super Bowl on a side screen while carrying out your regular duties, along with a cheap plastic football shaped bowl of potato chips, Donald’s favorite, and a smaller bowl of peanut m&ms, Cecil’s favorite.

Rex studies really hard on the Eagles and the Chiefs

only to realize nobody except Donald actually gives a shit how the game plays out

rex scores MAJOR brownie points with Donald though

and since he’s like basically an uncle to you, he counts it as a win

cecil thinks he’s lame

”if you put this much effort into training as you do trying to impress me via an archaic bid to my masculinity, the world might actually be a safe place.”

ouch.

Rex eats all the peanut m&Ms in revenge

[reveriebae]

When the Dream Ends, You Begin

pairing(s) : poem writer! Wooyoung x reader

word count : 4877

summary : He dreamed of her—tied in silk, dripping with sin, whispering his name like a curse. Then he met her. And nothing has been soft since.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Explicit smut, surreal dream-to-reality tension, bondage (soft & rough), orgasm control, oral (m & f receiving), overstimulation, name calling (Angel), light dom/sub themes, desperate begging, possessiveness, obsession, cumplay, marking, slightly feral!Wooyoung, praise & worship kink, unholy levels of filthy poetic language (kinda). Let me know if I missed anything!

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut 🪐

He’d only meant to nap for a minute. A break from the manuscript he’d been struggling with for weeks—the one with the heroine he couldn’t quite figure out.

But somehow, somewhere between the ink-stained pages and the weight of exhaustion, you slipped in. And once you did, there was no room for anything else.

It started with your voice—soft, sultry, curling around his ears like velvet. Then your touch, gentle at first, ghosting along his jawline, down his chest, leaving sparks in its wake. His breath hitched. The dream blurred, pulsed. You weren’t just some figment—you were here. Realer than anything he’d ever written.

Wooyoung lay sprawled across a couch that didn’t belong in his apartment, shirt undone, flushed to the tips of his ears. And you? You were straddling his lap, body bare and glowing in golden light like you were made of the damn sun itself. Every part of you was warm, soft, perfect.

His fingers trembled as they dug into your thighs. “Fuck,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You're not even real, are you?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Maybe not. But I feel real, don’t I?”

God, you did. You moved against him and he choked, head falling back. Your hips rolled slow, a taunting rhythm that made his cock throb beneath you. Every brush of your slick heat had him unraveling, desperate.

“Shit—Angel, you’re gonna kill me,” he groaned, hands clutching your waist like lifelines. “You feel so fucking good. Too good.”

You smiled, eyes half-lidded, voice honeyed with mischief. “But you like it. You want me to ruin you, don't you?”

He nodded without shame. “I want everything. Every fucking inch of you.”

You gave it to him—grinding down harder, your moans melting into his skin like sin. And Wooyoung—sweet, sinful Wooyoung—just took it all, praising every inch of you with breathless desperation.

“Look at you. So fucking perfect,” he panted. “Made just for me, huh? You feel like a dream because you're mine.”

Your nails raked down his chest as he bucked up, chasing the high he couldn’t believe was his. Your name fell from his lips like scripture—over and over, until he was almost delirious with need.

He came hard, jaw clenched, hands trembling, voice cracking as he gasped your name like it was his salvation.

And then—

He woke up.

Sheets tangled. Sweat slick on his skin. Cock still twitching, soaked in his release.

But his hand reached out, searching the empty space beside him.

“Fuck... I need to write this down,” he muttered, breathless.

Because now you weren’t just a character.

You were his obsession.

The dream didn’t fade.

Not like the others.

Wooyoung had tried to shake it off—wake up, shower, drown himself in coffee and deadlines. But it clung to him. Like your phantom touch was etched into his skin, like your moans were trapped in his ears, like your voice—that voice—was scribbled into the margins of his mind.

“Made just for me…”

God. His fingers tightened around his pen every time he remembered how you’d said it, how you’d felt. His notebook was filled with messy sentences, scratched-out lines, and fragments that didn’t make sense to anyone but him.

"She rode him like a symphony—soft, loud, and breaking him open in every beat."

"Angel. That’s what he called her. Not her name. Just the way she felt."

He didn’t know why he called you that. Angel. It had spilled from his mouth like instinct—like he’d said it a hundred times before.

But the weirdest part? You felt… familiar.

