#its pulsing his name in morse code

[dearestgentlereaders]

i’m clawing at the walls

[laura-palmers-diary]

OMGGG AHHHH 😻😻

HIS ARMS IN THE SCENE?!? OH MY LORDDDDD

[tosomeonessomeone]

there you are.

words•5.2k /pairings・Lee know x Solo mom reader / genres・fluff, humor / warnings・ MDI, intercourse

You shifted Rio’s warm weight on your hip, his little fingers crumpling the orange-cat drawing he’d clung to all morning. “Mama, *pleeeease* can we get one?” he whined, burying his face in your shoulder. His plea was sugar-coated, sticky as the juice stain on your sleeve from breakfast—the third shirt this week. At 30, solo motherhood meant your world spun to the rhythm of daycare alarms, client deadlines, and the perpetual tang of spilled apple sauce. But Rio’s eyes—wide as the cartoon kittens he’d scribbled—melted your resolve. “We’ll *look*,” you relented, steering the stroller toward *Whisker Haven*, its address hastily scribbled on a Post-it from your coworker. *Just looking*, you told yourself. *No commitments*.  

The shelter hummed like a living thing. Cedar chips and lavender cleaner mingled in the air, punctuated by trills and mews from wall-mounted cages. Rio squirmed free before you could unclip him, darting toward a sunlit playpen where a lanky volunteer knelt, tousled chestnut hair catching the light. His hands moved with practiced ease, flicking a feather toy just out of reach of a speckled kitten. “C’mon, little warrior,” he coaxed, voice low and playful. “Jump higher.”  

Rio crashed into the scene like a tiny tornado. “Hi!” he announced, planting himself beside the stranger. The man glanced up, and your breath hitched—not at his sharp jawline or the faint scar threading his brow, but at the way his smile transformed his face. Crow’s feet crinkled, warm as summer honey.  

“Hey there, adventurer,” he said, tilting his head to match Rio’s height. “I’m Minho. Wanna try?” He offered the feather wand, handle first. Rio seized it with a warrior’s cry, sending the kitten pouncing.  

Minho rose, brushing cat hair off his jeans. His gaze found yours, steady and curious. “He’s a natural,” he said, nodding toward Rio, who was now giggling as the kitten batted his shoelaces. There was no pity in his tone, no *single-mom radar* flicker—just genuine warmth. You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of your faded jeans and the granola bar wrapper peeking out of your tote.  

“Thanks,” you said, softer than intended. “He’s been… obsessed.”  

Minho crouched again, steadying Rio’s grip on the toy. “Obsession’s good here,” he replied, glancing up through his lashes. “Means he’s got passion. And good taste.”  

The kitten leapt, landing in Rio’s lap. Your son’s squeal of delight echoed off the walls, and for the first time in weeks, you felt your shoulders relax. *Just looking*, you’d said. But as Minho’s laughter tangled with Rio’s, something fragile and hopeful stirred in your chest—a feeling you hadn’t dared name in years.  

Weekends bloomed into a rhythm of shelter visits, the three of you falling into a routine as comfortable as an old sweater. Minho became a fixture in your Saturdays, his patience with Rio as endless as his cat trivia. He taught your son to cradle kittens like clouds, guiding his small hands with a steadiness that made your throat tighten. “Support their paws, buddy—like they’re holding tiny secrets,” he’d say, and Rio would nod, solemn as a scholar.  

You learned Minho was 26, a grad student in animal behavior who spoke of feline body language like it was Shakespeare. “Cats arch their backs not just to scare foes, but to feel bigger when they’re scared,” he explained once, demonstrating with a theatrical curve of his spine that sent Rio into giggles. But it was the slow blinks that undid you—the way Minho would lock eyes with a wary cat, lids drifting shut in a languid Morse code. “They’re saying, ‘I trust you,’” he murmured to Rio during one lesson. Then, glancing at you across the playpen, he repeated the gesture, slow and deliberate. Your cheeks burned. *It’s just a demo*, you told yourself, even as your pulse skittered.  

One rainy afternoon, the shelter emptied early, the patter of droplets harmonizing with the kittens’ purrs. Rio dozed in his stroller, thumb tucked in his mouth, worn out from chasing a energetic tabby. Minho appeared beside you, two steaming mugs in hand. “Matcha latte,” he said, voice low to avoid waking Rio. “No sugar, just like you mentioned last week.”  

You blinked, startled he’d remembered your offhand comment about hating sweet drinks. His fingers grazed yours as you took the mug, calloused from scrubbing litter boxes yet impossibly gentle. The silence between you thickened, charged like the storm-heavy air.  

“He’s lucky,” Minho said suddenly, nodding at Rio. “Not every kid gets a mom who works two jobs *and* lets him turn her kitchen into a cat art gallery.”  

Your grip tightened on the mug. He knew. Of course he did—you’d confessed it weeks ago, that offhand moment when he’d asked about Rio’s father. But hearing him acknowledge it now, without a trace of pity, unraveled something in you.  

“Some days, it doesn’t feel like enough,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could cage them. “The deadlines, the daycare bills… What if I’m just—”  

“Enough.” Minho’s interruption was soft but firm. He stepped closer, the scent of matcha and cedar enveloping you. “You’re *everything* he needs.”  

Tears breached your lashes before you could stop them. You turned away, but Minho was already there, offering a tissue printed with a grinning cat and the pun *“Hang in there, paw-some human!”* A wet laugh escaped you. “Do you stock these for all the crying women who wander in?”  

“Just the ones who pretend they’ve got it all figured out.” His smile was tender, a silent invitation to lean in.  

Outside, rain drummed its approval. Rio sighed in his sleep, Tofu—the tabby he’d claimed as his soulmate—curled at his feet. And in that fragile, honeyed moment, you let yourself imagine: Minho’s hand brushing yours not by accident, his slow-blink smiles reserved just for you, weekends that stretched into years.  

The rain softens to a whisper as Minho leans against the adoption desk, his gaze steady on yours. *“You know,”* he begins, tracing the rim of his mug, *“I started volunteering here after my sister’s cat, Mochi, passed. She’d had him since we were kids.”* He pauses, a shadow flickering in his eyes. *“She’s in remission now, but back then… the shelter was the only place that didn’t feel heavy.”*  

Your breath catches. This is more than he’s ever shared—a fissure in his usual playful armor. *“Minho, I…”*  

He shakes his head, smiling faintly. *“Don’t. I’m not fishing for sympathy. Just… you should know I’ve seen how love can be a lifeline. Even the furry kind.”*  

The admission hangs between you, raw and real. You glance at Rio, his lashes fluttering in sleep, then back at Minho. *“After Rio’s dad left,”* you say, the words tasting less bitter than usual, *“I almost gave up freelancing. Too unstable. But then Rio drew his first cat—a scribbled blob with fangs—and I thought…* Okay. We’ll build a life where he gets to keep that joy.”  

Minho’s thumb brushes your wrist, fleeting. *“You did.”*  

A kitten mews from a nearby crate, breaking the tension. Minho chuckles, scooping up the bold calico intruder. *“This is Soybean. She’s a door-dasher—escapes every chance she gets.”*  

*“Like someone else I know,”* you tease, nodding at Rio, who’s begun snoring softly.  

Minho cradles Soybean against his chest, her purrs a rumbling echo of his next words. *“When I’m with you two… it feels like I’ve found something I didn’t know I was searching for.”*  

Your heart stammers. *“Minho—”*  

*“Not asking for labels,”* he interjects, setting Soybean down. *“Just… want you to see what I see. A woman who paints worlds for a living, raises a kind-hearted kid, and still makes time to laugh at my terrible cat puns.”* He gestures to the tissue still crumpled in your hand. *“That’s not surviving. That’s* thriving.”  

The shelter’s clock ticks, loud in the silence. You step closer, until the steam from your mug curls into his. *“What if I see you too?”* you whisper. *“The guy who teaches kittens—and single moms—how to trust again?”*  

His slow blink is answer enough.  

The adoption day arrives, and Tofu—now lord of Rio’s sock drawer and ruler of half-eaten goldfish crackers—officially becomes family. When Minho shows up at your apartment with a cat tree taller than Rio, your son erupts into a frenzy, launching himself at Minho’s legs. “Hyung! Tofu needs a *castle*!”  

Minho laughs, setting down the box with a thud. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms still scratched from last week’s kitten wrestling match. “Every queen deserves a throne,” he says, winking at you. You cross your arms, feigning suspicion. “And you just *happened* to have a cat tree lying around?”  

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, tossing Rio a package of felt mice to “test” for Tofu. For the next hour, you watch Minho assemble the tower with the precision of an engineer, indulging Rio’s demands to add “secret tunnels” (a cardboard tube) and a “treasure box” (your old sunglasses case). Tofu watches from the couch, her crooked tail flicking in approval.  

By sunset, the living room is a jungle of scratching posts and dangling toys. You order pizza, and Minho stays—not because you ask, but because Rio tugs him to the table with sauce-stained hands. “You *gotta* try the pepperoni, hyung! It’s Mama’s favorite.” Minho’s knee brushes yours under the table, lingering a beat too long.  

Later, after Rio’s bedtime stories (*“Again, Mama! The one with the space cat!”*), Minho hovers at the door, his usual confidence fraying. “The shelter’s fundraiser… I’d like you both there. With me.” He hesitates, fingers drumming his thigh. “Not as volunteers. As… my date.”  

Your pulse stutters. *Date*. The word feels too big, too bright for your cluttered life. But Minho’s gaze is steady, his vulnerability disarming. “Okay,” you whisper.  

The fundraiser glows with string lights and the murmur of well-dressed attendees. Rio, in a bow tie that keeps slipping sideways, drags you and Minho to a photo booth plastered with cat-ear headbands. “Family picture!” he declares, shoving a pair of cardboard whiskers at Minho. You freeze, but Minho just grins, clipping the whiskers to his hair. “Your majesty,” he says, bowing to Rio.  

The camera flashes: Minho’s arm around your waist, your head tilted toward him, Rio mid-laugh with frosting smeared on his chin. When the strip prints, Minho tucks it into his wallet, his ears pink. “For luck,” he mutters.  

You escape to the garden when the crowd swells, Rio asleep in your arms. Cherry blossoms drift around you like confetti. Minho brushes a petal from your hair, his voice soft. “I know I’m younger. I know your world is… *a lot*. But I’m not going anywhere.”  

Your throat tightens. “Why?”  

He steps closer, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Love isn’t about age,” he says, nuzzling your temple as Rio’s breath evens against your shoulder. “It’s about who stays.”  

The kiss is gentle. When you pull back, Minho’s forehead rests against yours. “I’m not asking for a spotlight,” he whispers. “Just a corner of your chaos.”  

You laugh, tearful, and his mouth finds yours again. *Chaos*, you think, as Rio snores and Tofu bats at a falling blossom. *Maybe chaos is where love grows best*. 

As you and Minho lingered under the cherry blossoms, Rio’s frosting-smeared face pressed against your shoulder, the night felt suspended in time—soft and hopeful. But then a voice cut through the quiet.  