Not just in the way dreams sometimes make strangers feel known. No. It was deeper. Like he’d seen you before. Like he knew you. Maybe your laugh. The curve of your lips. The way you said his name—not Wooyoung, but Baby, like it belonged to you.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t place you.

You weren’t a girl he’d dated. Not anyone he’d seen recently. But the memory of your weight on his lap, the honey warmth of your skin, the fire in your eyes—it was seared into him. Every night he lay awake wondering, stroking himself slowly as flashes of that dream played like sin in his head.

He whispered Angel into his pillow, cheeks flushed, pulse pounding.

And then one night, three days after the dream, he caught himself doodling again in the margins of his journal.

A quick sketch—just lips parted, eyes half-lidded, sweat-damp collarbones. And then he blinked.

No. He had seen you before.

He couldn’t place the name. But the way you felt—your presence—it mirrored someone from the edges of his life. A girl he’d met briefly. Maybe just once. Maybe more. But now?

You were everywhere.

Every poem he wrote tasted like you. Every night he touched himself, it was your voice in his head. His hands weren’t enough. They never would be.

Because Angel had ruined him.

And he had no idea who you were.

---

It was supposed to be a quiet evening.

Wooyoung had agreed to speak at this writing workshop mostly out of guilt—his editor’s friend ran it, and he hadn’t been out in days. Maybe the fresh air would help. Maybe reading something out loud would get him out of his head.

But the second he walked into the room, he knew he was fucked.

You were already there.

Sitting in the middle row, notebook in hand, legs crossed just the way he remembered them—like the dream had taken a snapshot from this exact moment. Your head was tilted, brows slightly furrowed, and your lips—those damn lips—were caught between your teeth like you were thinking too hard.

No. No no no. It can’t be her.

His heart stuttered. Palms suddenly too warm. He blinked once. Twice. But you didn’t disappear. You were real, down to the little necklace nestled at your collarbones. The same skin he’d kissed in that dream, the same thighs he’d gripped while you rode him raw. His cock twitched—right there in the middle of the goddamn workshop.

He sat down two rows behind you, trying to breathe.

Your voice echoed in his head. Not your real voice, not yet, but the way it had sounded in his dreams—dripping with need, whispering filth in his ear like poetry.

"You want me to ruin you, don't you?"

God, he did. Again and again until his name was hoarse in your throat.

But now? You were here. And he didn’t even know your name.

They called for introductions, but Wooyoung barely registered the others. He was staring at the back of your head, imagining your hair fisted in his hands, your moans muffled by his neck, your nails dragging down his spine.

Focus, he told himself.

But then you spoke.

Soft, confident, thoughtful. You talked about writing romance. About vulnerability. About how the right words could make someone feel everything. His eyes fluttered shut for a second. That voice. That fucking voice.

He could smell your skin again. Taste your sweat. Feel your heat grinding down onto him. His throat went dry.

He didn’t even hear your name.

Just one word pulsed in his brain: Angel.

That’s what you were in his dream. That’s what you still were.

He swallowed hard, knuckles white around his pen. And as the group laughed at something you said, his cock throbbed in his jeans like a threat.

He wasn’t going to survive this.

You were real. You were here. And Wooyoung had already come thinking about you three times since Tuesday.

The workshop ended in a blur of applause and chatter.

Wooyoung didn’t remember what he said when it was his turn to speak. His mouth moved, sure, and people nodded, but his thoughts were a mess of dream-slick memories and the real you sitting just meters away—breathing, smiling, existing.

He watched you tuck your pen behind your ear and slide your notebook into your bag. Watched your fingers—slim, delicate, the same ones that had clawed at his chest in that filthy, glorious dream.

His pulse drummed in his ears.

Just say something, he thought. A line. A joke. Anything.

He stood up, took two steps forward—and froze when you turned.

Your eyes met.

You blinked, slow and curious, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of your lips. Like you felt something too. Recognition. Or maybe heat.

His mouth opened.

You tilted your head, brows raised, waiting.

But his brain short-circuited. Because how the fuck do you tell a girl, “Hi, I’ve been jacking off to you ever since you starred in the most vivid wet dream I’ve ever had, and now I’m spiraling”?

So he panicked.

Cleared his throat. Nodded. Said, “Nice… talk.”

Nice talk? NICE FUCKING TALK?!