“Minho! There you are!”  

A woman in a sleek black dress approached, her heels clicking sharply against the garden stones. She was familiar—a longtime donor, maybe, or a board member. Her gaze flickered to Rio, then to your intertwined fingers, before settling on Minho. “We need you inside. The press wants a quote about next year’s expansion.”  

Minho hesitated, his hand still warm on your waist. “Give me five minutes, Soojin.”  

Soojin’s smile tightened. “Now, Minho. This is the *real work*.” Her emphasis lingered, a blade thinly veiled.  

You stiffened, shifting Rio higher on your hip. “Go,” you said, too quickly. “We’re fine.”  

Minho searched your face. “I’ll be right back.”  

But he wasn’t.  

Minutes bled into an hour. Rio grew restless, tugging at his bow tie, while you paced the garden path. Laughter and clinking glasses spilled from the venue, a world away from the sticky reality of motherhood. When Minho finally reappeared, his tie loosened and hair ruffled, Soojin trailed behind him, her laugh sharp as champagne bubbles.  

“—such a *natural* with the donors,” she purred, patting his arm. “You’ll go far, if you stay focused.” Her eyes slid to you, polite but dismissive. “Goodnight.”  

Minho reached for you, but you stepped back. “You should get back,” you said, voice brittle. “The *real work*.”  

He flinched. “That’s not what I—”  

“It’s fine.” You adjusted Rio’s blanket, avoiding his gaze. “We’re used to being an afterthought.”  

The words hung between you, cruel and untrue, but fear had already coiled around your heart. Minho’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d choose *that* over you two?”  

You didn’t answer. Rio whimpered in his sleep, and you turned toward the exit.  

“Wait.” Minho caught your wrist, his voice raw. “I’m not him. I’m not going to vanish because something shinier comes along.”  

Tears blurred the fairy lights. “How do I know that?”  

He stepped closer, his thumb brushing your pulse point. “Because I’m asking you to trust me,” he whispered. “Even when it’s hard.”  

The gulf between you trembled, fragile as a spiderweb. Then Rio stirred, his small hand patting your cheek. “Mama, go home?”  

Minho released you, his eyes shadowed. “Let me drive you.”  

You shook your head. “We’ll take a taxi.”  

The ride home was silent, Rio’s head heavy on your shoulder. As you tucked him into bed, Tofu curled at his feet, your phone buzzed.  

**Minho:** *I’m here. However long it takes.*  

You didn’t reply. But you didn’t delete the message either.  

A week of silence. Seven days of Minho’s unanswered calls piling up like unread apologies, and Rio’s relentless questions chipping away at your resolve. *“Did Minho-hyung get lost? Is he mad at us?”* You’d deflected with hollow excuses—*“He’s just busy, sweetheart”*—but Rio’s crumpled frown mirrored the guilt gnawing at your ribs.  

On Saturday morning, you flee to the park, pushing Rio’s stroller through the fog-thick air. Tofu peers from the basket, her tail flicking like a metronome counting down your dread. The lake glimmers ahead, its surface still as held breath. Rio babbles to Tofu about turtles, unaware as you round the bend—and there he is.  

Minho slouches on a bench, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms still marked with fading kitten scratches. A paper cup sits abandoned beside him, steam long gone. His gaze is fixed on the water, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the sky. You pivot sharply, but Tofu leaps from the stroller with a yowl, darting straight to him.  

“Y/N.”  

His voice is sandpaper-rough, and you flinch. Rio twists in his seat, squealing, *“Hyung! Mama, look—it’s Minho!”*  

You fumble for Tofu, but she’s already in his lap, kneading his thighs like dough. Traitor.  

“Hey, troublemaker,” Minho murmurs, scratching her chin. His eyes lock onto yours, shadowed and sleepless. “Missed you.”  

Rio tugs your sleeve, lower lip wobbling. “Mama, *please*.”  

You crouch, adjusting his scarf to avoid Minho’s stare. “Stay here with Tofu, okay? Just for a minute.”  

“But—”  

“*Please*, Rio.”  

He nods, solemn, and you rise on unsteady legs. Minho meets you halfway, the morning chill sharpening the lines of his face.  

“You’ve been ghosting me,” he says, voice low.  

“I’ve been… figuring things out.”  

“By shutting me out?” He steps closer, Tofu pressed to his chest like a shield. “Talk to me. *Please*.”  

The plea unravels you. “What’s there to say? You saw how Soojin looked at me—like I was a *distraction*. And I can’t—I won’t be the thing that holds you back from—”  

“From what? Schmoozing donors?” He laughs, bitter. “That’s not me, Y/N. Never was.”  

“But it’s part of your job! Your *future*—”  

“I quit.”  

The words hang between you, brittle as ice.  

“What?”  

“Donor relations. Events. All of it.” He sets Tofu down, his hands trembling. “I told them I’m sticking to the cats. And the kids. And… you.”  

Your breath hitches. “You didn’t have to do that.”  

“Yeah, I did.” He swipes a hand over his face. “Because I’d rather mop piss puddles every day than lose you two.”  

Rio’s laughter floats over, Tofu now chasing a leaf he’s waving. Minho’s gaze softens. “I’ve been here every morning. Hoping you’d come. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”  

Tears blur the fog-drenched trees. “I’m scared,” you whisper.  

He reaches for you, pausing just shy of your cheek. “Let me be scared with you. Let me *help*.”  

You lean into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “What if I break?”  

“Then I’ll put you back together.” His thumb brushes away a tear. “However many times it takes.”  

Rio crashes into your legs, Tofu circling his ankles. “Group hug!” he demands, arms stretched wide.  

Minho scoops him up, your little trio—*family*—colliding in a tangle of limbs and purrs. The fog lifts, sunlight spilling gold across the path ahead.  

The click of Rio’s bedroom door echoes like a held breath. You retreat to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fill the kettle. Moonlight spills through the window, silvering the mugs you set out—the chipped one Rio painted with paw prints, and Minho’s favorite, striped like a tabby’s fur.  

Footsteps pad behind you.  

“Need help?” Minho leans against the doorway, sleeves rolled up, shadows pooling under his eyes.  

You shake your head, but he steps closer anyway, his warmth a quiet challenge to the distance you’ve carved. The kettle whistles, sharp and urgent.  

“Why’d you really quit donor work?” you ask, pouring hot water too fast. It sloshes, scalding your thumb.  

Minho catches your wrist, guiding the kettle down. “Because I finally figured out what matters.” His thumb brushes the burn, soothing. “Saw my dad chase promotions my whole childhood. Missed every school play, every birthday. I swore I’d never be that guy.”  

You stare at the steam curling between you. “And us? Are we just… another promise?”  

He turns your hand over, tracing the lines of your palm. “You’re the reason I keep them.”  

The confession hangs, fragile. You pull away, busying yourself with tea bags. Chamomile for him, earl grey for you—he’d remembered.  

“I keep waiting for you to realize this is too much,” you whisper. “A single mom, a chaotic kid, a cat who hates your shoes—”  

“Y/N.” He steps into your space, the counter’s edge pressing into your back. “You think I don’t know what I’m signing up for? I’ve seen your late-night panic over daycare bills. The way you cry when Rio draws family pictures with *three* people now. Hell, I’ve scrubbed puke off my favorite jeans thanks to Tofu’s hairballs.” His voice cracks. “I’m not here for *easy*. I’m here for *you*.”  

Tears blur the mugs. “What if I’m not enough?”  

He frames your face, calloused palms anchoring you. “You’re everything. The deadlines, the mess, the *fear*—it’s all part of you. And I want all of it.”  

Your breath hitches. “Even when I push you away?”  

“Especially then.” His forehead rests against yours, the tea forgotten. “You don’t have to be brave alone anymore.”  

The admission unravels you. “I don’t know how to do this,” you rasp. “To trust someone to… stay.”  

Minho’s thumb catches a tear. “Let me show you.”  

Outside, rain begins to fall, tapping a rhythm against the window. The first brush of Minho’s lips is tentative, a question whispered into the fragile space between your breaths. But when your fingers fist in his hoodie, tugging him closer, the hesitation shatters. His hands slide from your face to your waist, lifting you onto the counter with a ease that steals your breath. Tea mugs clatter forgotten as he steps between your knees, his mouth slanting over yours with a hunger that mirrors the storm outside.  

This isn’t the careful Minho who blinks slowly at skittish kittens. This is wildfire—calloused palms skimming your ribs, teeth grazing your lower lip, a groan rumbling deep in his chest when you arch against him. His hoodie smells like cedar and the faint musk of the shelter, a scent that’s become as familiar as your own chaos.  

“Minho—” you gasp, breaking the kiss, but his name is a plea, not a protest.  

He stills, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, but his thumb traces the hammering pulse at your neck, betraying his own unraveling.  

You don’t. Instead, you knot your hands in his hair, dragging him back. The counter digs into your thighs, the cold edge a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth. He kisses like he’s memorizing you—the sigh you stifle when his tongue flicks yours, the hitch in your breath as his hands slide under your shirt, branding your skin.  

Minho guides you through the darkened hallway, his steps careful and measured despite the desire thrumming through his veins. Your bare feet pad silently across the wooden floors, past Rio's room where soft snores filter through the crack under the door, and Tofu's favorite sleeping spot by the window.

His hands never leave your body - ghosting over your hip, tracing the small of your back, fingers intertwined with yours as he leads you to your bedroom. The door clicks shut behind you with barely a whisper, and suddenly the air feels charged, electric with anticipation.

Moonlight spills through your curtains, painting Minho's bare chest in silver shadows as he backs you toward the bed. His movements are controlled, deliberate - every touch calculated to keep quiet. When your knees hit the mattress, he catches you before you fall, lowering you to the sheets with such care that your heart swells.

"Shh," he breathes against your ear when the bed frame creaks slightly, his warm weight settling over you. His fingers trail down your sides, hooks in your belt loops. "We'll have to be very, very quiet."

The challenge in his whispered words sends a shiver down your spine, especially when his teeth graze your earlobe, testing just how silent you can stay.

Minho's fingers tremble slightly as they work at your jeans button, his usual confidence wavering as moonlight reveals the vulnerability in his eyes. When you reach to help, he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"Let me," he whispers, "I want to remember every second of this." His hands slide your jeans down with aching slowness, but you notice how he hesitates at the scars on your thighs, the stretch marks mapping your hips. Before self-consciousness can take root, he's tracing each mark with reverent fingers, then following with his lips.

"Beautiful," he breathes against your skin. When you start to protest, he silences you with a deep kiss. "Every inch of you."

You reach for his belt, but notice his own moment of hesitation as your fingers brush his stomach. This confident man who spends his days wrangling large dogs suddenly seems unsure, and you remember the burn scars he usually keeps hidden under long sleeves.

"You don't have to—" he starts, but you quiet him by pressing kisses along the scarred tissue of his right arm, feeling his breath catch. Your fingers work his belt open as your lips trace each mark, each imperfection that makes him perfectly him.

Soon you're both down to underwear, skin against skin, every touch electric yet tender. His fingers trace the curve of your breasts through your bra, while yours map the hard planes of his chest, both of you learning each other's bodies with wondering hands.

"You're sure?" he asks, thumbs hooked in your panties, waiting for permission despite the obvious desire straining against his boxers. His eyes hold yours, dark with want but soft with something deeper.

You nod, lifting your hips to help him slide your panties down your legs. His breath catches as he takes in your naked form, illuminated by moonlight. Your instinct is to cover yourself, but the raw adoration in his gaze holds you still.

Minho trails kisses up your inner thigh, his touch growing bolder as your breathing quickens. When his tongue finds your clit, you have to bite your lip to stay quiet. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he works you with his mouth, each stroke of his tongue deliberate and precise.

You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. His responding groan vibrates against you, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Your other hand fists in the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as the pressure builds.

"Minho," you gasp, barely a whisper, "I need you. Please."

He crawls up your body, kissing a path from your navel to your breasts, then capturing your lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of his cock pressing against your entrance.

"I adore you," he breathes against your mouth as he slowly pushes inside, stretching you deliciously. "Gosh, I adore you so much."

Your bodies move together in the darkness, finding a rhythm as natural as breathing. Each thrust is measured, careful not to make the bed creak, but the restraint only makes it more intense. His forehead presses against yours, sharing each shaky breath as you climb toward ecstasy together.

Minho's thrusts grow deeper, more urgent as your walls clench around him. His cock fills you perfectly, hitting spots that make you see stars. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, changing the angle until he's grinding against your clit with each movement.

"Fuck," he pants against your neck, struggling to keep his voice down. "You feel amazing. So tight, so perfect."

Your nails dig into his back as the pressure builds, every nerve ending on fire. The familiar coil of heat in your belly winds tighter and tighter. Minho seems to sense how close you are - his fingers find your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me," he whispers, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the delicious stretch of him inside you sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him as you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cries.

The feeling of you coming undone triggers his own release. His hips stutter, losing their rhythm as he buries himself deep inside you with a muffled groan. You can feel his cock pulsing as he fills you, his whole body trembling with the intensity of his orgasm.

For several long moments, you lie there tangled together, hearts racing, bodies slick with sweat. Minho peppers soft kisses across your face - your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose - as if he can't bear to stop touching you.

Minho chuckles softly against your neck, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip. "You know," he murmurs with a playful nip at your earlobe, "if we keep this up, Rio might get that little sister he's been begging for."

Your laughter bubbles up, soft and intimate in the darkness. "Only you would think about making babies right after our first time," you tease, turning to face him with a grin. Your fingers trace the smile lines around his eyes, memorizing how he looks in this moment - hair mussed from your hands, lips swollen from kisses.

"Hey, I'm just being practical," he defends playfully, pulling you closer. "Rio's been asking for a playmate ever since he saw Mrs. Kim's new baby. And Tofu could use another human to train."

You snort, burying your face in his chest to muffle the sound. "Of course you'd bring the pets into this conversation," you whisper. "Such a typical shelter worker."

"Speaking of," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to cup your ass, "we should probably practice that baby-making technique a few more times. You know, for science."

Three years later, sunlight drips like honey through the windows of your shared home, gilding the mosaic of chaos and love that is your life. Minho stands at the stove, spatula in hand, crafting pancake dinosaurs with the precision of a man who’s learned to find art in the messy. His free hand rests on the curve of your belly, where your daughter kicks impatiently, as if already eager to join the fray. “Princess Appa’s practicing her roundhouse kicks,” he teases, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.  

Under the table, Rio—now six and savant of all things glitter and mischief—huddles with Tofu, their whispers punctuated by the crinkle of a manila folder. You bite your lip, heart swollen, as he peeks up at you. *“Now, Mama?”*  

You nod, tears already pricking your lashes.  

Rio scrambles out, folder clutched to his *Star Wars* pajamas, and tugs Minho’s apron with the gravity of a diplomat. “Appa! Father’s Day present!”  

Minho grins, flipping a T-Rex onto a plate. “Let’s see it, space ranger.”  

Rio thrusts the folder forward, its cover a masterpiece of sticker explosions: cats in rocket ships, a lopsided family portrait labeled *“ME, MAMA, MINHO, TOFU & BABY SIS,”* and a glitter-glue galaxy that glints in the light. Inside, the adoption papers gleam, their legalese softened by Rio’s crayon scrawl: *“PLEEZ BE MY REEL DAD”* looping across the top.  

Minho freezes. The spatula clatters to the floor.  

“Mama did the grown-up words,” Rio explains, bouncing on his toes, “but the *‘forever daddy’* part is *mine*! And Tofu helped!” He points to the corner, where a smudged paw print is stamped in purple ink.  

Minho sinks to his knees, the linoleum cool against his palms. He stares at the papers, then at Rio’s hopeful face—so like your own—then at you. “You… you’re sure?”  

You crouch beside him, Tofu weaving figure-eights around your ankles. “We’ve never been surer of anything.”  

A tear splashes onto the folder, blurring the “DAD” in Rio’s title. Another follows. Rio’s eyes widen. “Did I spell it wrong?!”  

Minho drags him into a hug, laughter and sobs tangled in his throat. “It’s perfect. *You’re* perfect.”  

Later, after pancake dinosaurs fossilize and the notary—a friend from the shelter who’d arrived with confetti and cat-shaped cookies—witnesses the signatures, Minho sits on the porch swing, Rio sprawled across his lap, sticky with syrup and dreams. Your daughter pirouettes beneath your skin, and Minho presses his palm to your belly, his thumb brushing the spot where her foot jabs. “Hey, little comet,” he murmurs. “Your brother’s already plotting your first mission to Mars.”  

You lean into him, the adoption papers now framed beside Rio’s first crayon cat drawing. Tofu’s paw print is immortalized in gold ink beneath your signatures—a family relic. “Think she’ll survive the chaos?”  

Minho’s slow blink is a language only you know. *I love you. I’m here. Always.* “She’ll be the chaos queen,” he says, grinning.  

And when she’s born—on a tempestuous night with Minho reciting cat facts as a breathing coach, Rio “assisting” with a toy stethoscope, and Tofu yowling backup vocals—you’ll finally understand: family isn’t found in the quiet. It’s built in the storm, one paw print, one pancake, one *“forever daddy”* at a time.  

[mrsnishimuraaa]

its pulsing his name in morse code 👅👅🫦🫦

pls bae come home to the kids 😼

[miirily]

You’re assigned to monitor his neural patterns. You’re supposed to keep him stable. But he starts speaking to you through the interface. You’ve never met him in person. You shouldn’t even care. But somehow, he knows your name.

You sit in the cold, humming dark of the bunker, the only light coming from the array of monitors bathing your face in spectral blue. The underground smells like rust and old circuits, a recycled metallic tang that never leaves your lungs. You’ve been down here too long. You don't remember the last time you saw the sky, real or artificial.

Your hands hover over the interface, fingers twitching from too much caffeine and too little sleep. Gojo Satoru’s neural stream dances across the screen: a cascade of biofeedback, erratic synaptic patterns that don’t line up with the others. He’s different. You’ve known that since the first night you were assigned to him. They told you to stabilise his mind. To monitor. To never engage. But the data keeps changing. He dreams too vividly. Too intentionally. And he keeps trying to reach you.

Tonight, the stream flickers in an unfamiliar rhythm—short, sharp pulses, repeating. You think it’s a glitch at first. Then you recognise the cadence. Morse code.

Y-O-U-R N-A-M-E I-S N-O-T L-O-S-T.

The blood drains from your face. You haven’t heard your real name in years, haven’t really thought about it anymore. Not since they deleted you. Not since you buried your identity beneath layers of stolen credentials and silence. You haven’t said it out loud in over a decade, and yet Gojo, somehow, has pulled it from the ash of the system.

Your fingers tremble as you check the uplink. Audio disabled. Mic off. Camera one-way only.

And then he moves.

On the main monitor, he lifts his head. Slowly. Deliberately. A shadow peels off his face as he moves, revealing bright, unblinking blue eyes so unnaturally clear they almost seem backlit, glowing faintly in the sterile light of the cell. They’re the kind of eyes that look through things. Through you. His snow-white hair falls messily across his brow, damp with sweat, strands catching the light like glass threads. His gaze drifts upward, towards the embedded lens in the ceiling. Not by accident. Not vaguely. He’s looking exactly at it. Like he knows. Like he’s always known.

“You’re not just watching me, are you?”

His voice cuts through the air like it was born in your own skull. There’s no channel open. No possible path for transmission. But you hear him. Not through the speakers. Inside you. Like an echo pressed into the bones of your mind.

Your stomach knots. It shouldn’t be possible. None of this should be possible. But there he is, staring through the screen like it’s a window. Not a barrier.

You tear off your headset, breathing hard. Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. Fear mixes with something else, something sharp and electric. Recognition.

He knows you.

You run a trace, frantically chasing the path of the message. Firewalls, encrypted data towers, black protocols. None of it explains this. Until you find it, buried deep beneath government code, nearly fossilised.

ECHO_01.

Your code. Your old failsafe. A hidden backdoor you wrote long ago when you were still someone. Meant to preserve the humanity of the mind before the State tore it away.

You never thought it survived. But it did. Just like Gojo.

Your hand moves on its own, reaching for the mic. One word makes it out, soft and strangled.

“…Satoru.”

He blinks, and a slow, knowing smile touches his lips.

“They’re watching,” he says, as calm as if you’re old friends meeting after lifetimes. “But not like you. You see me.”

Your throat tightens. He presses a hand to the mirrored wall of his cell. Without thinking, you lift your own to the screen. The glass is cold, but your fingertips tingle like they’ve made contact.

“I’m waking up,” he says, and there’s something infinite in his voice. “But I need you to do something.”

Lights flicker overhead. Sirens whine to life, metallic and angry. Unauthorised contact detected. Protocol breach. They know.

“I need you,” Gojo whispers, “to remember who you are.”

Then he steps even closer. Slow, measured movements, like he's afraid to scare you off. The sterile light above him flickers, throwing long shadows that stretch across the walls of his containment cell. His face tilts toward the lens, and for a heartbeat, it feels like he’s looking straight through it, straight into you.

You know it’s impossible. The camera is one-way. The interface is untraceable. You're buried under a mile of concrete and dead signal. And yet—

His eyes. Those bright, glacial blue eyes. They seem to lock onto yours with impossible clarity. Like he can see your expression, read the panic in your posture, feel the way your breath catches in your chest.

He leans in closer. So close now that the strands of his snow-white hair fall into his eyes, soft and fine like ash caught in moonlight. The monitor pixelates slightly under the pressure of his proximity, but even through the static, his presence is overwhelming.

“I remember,” he says softly.

Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. The sirens blare overhead, sharp, mechanical alarms that tell you you’ve gone too far, that containment has been breached, that someone is coming. But none of that feels real. Only his voice feels real.

“I remember what they took from you,” he breathes. “From us.”