You gave a polite little smile and turned back to your bag.

He wanted to die.

He turned on his heel, muttering curses under his breath as he walked toward the exit, heart pounding with shame, humiliation, and a still very inconvenient hard-on.

But just as he reached the door, he heard your voice behind him—smooth, calm, just a little amused.

“Hey. Wait.”

He stopped like you’d yanked his leash.

You walked up beside him, cocking your head slightly. “You okay? You looked like you’d seen a ghost in there.”

He laughed—more like choked. “Something like that.”

Then you smiled. Slow. Knowing.

And in one goddamn moment, everything snapped into place.

“I know you,” you said quietly. “Kind of. Not really. But… have we met before?”

His breath caught. His skin lit up.

Because there it was—that same curious tilt, that same gentle dominance from the dream. Like you were the one with control now.

You stepped a little closer, eyes locked on his. “Or maybe you just look like someone I’ve been dreaming about lately.”

Wooyoung’s jaw clenched. Blood rushed south, hard and fast.

You leaned in, just enough for him to feel your breath on his neck.

“Tell me,” you whispered. “Have you been dreaming about me too, baby?”

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

But the way his hands curled into fists, the way his throat moved as he swallowed hard, and the way his eyes flicked to your lips like a sinner to the flame—told you everything.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Not because of the dream this time.

Because of you.

Because of the way you’d looked at him right before you walked away—like you knew. Like you’d already had him once, and you were just waiting for him to admit it.

Wooyoung replayed it all in his head. Your voice. Your scent. The way you leaned in so close his skin still tingled where your breath had touched it.

“Have you been dreaming about me too, baby?”

Fuck.

He didn’t even know your name. But now he was addicted.

—

You met again the next evening.

Same writing workshop. Same room. Different energy.

You wore something simple—black top, a skirt that swayed when you walked—but it may as well have been fucking weaponized. He felt it every time you crossed your legs. Every time you licked the tip of your pen. Every time you didn’t look at him, like you knew he was staring.

And he was.

He couldn’t help it. He was wired tight, strung up, achingly aware of your every move. He hadn’t written a single thing since last night, but his hands twitched with the memory of how your body had moved in his dream.

The way you’d whispered filth while grinding against him like you owned him.

And now here you were again, two seats away, scribbling neatly while his brain fell apart.

“Class dismissed,” the host called. People stood, gathered their bags.

You stayed seated. So did he.

For a moment, silence stretched between you.

Then, softly, you said, “Walk me to my car?”

He didn’t trust his voice. Just nodded and followed you out, heart punching his ribs.

Outside, the air was cool. Your steps slow. The parking lot was mostly empty—just a few flickering lamplights and the faint hum of city noise.

You stopped beside your car, turned, leaned back against the door—and looked up at him.

He stood a foot away, hands jammed in his pockets, trying not to look at your lips.

But you smiled.

“Still not gonna ask my name?”

He smirked, voice low. “You sure you want me to know it?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He took a step closer. “Because if I know your name, I’ll never stop using it.”

Your breath hitched—just slightly.

Then, softly: “Maybe I want to hear it from your mouth.”

Wooyoung’s throat worked.

“Then tell me.”

You leaned in just enough, the tip of your shoe brushing his. Your voice dropped, sultry and dangerous.

“Or maybe you’ll just keep calling me Angel... like you did in your dream.”

He froze.

Eyes locked on yours. Caught. Breathless.

You whispered, “Told you I’ve been dreaming too.”

He stepped in now, close, his chest almost touching yours.

Low. Hoarse. Desperate.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You tilted your chin, lips barely parted. “Why would I ever stop you?”

His eyes flicked down.

To your mouth.

To your throat.

To the way your chest rose like you were bracing for impact.

And then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice like smoke.

“Next time, Angel… I’m not waking up.”

It happened the next night.

Your texts had been short. No need for flirting. No teasing. Just your address and one line:

“Don’t be late, baby.”

He wasn’t.

Wooyoung knocked once before you opened the door, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt that definitely wasn’t yours—black, wrinkled, probably stolen from a past hookup, but tonight it belonged to him.

Because the second he stepped inside, your hands were already on his chest, dragging him in, pulling him down.

No small talk.

No hesitation.

Just mouths crashing together in that desperate, hungry way that says I’ve already had you in my mind a hundred fucking times.