Your hand is still pressed against the screen, trembling now. You don’t know why, but something inside you cracks. A fragment of something long buried rises to the surface, an image you can’t place, a laugh you don’t remember making, the echo of warmth in a world that turned cold long ago.

Gojo doesn’t flinch as the lights around him dim and flicker. He just keeps watching you.

“I remember the garden,” he whispers, barely audible beneath the shriek of the alarms. “The light in your eyes. You said we weren’t meant to be weapons. We believed that, once.”

Your breath stutters. A tear slips down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your fingers curl against the glass.

“I need you to wake up,” he says, voice like smoke and snow. “Because I can't do this without you.”

Then everything goes black. Feed terminated. Bunker silent.

But the silence doesn’t feel empty.

Because deep beneath the layers of dead code and static, his voice still pulses in your mind.

[urf4vsc0rpio]

All Yours

Daniela Dimitrescu x Fem! Reader

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Consent is fucking HOT. Sesbian lex, biting, blood consumption, fingering, oral (reader receiving), possessive Dani? Sign me the fuck up!

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "All yours, Dani...all yours"

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: DANI LOVER HI YES HELLO. SORRY I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE POST. Nways, I got ur supply...*hands it over like a dealer*

Y'all ain't got no idea how many times I caught my ass smiling while writing this. Y'all also have no idea about the stupid jokes I added bcs I realized the power I have as a writer...

“I missed you!” The redhead greeted you with a whine along with throwing herself into your arms the second you walked into your shared bedroom, nuzzling her face into the crook of your neck and inhaling your scent deeply, a soft happy sigh escaping her lips as she did so. “That much huh?” You teased, your fingers moving to card through her soft locks just as she loved. “I only went to grab a drink” A chuckle left your lips as you closed the door behind you, locking it for privacy before moving to sit on the bed with your clingy lover still hugging you tightly.

“Well it felt like an eternity without you!” Daniela huffed, shifting slightly to sit herself on your lap, wrapping her arms around your neck “1 minute without you is an equivalent to 10 eternities without you! You were gone for 10 minutes!” She grumbled in which you playfully rolled your eyes at as a response. You’d be lying to yourself if you said her drama and clinginess was annoying when in reality, it was the cutest thing ever. You loved it, you loved her. “Whatever you say drama queen”

“I am no drama queen!” She protested, feigning an insulted expression with her hand on her chest while the other remained wrap around your neck “Yeah and I’m straight” you retorted, making her raise an eyebrow “so is spaghetti until it gets wet” she responded to your retort, wiggling her eyebrows playfully with a smug smile. “Dani what!?” You choked out, cackling at her response “My goodness!” You gasped for air from laughing so hard “I saw it online okay!” Your lover laughed, lightly slapping your shoulder. It was too funny, it honestly took you two around 5 minutes to compose yourselves, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you shook your head in disbelief. “Unbelievable”

“But really though, I want to show you a good time” She whispered into your ear, her hands moving from your neck to trail down until it reached your chest “Let me worship you just how you deserve to be worshipped.” She purred, pushing you back to lay on the bed, eliciting a gasp from you. You weren’t shocked, nor surprised…none of those could really describe what you just felt. Aroused? Definitely. Mentally having a gay panic? 100% percent! Was it pulsing her name in morse code? Abso-fucking-lutely. Astonished? Yes.

“Cat got your tongue?” She teased, crawling to hover over you before straddling your hips “Good fuck…I am too gay for this…” You mumbled under your breath as you let out a shaky breath, turning your head away from her. “Oh so you can speak” The redhead giggled, guiding your head with her hand so you would look back at her “Cute…” She hummed, leaning down with her face just inches away from your own, her breath caressing your quivering lips. “So soft, so plump…and its all mine” She murmured, her thumb caressing your bottom lip “All…mine” She repeated before pressing her soft and cold lips against your own.

A small moan escaped her lips in which you swallowed greedily, she kissed you with such hunger and passion it was almost as if she was starved from your touch for her entire life, her eager hands caressing every inch of your body like she was trying to map out every curve and engrave it into her mind so she wouldn’t ever forget. “I love you so much” She whispered in between kisses, each more needy than the other. “More than anything” her tongue slipped out from between her lips to lick at your bottom lip, begging for permission which you happily allowed, letting her tongue slip past your lips as it mapped the contours of your mouth with an intimate, unspoken fervor. Her movements were urgent yet tender, as if each kiss and caress carried the weight of every moment she had longed to touch you. Her hands trembled slightly, not from hesitation, but from the sheer intensity of her emotions as they roamed, memorizing you like a treasured relic she never wanted to lose.

You reached for her, fingers threading through her hair as you pulled her closer, your own heartbeat syncing with hers. “Dani…” You murmured in between pants once she pulled away from the kiss, leaving you breathless and desperate for her touch “Tell me what you want, use your words, my love” She said, kissing your forehead before moving to kiss both of your cheeks, your nose, your lips and soon trailing down to your neck "I want you" you whispered, voice trembling as you guided her hand to your left breast, letting her feel the wild rhythm of your heartbeat. It was as if your heart itself wanted to claw its way out of your ribcage and into her hands, surrendering itself to the redhead who held your soul captive and you wouldn’t want it any other way. "Touch me... please" you pleaded, your words are heavy with need.

Daniela’s lips curled into a predatory grin, her sharp fangs catching the dim light, a glint that promised a dangerous blend of pain, pleasure, and devotion. Her crimson eyes darkened, the lust swimming in her blown-out pupils a reflection of your own desires. “That’s what I like to hear,” she purred, her voice dripping with wicked satisfaction, sending a shiver racing down your spine and a whimper nearly escaping your lips. "I love it when you get all desperate just for me"

Her hand cupped your breast, gently squeezing the plumpness. The coolness of her touch contrasting with the heat that burned under your skin. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned in, her lips grazing the sensitive shell of your ear. "You're mine," she murmured, her voice a seductive growl that left no room for doubt. The claim in her words was both a promise and a command, one you had no intention of resisting. “All mine, no one else’s…you belong to me and I own every inch of your being. No one can ever have you"

“All yours, Daniela,” you confirmed, your voice a soft but firm declaration. You rested your hand over hers, which cupped your breast possessively, giving it a gentle squeeze to urge her on, your entire being aching for her touch, her love. "All yours."

“All mine,” she echoed, her voice a sultry mix of satisfaction and possessive hunger. Her lips curled into a wicked smile as she dipped her head down, her fiery hair cascading around you like a curtain, tickling your skin. She began trailing kisses along your neck, her fangs grazing your skin and drawing out a moan from your lips as your back arched eagerly into her touch. Each kiss she left was deliberate, each hickey was a claim, as though branding you so that everyone would know exactly who you belonged to and that you’d also be reminded you were hers and hers alone.

Nobody would dare try to steal you away from her, not when you were her precious lover. Not when the name Dimitrescu carried the weight of both power and fear. Only a fool would attempt to steal what belonged to Daniela. Only a fool would disregard the consequences of even imagining taking you away from her.

Her kisses turned hungry and eager to make you moan and tremble with pleasure beneath her, to make your eyes roll back as you screamed out her name while she brought you to your climax, her breath warm against your skin. “You’re mine,” she murmured between each mark, her voice dripping with a mix of love and obsession. “Always mine. Forever.” Her hands moved to take hold of the top you wore, pulling it over your head and carelessly tossing it somewhere in the room, leaving that to be a problem to search for in the morning. A gasp escaped your parted lips when your lover wasted no time in attaching her lips to your hardened nipple while her fingers toyed with the other one, not wanting to leave it neglected.

With every graze of her sharp fangs against your breast, a shiver would run up your spine as a shaky sigh left your lips, your fingers tangled in her hair, occasionally pulling on it to draw out a pleasured groan from her, sometimes even running your fingers through it just to hear the happy and pleased purr she would let out. As dominant as she can be sometimes, she was still just a little puppy who enjoyed receiving affection in your eyes, she was too perfect to be true.

Daniela detached her lips from your nipple after a few minutes to look up at you, her hand that was on your waist now moving to rest on the waistband of your pants “Can I?” she asked softly, her eyes searching yours, seeking your consent before taking things further. The simple act of asking sent a rush of heat through you, if you weren’t wet before, you were certainly a waterfall now, all because she respected your boundaries. Hot.

“Yes… yes, you can” you murmured, your voice breathless, trembling more than you’d have expected. She smiled at your response, removing your pants along with your panties in one swift motion before tossing them away without a care in the world as she dipped her head to trail her kisses lower, her lips brushing your skin with reverence. She made sure no inch of you went untouched, every scar that you owned, every stretch mark that decorated your skin, or mole was kissed, touched and worshiped as if they were treasures she had longed to cherish.

When she reached your stomach, she paused, peppering it with soft kisses and playful nibbles that made you giggle. Her teasing demeanor was a cute reminder of how she could be both unserious and loving, even in the most intimate of moments. Her laughter joined yours, a light, airy sound that blessed your ears before she moved again. Shifting between your parted legs, settling herself there, her gaze flickering up to meet yours. The way she looked at you was downright possessive, adoring and not to mention utterly devoted. It made your heart race all over again, everything about her made your heart skip a beat, your breath caught in your throat. You were hers and she was yours. In this moment, she made sure you knew it, body and soul. “I love you” She whispered, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh “And I love you too” You reciprocated her love, moving your hand to caress her head, fingers running through the locks while you looked at her with such love in your eyes, she was everything to you and you were everything to her.

The simple act of saying I love you back was enough to bring a happy smile to her face, her eyes lighting up as she giggled. Cute. “May I, please?” She asked, her voice filled with need as she pressed her lips against your inner thigh, her fangs grazing your skin, begging you to let her have a bite and taste the blood of her lover running down her throat, begging you to let her have a taste of the red crimson that was as rare and precious to her like an exquisite delicacy that not many has ever had the privilege to feast on. Knowing that she was the only one allowed to even taste you was enough to turn her on, hell, she could even cum from the thought of tasting your blood alone. Without a word, you only let out a hum of approval which seemed to make her happier than ever.

The redhead didn’t even waste a millisecond in kissing the spot she was about to bite, making sure you were comfortable enough before letting her fangs pierce through your skin, pulling out a loud moan of her name from your lips as Daniela too allowed a moan escape her lips at the taste of the red nectar landing on her tongue as she closed her eyes, savouring the taste of your blood that she greedily lapped up like she wasn’t allowed blood ever since she was born, not letting a single drop go to waste, your blood was too tasty to let it go to waste anyways, it was practically a drug to her. Something she could never quit no matter how hard she would try…but, she wouldn’t have it any other way. She doesn’t care if she was addicted to your taste, your blood, to you…she’d never try to quit.