He groaned when your lips parted for him—finally—and his hands dropped to your waist, gripping hard, like he still didn’t believe this was real. Like he needed to memorize every curve before you vanished again.

“God, you’re—” he started, but you cut him off with your teeth at his throat.

“Dream about this, baby?” you whispered, tongue dragging slow up his jaw. “Or do I feel even better than you imagined?”

He choked on a laugh, breathless. “Worse. So much fucking worse.”

You smiled, smug, and pushed him toward the couch.

He let you.

Let you shove him down and climb on top, knees bracketing his thighs, fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt like you had a damn mission.

And you did.

Because Wooyoung wasn’t allowed to lead this time. No—you were the dream now. You were the one who had haunted him for days, and now you were going to remind him exactly why.

“You kept calling me Angel,” you murmured, slipping his shirt off his shoulders, nails dragging over warm skin. “Sounded so sweet for someone who came in his sleep.”

He flushed, lips parting, hips twitching beneath you.

“You knew?”

You smirked. “You moaned in your sleep after that first workshop. In the back of the room.”

His face went scarlet.

You leaned in, nose brushing his. “Wanna hear what it sounded like?”

Then you moaned—soft, breathy, filthy. “Angel, fuck, don’t stop—”

He grabbed your hips with a growl, thrusting up against you through denim and heat.

“God, you’re evil,” he rasped.

“I’m everything you begged for.”

And then you rocked your hips—slow, deliberate, dragging your center against the bulge in his jeans. His head dropped back with a curse, fingers digging into your thighs like a man possessed.

He’d imagined you like this a thousand ways.

But reality?

You were hotter, slicker, meaner.

You moved like you knew he’d melt for you—and he did. Beneath your fingers. Beneath your hips. Beneath your fucking voice.

“You’re gonna let me ride you just like in your dream,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “Only this time, I’m not leaving when you wake up.”

His breath hitched.

And then you kissed him again—slower now. Deeper. Tongue sweeping his like a promise.

And just before you pulled back to strip his pants away, you whispered:

“Good boys don’t come until I say so.”

He whimpered.

He whimpered.

And you smiled like you were home.

You didn’t let him touch.

Not yet.

You straddled him on the couch, body warm and lithe above him, but when his hands reached for your waist, you tsked softly and leaned in, your breath ghosting over his lips.

“Nuh-uh, baby,” you whispered, tone sweet and laced with danger. “You’ve already touched me in your sleep. Now you wait.”

His brow furrowed. Breath shaky. “Wait for what?”

You smiled.

Then you pulled silk from your back pocket—long, black, smooth as sin—and held it up between two fingers.

“For me to say you can.”

Wooyoung stared. Chest heaving. Cock hard and twitching in his jeans.

Then he swallowed.

Nodded.

You made quick work of it—pushing his shirt the rest of the way off, guiding his arms up along the backrest of the couch, and tying his wrists tight. Not painful. Just enough that when he instinctively pulled, the knot held.

Helpless.

Yours.

“Comfortable?” you asked, running your fingers down his stomach—slow, teasing, cruel.

He let out a shaky breath. “No.”

You leaned in and licked his bottom lip.

“Good.”

Then you unbuttoned his jeans.

Slowly.

Unzipped him with two fingers, one knuckle dragging lightly over the bulge beneath his boxers. He shuddered—hips jerking, throat dry.

“Fuck—please—”

You looked up at him through your lashes. “You begging already, baby?”

“I’ve been begging since Tuesday,” he panted.

God, he was so pretty like this. Chest rising fast, lip bitten raw, arms pinned and useless while you made a mess of him.

You slipped your hand beneath the waistband—fingers wrapping around his cock—and he gasped, head falling back, wrists tugging instinctively.

But he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t stop you.

Couldn’t touch you back.

He was completely, deliciously at your mercy.

And you were merciless.

“You keep dreaming about me like this?” you murmured, pumping him slow and tight.

He whimpered.

“Wanna hear it,” you whispered against his jaw. “Tell me what I did to you. Tell me how I made you come.”

He was shaking.

“You—you were riding me,” he gasped. “Hard. Hands on my chest. You kept—kept talking, saying all this filthy shit—fuck—and you kept clenching around me like you wanted to ruin me—”

You cut him off with a wicked kiss, deep and hungry, and just as his hips bucked to chase your fist—you let go.

He cried out—needy, feral.

“No—please, I—I was so close—”

You wiped the glistening tip of his cock with your thumb and brought it to your mouth. Sucked slowly. Deliberately. Eyes locked on his as he moaned.

“Next time,” you whispered, straddling him again, grinding your bare heat over the wet head of his cock through your panties, “you’ll beg with your tongue.”

He groaned, wrists pulling hard at the silk.

“But first,” you said, rolling your hips slow and deep, “I’m going to ride you tied and helpless, just like you wanted.”

Then you hooked your fingers into your panties and slid them off, tossing them aside like an afterthought.

And when you sank down on him in one, perfect stroke, hot and wet and tight—

Wooyoung’s head snapped back with a broken sound.

You were his dream.

But this was real.

And you were going to ruin him completely.

You didn’t ride him to please him.

You rode him like you wanted to end him.

Slow at first—grinding, teasing, dragging yourself up until only the tip of his cock remained inside, then slamming back down so hard the breath left his lungs in a shuddering gasp.

Wooyoung’s hands were clenched in tight fists, wrists yanking at the silk, every nerve in his body on fire.

His head dropped forward, sweat clinging to his skin, jaw slack as he watched you move—breasts bouncing beneath your shirt, your cunt milking him like it had a mind of its own.

“Angel—fuck—Angel—please—” he choked out, thighs trembling.

You didn’t slow.

Didn’t stop.

You leaned in, mouth grazing his ear, voice like sex and smoke.

“Keep begging.”

He whimpered. Obeyed instantly.

“Please let me come, please—I need it—need you so bad, I’m gonna fucking lose it—”

You clenched around him hard.

He cried out.

“Not yet, baby,” you purred. “Not until I say.”

And then you sped up.

Your pace turned brutal—punishing—riding him so rough the couch creaked beneath you, slick sounds of skin and desperation filling the room. His cock throbbed inside you, twitching, straining, desperate for release.

But you were relentless.

One hand gripped his throat lightly—just enough to make his pupils blow wide, dizzy with the pressure—and your other hand slid down to where your bodies met, rubbing your clit fast and filthy as you moaned right into his ear.

“Feel how wet you make me, baby?” you whispered, grinding down hard. “Your cock fits so perfectly—like you were made to be fucked and left aching for me.”

“Fuck—fuck—” he gasped, thighs shaking violently. “I can’t—I’m gonna—I’m—”

You pulled back. Looked him dead in the eyes.

And said, low and wicked:

“Don’t.”

He screamed.

Not loud. Not angry.

Just this raw, wrecked little sob as he tried—tried—to hold it in, his whole body trembling beneath you like he was on the edge of death and heaven at the same time.

He was crying now—just a little.

Silent tears, eyes blown wide, cock twitching with the kind of ache that bordered on insanity.

And you loved it.

You soaked in it.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his tear-streaked cheek. “All broken. All mine.”

He nodded—fast, desperate, unable to speak.

You rocked your hips deeper, clenching hard, and finally—finally—whispered:

“Come for me, baby.”

The moment those words hit him, Wooyoung snapped.

His whole body arched, a wrecked cry ripping from his throat as his cock pulsed hard inside you, cum spilling hot and helpless, thick ropes shooting so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat.

You kept riding.

Soft now. Slow. Making him feel every twitch, every spill, every whimper that followed.

“Look at you,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his lips. “Dreamt of me for days just to end up begging and crying while I used you.”

He was wrecked.

Hair sticking to his forehead, lashes wet, mouth open like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

But his voice—soft and hoarse—came out like prayer.

“Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He was still trembling when you untied him—arms sore, chest heaving, face flushed and damp from sweat and tears. His cock was twitching even after he came, twitching inside you, because you were still seated there, still milking him gently, cruelly, like you wanted to pull a second orgasm straight from his soul.

“Fuck,” he panted, blinking up at you with wet lashes. “You—you’re not real.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his cheek, your hand sliding into his hair.

“I’m very real, baby.”

Then you licked his ear.

And whispered—

“Now show me how much you missed touching me.”

That’s all it took.

Wooyoung snapped.

His arms flew around you, flipping you down onto the couch with a growl so low it sounded almost feral. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding beneath your shirt, tearing the damn thing off with zero patience.