Your fingers tugged at her hair, earning a pleased purr from her as she pulled away to lick at the bite, soothing it from any pain you might feel. “I love knowing that you’re mine, that you’re all mine to love and worship” She confessed, her voice soft and gentle like a prayer “That only I get to see you like this, only I get to show pleasure that no one ever could. Only I can turn you into a whimper and needy mess that craves my touch.” She added before pressing a kiss on the bundle of nerves that was screaming for her attention, a gasp of pleasure leaving your lips at the action as your grip tightened around her hair “Only I get to taste you and love you like no one ever could” She murmured before finally burying her face into your cunt, eagerly lapping up your wetness with her tongue and making you squirm under her ministration. “All mine. You belong to me only, heart, body and soul.” She muttered, her voice muffled yet it sent vibrations straight to your core, making your hips buck with need. “Dani, baby..fuck you feel so good” You managed to choke out in between moans and heavy breaths, pulling a proud hum from her, sending vibrations to your core once again as you threw your head back into the pillows, your lips parted to let out the moans she always thought was music to her ears, your eyes fluttered shut while your back arched and your thighs quivered in pleasure, threatening to close and squeeze around her head if it weren’t for her hands holding them open as she ate you out so intensely with such need.

“That’s it, moan for me” She pulled away slightly, moving her hand that was on your thigh closer to your core, her digits tracing and teasing your entrance as you whined weakly for her to fill you up with her fingers. “Such a good girl for me, so needy for me” She cooed, whispering praised after praises as two fingers slowly started to fill you up, thrusting slowly at first to let you adjust to the penetration before she curled the two digits upwards in a come hither motion into your g-spot and reattaching her mouth back to your clit, licking and sucking, making you see stars while you moaned out her name repeatedly like a broken record player. "You like that, don't you, sweet doll?"

You squirmed and moaned beneath her, pulling on her hair, pushing her further against your core as you moaned prettily for her while your hips grinded into her tongue and her fingers that brought you closer and closer and closer to the edge, your moans shifting into high pitched whines and gasps, your insides tightening around her fingers, signaling that you were near to your climax. “C-close…!” You cried out with a moan and a hum of approval from her, the vibrations pushing you over the edge as your thighs closed and squeezed around her head, if this is how she was going to die then she’s more than grateful to die being choked by her lover’s thighs. You screamed out her name as you climaxed, your eyes shot open before rolling back while she eagerly lapped up your juices, making sure that none of it went to waste. The thrusting of her fingers soon slowed down to let you ride out your high before coming to a halt, gently pulling it out and sitting back up. She brought her soaked digits up to her lips before cleaning your wetness off with her tongue, slipping her fingers into her mouth before removing it with a satisfying pop followed by a happy hum, locking eyes with you throughout the whole process, never once breaking eye contact. "Gods...I fucking love how you taste, I love knowing that you're all mine and only I can bring you to such ecstacy." You were breathless and the only thing you managed to mumble was:

“Hot…”

[dipperscavern]

NEEDING JON SNOW CARNALLY RN

ITS PULSING HIS NAME IN MORSE CODE

[despairinthedeqarture]

omg help i remember on this spencer reid edit someone commented

“its pulsing his name in morse code” GIRL MY JAW DROPPED. THE COMMENTS ON SPENCER REID EDITS ARE CRAZZZZYYY

[willowmckinley]

From cherry compote this is also definitely under 500 *winks but both my eyes close*

As they near the bottom of the bowl, Raylan moves his hands from Boyd for the first time since they had sat down. He grabs the glass, and he tips it back. Boyd watches as the pink sugar slides into his mouth. And this is his last chance to turn back. To murder Raylan with this chain. He can wrap it around his bobbing Adam’s apple as he swallows. He can call it strawberry ice cream and let himself believe that’s how it got its color.

Instead, Boyd kisses Raylan’s throat. He brushes his lips sweetly over Raylan’s pulse. Raylan whips the bowl back to the table. It catches on the corner, cracking straight down the center. They pay it no mind.

Raylan lifts them up, his hands under Boyd’s thighs supporting his weight. Shattered glass crack under his shoes. Boyd kisses Raylan’s lips. He tastes iron buried deep under sweetness. Raylan bites Boyd’s bottom lip, and then he sucks the sting away right after.

The taste becomes addicting. The last of his sanity slips away, replaced only with obsession. He loves the taste of himself on Raylan’s lips. He loves the hard edge of blood that reminds him that he is Raylan’s favorite. He is the center of Raylan’s entire reality. He could take a cleaver to Raylan’s chest right now and find his heart beating morse code to Boyd’s name. It’s intoxicating. This is always how he had felt, back at nineteen. In all those stolen moments. There wasn’t a crack in Harlan they hadn’t found to tuck themselves into.

Raylan pushes Boyd into their bed, crawling up to rest his weight on Boyd’s chest as he grabs a bottle from the side table. His teeth loom sharp and stained at Boyd’s eye level as he leans over in reach. Less than happy, Raylan is obsessive and possessive and lost in single minded mania of having Boyd. Boyd thinks only of being possessed.

Raylan undoes Boyd’s pants, and Boyd helps by kicking them down. He makes quick work of Raylan’s own. Raylan moves down, slicking two fingers before breaching Boyd’s rim. Boyd pulls at Raylan’s shirt, managing to at least rip them down the buttons. He pauses his work with a grunt, when Raylan’s ministrations distract him too greatly.

Boyd’s fingers catch at Raylan’s love handles. His nails tear lines through skin as Raylan preps him. Boyd pulls a hand back. He grins as he licks at the blood under his nails. Raylan’s eyes grow wide and his pupils blow out. Raylan’s hand stops as he watches Boyd give his own fingers a languid suck. Boyd thrusts his hips down, reminding Raylan to keep up.

Raylan babbles into Boyd’s ear as he crooks his fingers in deeper. “I love you, God, I love you, I love you so much, missed you so much, needed you so badly.” Boyd doesn’t catch it all, and the ramblings spiral deeper into the insanity that lives inside Raylan. “I was born for you, Boyd. I was born to rip your skin open and live inside you. I was born to handcuff your wrist to my own. I want to sew us together with barbed wire. I want carry pieces of you around in my stomach. I want our hearts to be swapped in open surgery.”

“I want those things too, Raylan,” Boyd admits, honest with himself for the first time in decades. “I want more reminders that I’m yours. The mark wasn’t enough, the pinky isn’t enough,” Boyd continues, slipping into a desperate beg for more, more, more.

Ohhhh, thank you!

So, the beginning of your passage shows Boyd with his two options clear before him. This is Raylan at his most vulnerable, most distracted. If Boyd kills him here, he'd have his best odds at succeeding, his best odds of making it out alive. By giving him the coffee earlier, by giving him this ice cream so soon, Raylan broke his pattern of putting his cell phone away in the lockbox, giving Boyd an actual out to kill him without dooming himself to starving himself to death with a rotting corpse in the small room cottage. He can kill Raylan, steal the cellphone, and call one of his men to pick him up or call the authorities to start a new life-- or, well.

And of course he doesn't! He loooooves Raylan. He loooooves Raylan so much.

Boyd is a character that strikes me as desperate for love and attention, and he'll supplement both with adoration or hatred or machinations, but here Raylan is, giving and giving and giving with both love and obsession and attention. This Boyd is hardly able to resist. Even with the complicated dynamics and literal kidnapping, Raylan loves him so much and gives him everything he needs, and he has no real reason to turn away, not when Raylan is correct in that Boyd acts not who he is out of desperation or fears prison more than he'd like to admit.

The sex scene happens, of course, because Raylan has been wanting to fuck his boyfriend everyday since they were, like, sixteen, but he has his strict little moral codes that make sense only to himself, but now, finally, Boyd wants this too, and the whole affair is bloody, but the blood is warm and full of love and proof enough as they make heart shapes like paint.

Raylan's babbling was the most fun for me to write, because I wanted to make his ramblings graphic and bloody and intense and insane and loving and lovely in its own way. This fic is about unhinged, mutual obsession, and I feel like this section and this fic particularly I really got to cut loose and just play with it.

One of the most finicky details of this fic was always figuring out how clothing would work, what with Boyd being chained at hand or foot for most of it, making changing a nightmare, logistically. In later installments, I'll say they get custom clothing some how to make it easier, if only for me to write, lol. Hopefully the ripping and tearing seemed appropriately amorous while logistically sound.

And of course, what kind of commentary would this be without mentioning @itookyoudown! It was bun's idea for to use blood as an ice cream topping! How perfect! How wonderful! Truly, it was the detail that really tied this installment together for me. Everything flowed (retch ;P ) from there, haha. Honestly, it was just a really good focal point for this fic as a whole, both visually and thematically, especially tying this fic back to the rest of the series.

(Speaking of which, the first chapter of Part Six is out now! It's about Loretta, though, so no worries if you'd rather wait for Part Seven, which will go back to Raylan and Boyd).

[mitobozo]

Gang I fear its purring, leaking, growing, pulsing his name in morse code even.

MDNI

I’m thinking about sub!Spencer Reid. More specifically jerking him off. His whines and moans as he gets overstimulated from already cumming once. Then twice.

“Please please. I can’t take it.” He’d whine out as his hips buck, holding him in place would be great too. Whispering in his ear that he can take it and he is going to.

He’d cry too. 100%. All his little whines getting caught in his throat. The mix of edging and the feeling of being jerked off could almost kill him.

His moans are the cutest too. He’d get louder as he gets more comfortable. Even if you have done this multiple times and done worse he gets awkward and nervous.

I also believe this man has a mommy kink. He definitely was embarrassed about it too. But he’s come to terms with the fact you don’t mind. He whines it too. He feels pathetic and embarrassed but he definitely gets aroused so much.

God I need to hear him whine right now.

a/n: typing with nails is harder than i thought. I don’t know what this is either just thoughts.

[ilearnedthistodaysblog]

#1304 How could a whistle get free phone calls?

How could a whistle get free phone calls? Old telephone routing equipment worked on sound at a specific frequency. Some whistles blew at exactly the same frequency and could be used to trick the phone equipment. The people who were cheating the phone system called themselves “phreaks”, which was a combination of “phone” and “freak”. Several people who became big names in the computing industry started out as phreaks. They were able to do it because of the way early phones worked. The invention of the telephone is credited to Alexander Graham Bell, but he was not necessarily the first person to invent it. He was the first person to patent it. There is a lot of controversy over who actually invented the telephone, but all of the people involved were building on numerous inventions that came over the century before them. As with all inventions, everybody took technology that had been developed and added to it or improved on it or changed its usage. Whoever invented it, the first telephone line and the first telephone exchange was constructed in 1877. There didn’t seem much need for one at first, but the telephone was one of those inventions that every body needs. By 1881, there were 50,000 telephones in the US alone. By 1900 there were 600,000 and by 1910 there were 6 million. The first phones didn’t have a dial. You lifted the speaker part, were connected to an operator, and asked for the number that you wanted. The operator would connect you. The first phone with a dial was invented in 1891 by an undertaker called Almon Brown Strowger. He believed that the local operator was sending all undertaking business to one of his competitors, so he came up with a way to automate the phone exchanges, and that called for a way to dial the number from the phone. His idea was the rotary dial. If you are as old as me, you remember rotary phones. You put your finger in the whole next to the number and spin the dial all the way round before releasing it. The dial moved back to its starting place and you could dial the next number. These rotary dial phones worked on a system similar to that of Morse Code. Each number and symbol on the phone had a corresponding number of pulses of electricity. For example, 6 might be 6 pulses (which would make sense). When you dial 6, a switch in the phone would cut the electric signal rapidly to create six pulses of electricity. The problem with these systems was that the signals couldn’t be sent very far because of electrical distortion in the cables. That meant relay stations were necessary to redo the pulses. The phone companies were looking for an alternative and they came up with sound. The idea was similar to the rotary dial, except the clicks were replaced with a sound frequency. The frequency for one would be different to two, and so on. Sound could travel further, and they could be amplified easily. Sound can also be transmitted over radio waves and microwaves. The phone companies had several different sound frequencies programmed into their phones. They had the numbers, the letters, the symbols, and anything else that a phone would need to do. However, they also had frequencies that were only used by the phone companies. We are so used to free international Internet phone calls these days that it is easy to forget that phoning someone used to be very expensive. Phoning in the same city could be expensive, but international calls could cost several dollars a minute. And this is where phone phreaks came in. Back with the rotary phones, they had worked out that there were some sequences of pulses that the phone companies used to leave a line open so they could contact their company. The phreaks learned that if they could replicate those pulses, they could get free phone calls. They could do this by pressing the switch hook, which is the metal cradle that the phone sits on to hang it up, very quickly to emulate the pulses. When the new tone dial phones were introduced, this didn’t work. However, in 1957, a blind seven-year old boy with perfect pitch realized that if he whistled the fourth E above middle C, which is 2637 Hz, he could cut the phone off. Other phreaks learned about this and they tried different frequencies. It turned out that a frequency of 2600 Hz would reset the line, leaving it open. They could then use short groups of whistles to dial a number, getting free phone calls to anywhere they wanted. It got amusing when they discovered that a free child’s whistle given out in boxes of Cap’n Crunch breakfast cereal played a note at exactly 2600 Hz. The phreaks could use that whistle to easily get free phone calls. Many of these phreaks were more interested in how the phone system worked than in the free phone calls they could get. They loved learning about the technology and finding ways to game it. This knowledge and fascination would bring many of them to work in the burgeoning computer industry. And this is what I learned today. - #769 How does a pipe organ work? - #575 How does a speedometer work? - #388 How do metal detectors work? - #508 What is the range of a cell phone tower? - #204 What causes a nuclear electromagnetic pulse (EMP)? Sources https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DTMF_signaling https://www.thehenryford.org/collections-and-research/digital-collections/artifact/455857/#slide=gs-432211 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phreaking https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_telephone https://ccpcopy.com/trivia/dialing-back-in-time-the-rotary-phone-and-its-evolution/ Photo by Nic Wood: https://www.pexels.com/photo/vintage-british-telecom-telephone-cream-28248427/ Read the full article

[lalalatoji]

SORRYYYY for sending that asking on ur main but yes defo waiting for some ino content bcs ugh girlll you get him!!! He just gives the ultimate switch energy god i need him on my bed stretched out like a five course meal RIGHT NOWWW

WAAAAH THANK YOUUU 😭😭 he is the DEFINITION of switch. and also that’s so real?? its pulsing his name in morse code rn 🤔

[andrewlovely]

The Twelve Are

Simon the Zealot and Drew the First Called squared off in the western sun Simon glared his eyes and spat aside at Madame Sheriff's snotnose son He couldn't recall his dear old friend, but Andrew did suspect, and tilted his head in squinting wolf-grin golden hour "Is that you, you little rascal?" He knew he'd seen him before In some distant future Over two thousand years ago

Dust winds blew their tumbleweeds all the way back to Rome And kicked up that blood-red authority, a billowing legionnaire's cape Brutal and ruthless with no hesitation Exacting, precise, and unforgiving Devoid of sentiment and equanimous in its duty

The perfect image of sanity Clean, calm, and composed As voices cried out from the wilderness Dirty, rank, and starved in tattered rags The aircraft carriers are pristine grey As Man hangs in the balance

James brought candles for all the children While Peter skulked in angry, smoldering with fury James brought laughter to the mourning three As Peter stalked outside, wanting for sword to avenge his sinking guilt Denied three times, but now he would set things right Took a smoke break with Michael, who warned him against the folly of retribution "I see you're one of us…" he smirked to the Archangel And puffed his camels at the tourist out of touch A stranger and a foreigner to this land As Man hung in the balance

Man says, "I'll see you soon" on his way out And no one knows who he's talking to "A prison becomes a home if you have the key," said Michael to the Last Man But he was too busy worshipping icons and scouring for snake oils to notice, or ponder the mystery John asked Michael where the Last Man was going Michael replied, "It is not of the present."

The old team is getting back together And old friends walk timorously into a new yesterday (except for James, who saunters in) Unsure of themselves, and skeptical of their every step, hesitant and meandering, They tiptoe to the meeting, and they tread lightly, as would a fox or a lynx, scanning for enemies on all sides They have forgotten the ghost trails they left behind in tomorrow But one by one they find them, On the steps of the church or near the cool-sea waters Where a table was prepared before them in the presence of their enemies, and the future repeated itself into the distant past still being dreamed, By some young poet thirteen years ago, And echoed into the divine providence of a trap sprung lightly and deftly avoided, a wellspring present ever overflowing and running over, creating new realities this ever-instant, branching lateral timelines and foiling the perfect plans of the enemy.

In recurring deja vu, arrested and broken, Like intermittent Morse code pulses, Pinging dotted lines and scattered dashes Then oscillating, at first slowly, so very gently, and so very slowly, so that no perceptible rhythm can be deduced, whooshing, like high speed rail cars passing in the night, or traffic on the crosswalk, then increasing rapidly in frequency, whooshing whooshing whooshing, the pauses blurring into one long steady tone, one constant stream of light, one strong and unbroken signal, radiating warm orange glow and purple and dark night, then black-blue void, and shimmering pink nebulas, and brilliant white light,

The prophecies will coalesce

Tomorrow's past and yesterday's future, One uninterrupted line of Kings and Queens Who have no kingdom but themselves No wealth but wisdom Their treasures unmanifest

Like shards of King Arthur restored And rung like a bell to a singing sword The prophets shall return in all generations Eternity brought back to her rightful Home On this dear, sweet, and holy Earth At the end of time Her Majesty returned

The Twelve approach each other cautiously They don't recognize the sound of their own names, or recall the visage of their own faces Yet they stumble onto each other, timidly and awkwardly, from all the four corners of the Earth, and from every flashing aspect of refracted time They can scarcely make out their features in the darkness In this shadowy realm of Gethsemane Where Man hangs in the balance - Morpheus

[suguwu]

brought war into your bed - iv

part iv: greed

hawks can strip you bare with nothing but a glance.

but you can see him, too.

part i  part ii  part iii

notes: in which i (yet again) try to remember to catch up to my ao3 with a varying degree of success.

pairing: hawks x fem!reader

rating: explicit

chapter warnings (series warnings in part one): smut (oral, m receiving; dirty talk ig), non-linear narrative

You had forgotten how quiet the early mornings can be. There’s still the underlying pulse of the city, that electric hum of ever present noise, but even that seems muffled, as if the city is merely murmuring in its sleep.

There’s a sleek town car idling at the curb of your complex, and you suppose you shouldn’t be surprised that the Commission managed to send something that looks so out of place in your little corner of Fukuoka. You suck in a shallow breath as the driver opens the door. Once you’ve slid inside, the door shuts with a soft noise, and you think of the porcelain chime of teeth clicking closed around a mouthful.

“Good morning,” you say politely to the woman seated across from you, tugging at a loose string on your sleeve.

She ignores you. She’s got her keyboard sound on; it fills the air, a quiet morse code tapping out a warning that echoes through you. Your chest hums.

“Before the meeting,” she says, still not looking at you, ���remind me of your Quirk.”

Something flickers through you.

“Is this a test for me?” you ask.  “Or for him?”

She glances up. She has ice-chip eyes, frost drenched in moonlight, reflective and empty. The smile that curves across her lips is a bramble of a thing, catches on your skin, hooks into you like thorns.

“He’s going to hate you.”

You peer out the window. The city is your home, a house made of concrete and briny air and the fireworks flash of billboards and shop signs. You watch it flit by in a burst of color, the familiar landscape distorting into something you can just barely recognize. The woman’s words settle in against you. Your fingernails bite through the thin skin of your palms. It doesn’t hurt, not really. You think that maybe it should.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “They usually do.”

The snow falls steadily, a dusting of confectioner’s sugar drifting through the sky until it powders the ground. It muffles the world in white.

You sip at your mulled wine as you watch the flakes flutter down. The heat lamps keep the hotel balcony just warm enough for you to linger outside, a little oasis to bask in as winter surrounds you. The snow is a beautiful cascade, and it’s starting to fall more thickly, blanketing the city. You watch it whirl with the breeze, the soft heat of the wine licking through you.  

It takes you a moment to notice the ripple through the falling flakes in the distance. You’re just starting to raise a brow when a kiss of crimson peeks through, the snow swirling madly behind it.

You wave without thinking, even though Hawks is heading in the opposite direction. He’s gone in a breath, banking hard around one of the skyscrapers and then disappearing, only the comet’s tail of disturbed snow to mark his brief presence.

(Sometimes you wonder how much of himself he leaves in the sky, where no one else can find it.)

It shouldn’t send disappointment panging through you, but it does. The sigh slips from your lips before you can swallow it.

“This is swanky.”

“Fuck,” you yelp, your mug slipping from your fingers. A small feather snags it and nudges it back into your hand. “Hawks!”

“That’d be my name,” he says, dropping down onto the balcony with a soft thud. His wings arc wide as he lands. He ruffles them, shaking loose snow off of the long, sweeping curve of the resplendent feathers. They’ve darkened to burgundy, gleaming damp from melted snow, and you think of the great wings of the archangels in ancient paintings, vast and terrible and ethereal.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

Hawks raises a brow. “Uh, you’re the one that waved at me, I’m just saying.”

Heat rises in your cheeks. “Oh my god, you saw that?”

“Will it make you feel better if I say no?”

“It was rhetorical, Hawks.”

“Oh good, because I absolutely saw that.”

“Great,” you say dryly, and he laughs.

“So what brings you to this hotel balcony?” he asks with a grin, folding his wings back and pushing his visor up into his tousled hair. He pads over to settle next to you, leaning on the railing and peering out into the drifting snow before he glances to you. He waggles his eyebrows at you. “A romantic rendezvous, perhaps?”

“You caught me,” you say, taking another sip of your wine. The warmth of it settles under your skin, cocoons you in a pleasant haze. “And here I thought I was being sneaky.”

Something flickers through you. The softest touch against a fresh, swollen bruise.

“Wait, really?” he asks. His wings puff up, rustling slightly. “Oh, shit, I can go-”

“Hawks, I’m kidding.”

He blinks. “Oh,” he says, as you try to hide your laugh in your mug. His golden eyes narrow, all the brighter against the markings that frame them. “Oh, so she thinks she’s funny.”