“Fucking evil,” he hissed, mouth crashing onto yours, tongue filthy and demanding. “You broke me.”

You grinned against his lips. “You begged for it.”

“I’ll make you beg.”

And then he slammed into you again—no warning, no gentleness, just raw, ravenous need. You gasped, legs flying up to wrap around his waist, nails digging into his back as he fucked into you like he wanted to carve his name into your body.

“Think you’re the only one who can ruin someone?” he growled, hand sliding between your thighs to rub your clit hard and fast. “You think I didn’t dream about making you cry for me?”

“Fuck—Wooyoung—”

He grinned.

“That’s right, baby. Say my name now.”

He pinned your wrists above your head—tight—body moving like a man possessed. His hips snapped in fast, deep, almost brutal, and your body arched up into him with every thrust, a mess of sweat and moans and filthy, wet, slapping sounds.

“You’re not leaving this couch,” he growled. “Not until I’ve filled you again.”

“Please—”

“That’s right, Angel,” he groaned, thrusting so deep your breath caught. “Beg me now. Beg me to come. Beg me to stuff you so full it leaks down your thighs.”

You were shaking.

Mind blank. Legs trembling. Body hypersensitive from earlier.

And he kept going.

Faster. Deeper.

Rutting into you like he was trying to brand your soul.

“Gonna fuck you so full you’ll still be dripping tomorrow,” he panted. “Wanna see it—wanna watch it leak out of that tight pussy while you’re sitting in my lap, looking so pretty and ruined and mine.”

You broke.

Back arched, thighs clamping around his waist as your orgasm hit like a fucking bomb, exploding through your body in white-hot waves, your moans turning to sobs as you clenched around him—

And that was all he needed.

With a growl, Wooyoung buried himself inside you, cock twitching violently as he came again—hot, thick, endless—filling you up until it was dripping down your ass onto the couch, until you both collapsed, bodies shaking, breath ragged.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just slumped over you, face buried in your neck, whispering your name like a broken prayer.

“…fuck, Angel.”

“…I’m gonna marry you.”

---

You woke to heat.

Gentle at first. Soft.

Like a dream.

Warm lips pressing to your inner thigh, slow fingers dragging up the curve of your hip. You blinked blearily, brain still wrapped in fog, only to find Wooyoung kneeling between your legs, bare chest glistening, eyes locked onto your cunt like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

He looked wrecked. Unshaven. Smudged with sweat and sleep and lust.

“Baby—what are you—”

He didn’t answer.

Just slid your legs apart and buried his face between them.

Your gasp turned into a moan—then a whimper—as his tongue dragged over your folds, slow and wet and deliberate. He licked like he loved it. Like worship. Like penance. Like he wanted to spend the rest of his life tongue-deep in your pussy just to say thank you for ruining him.

“You taste like me,” he murmured hoarsely, lips glistening. “Fucking perfect.”

His hands pressed your thighs open wider, holding you down as he sucked your clit into his mouth—hard. You cried out, hips jolting, legs trying to close from overstimulation, but he held firm.

“Don’t run,” he whispered darkly. “You took my control last night, Angel. I’m taking my time now.”

And fuck, did he.

He made a mess of you—tongue working you open, fucking into you slow and deep, licking through the cum he left inside you like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. You were dripping. Squirming. Begging.

And he didn’t stop until your thighs were shaking and you were grabbing fistfuls of his hair, pulling him tighter into you as you came on his tongue with a shattered sob.

When you collapsed, limp and panting, he kissed the inside of your thigh one last time and crawled up beside you, arms pulling you into the warmth of his chest.

“Next time,” he whispered against your temple, “I’m tying you up.”

You laughed weakly. “Greedy bastard.”

He kissed your hair. “Yours.”

And with his arms around you, legs tangled, your skin still sticky with sweat and sex and sweet aftershocks—you finally drifted off again.

No dreams this time.

Because reality was so much better.

"She sat on him like sin— like velvet and venom, soft thighs and a wicked smile, the kind of woman gods built temples for and then burned to the ground.

He begged with his mouth full. Cried with her fingers in his hair. Came with her name on his tongue and guilt nowhere in sight.

She wasn’t a dream anymore. She was destruction dressed in skin. His ruin. His muse.

And he’d let her break him again. Gladly. Willingly. Over and over until his bones remembered how her name felt in the dark."