“Sometimes,” you say lightly, glancing away and gazing out into the night. The winter wind picks up with a howl, sending snow skittering through the air. It’s just strong enough to cut through the warmth of the heat lamps, a little lick of frost skimming over your skin. Hawks curls a wing around you. It dulls the worst of the wind’s bitter teeth, and you lean into him, just slightly.

His wings rustle, the long primaries brushing against the edges of you, a whisper-soft touch tracing against your bicep, your side, and you carefully do not look at him. You sip at your wine instead, the mug still warm, the heat of it sinking into your palms.

“So,” he says, nudging the smallest bit closer. “Are you gonna tell me what you’re up to or what? Can’t stay long, but the mystery is killing me.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m attending a conference focused on identity issues surrounding mental and emotion-based Quirks. Mystery solved. Good job, detective.”

“Another win for the agency,” he teases. “And look at you, so dedicated to your kids.”

“It’s important,” you bite out, even though you know he doesn’t mean it like that. You close your eyes. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair.”

“It’s fine,” he says.

“I just - how do you teach a child to find themselves in all of the noise? How do you lay the foundation in a four year old to help them understand that even with everyone else in their head, they’re still their own person? I want that for them,” you say. “I want them to just get to be themselves.”

It's quiet for a moment.

“You’re really something, pretty bird,” Hawks says.

You glance at him. He’s closer than you’d realized, barely more than a breath away. There’s little droplets of snowmelt caught in his spun-gold lashes, gleaming like stars in the soft, dim light. His smile is sweetly mellow beneath the incandescent amber of his avian-sharp eyes and you think: oh.

Your chest hums.

He watches as you turn towards him, his keen gaze at odds with the gentle tilt of his mouth. There’s a faintest hint of pink on his cheeks from the cold, the color of the pearly dawn, and you think again: oh.

You lean forward, just a bit.

Hawks kisses you then, one hand wrapping rough at the nape of your neck to pull you to him. It’s soft at first, a sweet press of his lips against yours. You fist a hand into his jacket.

His fingers go greedy, pressing into your skin, and he slants his mouth to slide his tongue along the seam of your lips. He coaxes you with little licks until you open for him. You’re caught up in him, in the whirlwind speed of him. Hawks kisses like he’s running out of time, all barely restrained hunger.

He pulls you closer, and even through the padding of his downy jacket, you can feel his whipcord muscle. You tighten your grip on him, sink your fingers into his windswept hair. He laughs against your lips as you knock his visor off, but it dies away quickly as you nip at his bottom lip.

He sweeps his thumb over your nape, the smooth leather of his gloves gliding light across your skin. Your skin prickles, sensation radiating from his touch, and you sigh into his mouth.

Finally, you pull back.

Hawks’ golden gaze is searing. Under his sharp eyes, you feel stripped to your bones. There’s a smile tugging at his lips, and you can’t look away. His wings are curled around you both, a veil between you and the world, and it tints the low light garnet, deep and rich.

“I like you,” you murmur. “So much.”

“Yeah? I was hoping so.”

You shut him up with another kiss, steal the impish grin from his lips with your tongue. His hand drops to your waist, his fingers sinking in. His chest rumbles against you.

“I like you too,” he says when you part. His grin is bold and bright and teasing. “I guess.”

Something flickers through you, a lightning bolt too quick to see, just the imprint of it left on the darkened sky. Some knowing part of you thinks that saying that has cost him something.

(Sometimes you wonder what it’s like to be a Pro. To know that your affection could be a death knell, a terrible gift you’d never meant to give.)

“I take it back,” you say. “Just for the ‘I guess.’”

“No take backs.” He crowds closer, his wings soft against your back.

“Okay,” you say, dropping a kiss at the corner of his lips.

He makes a disgruntled noise when you start to pull back, chases after you until he gets a proper kiss. He leaves you breathless.

“I wasn’t kidding about not being able to stay long,” he says. “Which is much more annoying now than it already was.”

But he kisses you again, presses hard into you until you yield to him with a low, humming moan. He maps out your mouth with teeth and tongue, and he’s already learning you, already finding where the two of you best fit together.

When you part, he doesn’t let go of you.

“Please stay,” you say, knowing you’re being selfish. “Just for a bit longer.”

He does.

“So,” Hawks says. “Let me get this straight.”

He’s got you pinned against the wall, his colossal wings spread wide, until your world is narrowed down to only him.

He toys with the velvety edge of his jacket, his knuckles brushing against the soft skin of your stomach. The downy lining slips across your skin like silk, the delicate fluff catching on the hard peaks of your nipples.

“You’ve been wearing my jacket around the house,” he says, “while you’re half-naked.”

A finger slides into the waistband of your panties. He pulls it taut and the sting of it snapping back melts through you. The heat of his hand envelops your cunt as he cups it, trailing his fingers along your slit. He presses against the fabric of your panties, the very tip of his finger dipping into your hole.

When you moan, the sound dripping from you like honey, he pulls back and snaps the waistband against your hip once more.

“Just these,” Hawks says. “And my jacket. Am I right?”

“Yeah,” you stutter.

He stops toying with the jacket’s hem and slides his hand under it. His touch is a forest fire on your skin, the weight of his hand scorching. It radiates out from there, like blown embers catching on the kindling of your skin.

“And you didn’t want me to see it.”

His fingers slip higher, the rough pads of them scraping against you. His knuckles graze the underside of your breast. The barely-there touch is a strikepoint of sensation, your skin prickling. Hawks’ lips curve as you arch into it.

“Well?” he asks. “Is that right?”

“I just thought-” You hiss in a breath through your teeth as he cups your breast, his thumb lazily stroking over your pebbled nipple. Heat trickles down your spine, spreads beneath your skin.

“You thought?” Hawks prompts.

“I thought-”

He pinches your nipple, rolls it between his fingers, and you lose your words for a moment. He leans forward and lays a biting kiss at the junction of your neck. You can feel his smile against the salt of your skin. When he pulls back, his golden eyes are molten.

“Dick,” you tell him.

“Oh, I’ll let you choke on it soon, sweetheart, don’t you worry.”

You glare.

Hawks laughs, the sound all summer afternoon sun, rich and syrupy. He slots his leg between your thighs and grinds up against your cunt, the wet lace of your panties catching on his thigh. His wings stir. The light shines through them, just a touch, and you think of the deep burgundy of a Japanese maple dappled with sunlight.

He dips his head to your breast, nudges aside his jacket until you’re fully exposed. The downy fluff whispers over you and you squirm. He laves over your nipple, his tongue rasping hot against the sensitive peak. He glances up at you as he sucks, his lips glistening wet and his eyes darkened to thick amber in the low light. It goes straight to your cunt.

“Hawks,” you whimper.

He scrapes his canines against the side of your breast, drags them up across your collarbone and over the column of your neck. He leaves a trail of his teeth on the map of your skin.

(Sometimes, when he sets his teeth in you, it feels like he’s stripping you to the bone, taking you apart until only he can put you back together again.

There’s a ruthless edge to it, a challenge you don’t quite understand.

You suspect you never will.)

The kiss he catches you in is half-wild, a tinderspark of teeth and tongue, and it burns through you.

He’s thick against your hip, and when you try to roll against him, he pulls back. Hawks digs his fingers into the plush of your hips and drags you up his thigh, your clit pressing against the lean muscle for each aching inch. You keen, white hot heat laddering down your spine to pool low.

Hawks groans at the sound of you, his eyes glinting gold and greedy. His wings ruffle, a shiver running through them, a carmine ripple.

“C’mon,” he says. “Remind me how good you look when your mouth is stretched around my fat cock.”

He slips you off of him and starts to undo his pants. You sink to your knees, the floor cool and hard against them, and gaze up at him through your eyelashes.

He pulls his cock out, the head of it ruddy and smeared with precum. You hum, spitting into your palm before gripping him. He’s heavy in your hand. You can feel the thick vein pulsing against you. You give him a soft stroke, and he wraps his hand around yours, tightens your grip. He strokes his cock achingly slow, the hot skin soft against your palm. He lets go and presses his thumb against your lips.

You part them just enough, the tip of his thumb dipping into your mouth.

“Good girl,” Hawks coos.

He slips his thumb into your mouth, uses the pad of it to press your tongue down. You close your lips around it and suck at the salt of his skin.

“The mouth on you,” he rasps. “Could keep my cock in your mouth all day.”

Your skin prickles, the shiver slinking up your spine.

Hawks’ eyes sharpen. “You’d like that, huh?” he says, pulling his thumb free of your lips. “Of course you would.”

You open your mouth, tap the fat head of his dick against the flat of your tongue. He spits out a curse. His lithe fingers cradle the nape of your neck, drag you closer, until another inch of his cock pushes past your lips. You swirl your tongue over the slit of his cock just to see his thighs tense.

Hawks catches his jacket as you start to shrug it off. The downy liner is damp, sticks to your sweat-slick skin. He pulls it back up onto your shoulders, leaving it open enough that your breasts spill out, framed by the pure white fluff.

“Keep it on,” he grits. “Fuck, pretty bird, can’t believe you weren’t going to let me see this.”

“Might have let you,” you murmur, pulling off him and dragging the flat of your tongue up his shaft.

“Might isn’t good enough,” he says. “Now make it up to me.”

He pushes deep when you open for him, his cock heavy on your tongue. He cups the back of your head and nudges you forward. You seal your lips around him, hollow your cheeks until his fingers knot in your hair.

He’s hot in your mouth, pulsing faintly against as he slides out to push back in. You settle into his languid pace, letting your lips skim across his shaft as he pumps into you. When you look up at him, you meet his golden gaze, and you think of dragons and their hoards. Hawks makes you covetous, makes you want anything he has to give.

He thrusts deep and you choke for a breath. His fingers tighten.

“That’s it,” he hisses. “C’mon, you can take it.”

You push your tongue just beneath the ridge of his head as he pulls back.

It breaks his steady pace.

Hawks bites out a ragged curse, and plunges deep. You swallow around him, ignoring the tears starting to gather at the corners of your eyes. He hisses as you bob on him, hollowing your cheeks again, sliding up and down his slick cock as you peer up at him through your eyelashes.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Look at you.”

There’s sweat beading between your breasts, the jacket trapping heat against your skin. You push your hips down to try and find friction as Hawks’ fingers flex. His sharp gaze is darkened amber, and it settles into your skin like ink, marks you to the bone.

One of the tears caught glinting in your lashline spills over. He sweeps it away with his thumb, fucks deep into the cradle of your mouth with a moan. You choke, your throat catching around him.

“I know,” Hawks pants, “but you take my cock so well, such a good girl. Fuck.”

You moan around him. His dick pulses in your throat, and his wings ruffle, puffing up. It only takes a few more thrusts for his thighs to tense, until he spills into your mouth. He pushes deep, your nose against the lean ridges of his abs, and you dig your fingers into the meat of his thighs.

When he pulls out, you slump back against the wall, panting.

Hawks sinks to his knees in front of you. His kiss is soft and sweet and consuming, a hungry, sugared thing. You shrug out of his jacket, the liner matted down with sweat, and he pulls it back up once more, his fingers trailing over the hill of your collarbone, over the valley of your breasts.

“Oh, pretty bird,” he says, his golden eyes gleaming. “We’re just getting started.”

[theficpusher]

Delicate by FallingLikeThis | T | 1492 They say opposites attract. Maybe that’s why nerdy, shy Harry Styles has such a huge crush on rough, brash Louis Tomlinson. And now, he's stuck in a lift with him.

an honest mistake by disgruntledkittenface | nr | 2048 “You look different when you’re not covered in come,” he blurts out, immediately regretting each and every life choice that has led to this exact moment. Elevator Guy is going to hate him. Louis has ridden the elevator with his neighbor all week. The first time they speak, there’s a misunderstanding.

No Matter What by fallenflowercrowns | T | 2416 Two Englishmen (and two Germans) in New York. Or, a chance meeting.

Lift by threeturn | E | 3940 Liam and Louis try to get to the fifth floor.

Theory of Evolution by YesIsAWorld | G | 4652 Louis has never backed down from a dare and isn’t about to start now.

Lovin' It Up by letsjustsee | nr | 6986 What did Niall know? This had nothing to do with the few times (okay, countless times) Louis had pined over the idea of Hot Neighbor while drinking. Nothing at all. So what if he had perfect lips and long legs and the cutest little curls around his ears? Certainly not Louis. He continued to scribble away, most of his words indiscernible except for one written in large letters at the very top of the napkin: REVENGE Or, a neighbors AU in which Louis vows to get revenge on the guy who didn't hold the elevator for him - no matter how ridiculously attractive he may be.

I Can Feel Your Heart Inside of Mine by flyinghome21 | E | 8336 When you're within one mile/kilometer of your soulmate, your soulmate's first name will beat out in Morse code by your heartbeat and pulse in your wrist. It poses a problem because it's just the first name, and if you mess up translating the Morse code, you can go about thinking or looking for the wrong soulmate. Harry Styles heard the name of his soulmate when he was fifteen. The only problem? He missed most of it. Nearly ten years later, he's all but given up hope in finding his soulmate when he gets stuck in an elevator with a beautiful man....

Wearing Nothing But Your Kiss by dinosaursmate | E | 10017 The lift stopped and Harry sighed, picking up the shopping bag and looking up. They weren’t at his floor; in fact, they were at no floor. The lift seemed to have lost power, the lights flickering off and he was plunged into the relative darkness of a dim emergency light. “Great.” The man in the lift with Harry sighed, then quickly crossed the small space and pressed the alarm button to no response. Harry watched him with dull curiosity before… shit. It was that guy! Something Tomlinson, and if Harry wasn’t mistaken, he’d just been nominated for an Oscar. He dropped the shopping bag to the floor, his palms sweating. --- Harry gets stuck in a lift with that actor with the incredible arse and tries to remember how to function as a human being.

to lure a hummingbird (you had me moonstruck) by brokenbeaks | E | 81439 Before the dawn of their first proper interaction, Louis William Tomlinson doesn't know the impact of the starlit atmosphere. He doesn't know that snails can sleep for three entire years, nor that an octopus' heart rate is tripled due to its inheritance of three cardiac organs. He doesn't know, because he's yet to dive into the enigmatic, limitless mind of Harry Edward Styles. And when he finally knows, he doesn't ever want to go back. Or: An enemies-to-lovers fic where Harry and Louis are neighbours who are forced to get along due to the inconvenience (or convenience) of a broken lift.

[kaetastic]

All That Matters

pairing: Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales x Sniper!Reader

summary: During a thoroughly planned out mission to rescue a hostage, everything goes awry. Placed in a sticky situation with their pilot wounded, Y/N is stuck on the lines of complying with her leader and running off to her bleeding co-worker.

word count: 2.6k

warning: mentions of violence, mentions of blood, language, mentions of firearm, mention of hostage situations, angst, slight fluff because frankie

note: a big disclaimer: I have no idea how the military operates. I do not have a single insight to how they proceed with their missions, and their approach to said-missions. Most of these are based on my imaginations or websites which are clearly, limited to intel on how the Delta Forces or the military work. I’m also pretty sure they don’t accept females but- here’s a piece of fanfiction for ya. this was so bad omfg kill me :()

Intermittent buzzing rung into their ears in incoherent Morse code, the noise ticking a remix of overlapping songs without any professional intervention of editing out the unwanted bits. Chunks of swishing sounds squeezed in every time the electronic device passed the quivering waves of remarks from one soldier to the rest. No words or statements would be blurred out. No secrets. No blanketed cough or humming to a song as one’s comfort. That also meant no coverage to the cries of those who could see death clambering through the crevice. The only way to interject with the method of communication would be heavily-pressed forces or intense noises, and that was exactly what was screeching through the devices.

“Fuck, I’m blinded. A smoke grenade was thrown outside the third from the right, four up window, east wing of the building.” Ben yelled over the boisterous cries within the walls, followed by a lingering moment of hissing. A cough flew through the device, Ben bopping his head from the intertwining vines of the bush in hopes of catching the person who had thrown the can.

William who was on the other side of the building, fingers cladded around the firearm, let out a huff at him losing sight of a figure who was occupying the open hallway seconds ago, “No shit,” William chided back. Luck seemed to weigh onto his side. “I see a shadow passing to my left, second open corridor.”

With a burst of bullets, a thud muffled into the building’s ground, a shadowy figure that William had spotted tumbled onto the floor, “Got anything, Y/N?” Santiago inquired, the man that had been peeking through the glazed windows. It had been risky of him, might as well be stupid, but the area he had paced around was of low security. No guards, and a plus for him- most of the windows were simple entrances that could be opened with a nudge of his fingers. It seemed the yellow tinted building of one floor with red tiles as its roof had been of no importance as all of the guards surrounded the three-story building. It seemed so.

“I know it’s fucking cold up here,” Y/N shuddered out, the blistering kisses of the frigid breezes piercing into her skin without a hint of mercy. Hints of freezing concrete floor had prodded against the thick camouflaged pants she had worn. Despite the weather’s attempt to pierce into the cloth, the beneath layers of warmth had cladded around her in comfort of heat. As a sniper of the team, she needed to take height as an advantage. That also came with cons as the mission was in the jungle, somewhere over overlapping strands of hills, “There’s three on the rooftop, two nearing Ben, whoever is on the other side has to deal with the other man.”

With an exhalation of her breath, clenching of lungs to squeeze out the slightest drop of luck, the bullet swerved into the air in a graceful swirl. A cracking of whip sliced through the thick air, the clanking of metal danced over the messy ground of smeared chunks of dirt and overweight veins. Even though there had been overflowing layers of nature and the greenery of the jungle, holes exposing the peeling concrete had exposed the bullet’s presence. 

Heads yanking to the body that had collapsed before the familiar crackling noise had even trickled into their ears, the other two occupants of the roof panicked. Panicking would not lead them anywhere. After her body had been nudged away from the immense force of the bullet jutting out of the sniper, speckles of dirt-smeared against the air to create a plaster of puffy dust, she positioned herself and her scope towards the first unlucky man. The man who had peeked over the side of where Ben had been. 

Although his fingers were set on the trigger, a bullet had run through the thickness of his skull without an issue. Whatever thought he had of murdering, the connection in his body had cut short. Now, there had been only one man standing on the rooftop. With two of his mates flat, silky blood pooling in streams over the grainy flooring, there had only been survival. Flight over fight. Heart thrumming, chest heaving, there was nothing in his mind but run. There wasn’t much thinking, just assumption for him to scurry away from the direction the bullets had made way into his once-alive co-workers. Scrambling he did. But, it did not get him far.

“Got him.” Redfly tutted, corners of his lips smirking at the body slumping against the edge of the building. When he had made eye-contact with the woman on the towering abandoned column, he felt the rush of pride at taking the kill.

“I had everything on him, already,” Y/N whined in annoyance, shoulders drooping at the loss of another strike on her board. “You’re buying the fucking drinks, Redfly.” The man had only scoffed at her words. Tom rolled his eyes in disbelief. Oh, if only he knew she was being serious. There was no way Y/N would let that chance pass her. 

Pope who had been busying himself in entering the building as quietly as possible, which was not as easy as it sounded because the windows that had been offered to him had a smeared array of trinkets. A swipe or a kick of his toe, the noise of the cans would be able to muffle the screeching cracklings of bullets. That was something Pope did not want to happen. If anything, he would like to avoid being under the spotlight while he was in their walls, “I’m in.” 

“That’s what he said.” Ben mumbled under his breath, eyes never quivering away from his scope. Even though the corners of his lips crinkled up at the suppressed giggles of Y/N and a few sprinkled from his teammates, his body had been under the control of focusing. 

“Guys, can we please fucking focus?” Before Tom had the chance to fall into the pit of lecturing his teammates as if children, he was interrupted by a round of bullets piercing onto the packed ground. It was just a couple of feet away from him. If he had inched in front even the slightest of swaying his chest, he would’ve been dead meat for whatever creature dominating the trees. He was not going to die today.

The mission was nothing out of the ordinary for the specialized unit. It was another hostage situation. A person of importance- a person who had his name plastered all over the banners of his campaign. A person of politics, which is an unstable platform, considering the views of people who won’t agree with some opinions. That was exactly the reason that got the running candidate to be captured by a group of bandits. It had been roughly around two weeks before the unit had even received the co-ordination of the location. Two weeks being half a month sounded like a long hell of a time to be kept on a random hill in the middle of nowhere. After investigating the co-ordinates, the group had been dispatched. Yet, something had to go wrong.

Even though muffled and distant snapping of bullets sung through the device of communication, one had exceptionally been closer, and louder than the rest. Clutters of cracking rang through the device in strands of quivers, followed by an agonizing cry, a plea from the scorching pain, “Fuck!” It would’ve been considered as a careless mistake during training. It would’ve been the reason she would have been stepped on by the instructor for being so strung away from reality. Except, this was more than being watched. The only person that was possibly watching over her was God. Pushing that aside, Y/N had to face the real truth. This was the real deal. This was not a set-up field on the campus. She was not being monitored by a superior. 

Sucking air into her lungs, Y/N pulled away from the scope of the rifle. Laying her forehead on her splayed out hand against the freezing concrete ground, she let out a heavy sigh, “Who the fuck was that? Ironhead? Pope?” Although she could hear her pulse thrumming in her ears, the replying negatives to her question had caused her pumping organ to dance on volcano rocks. Y/N wanted to sit on her knees; she wanted nothing but to sprint towards the injured.

“Fuck, they got me in the leg.” Frankie mumbled, teeth grinding against each other, eyes squinted shut as his fingers clutched onto the gushing wound. Red smeared every inch of his skin. The smell of iron had somehow managed to overcome the scent of the trees. A wince seeped through the cracks of his teeth when he glanced at the wound. The hole in his camouflage pants would’ve been a cool pattern. Not with the chunk of his skin removed, of course. Frankie pressed his lips at the thought of the bullet. 

“Ricochet?” Tom quirked up.

“No, think it’s direct.” Frankie uttered, trying his best to not wince. Despite his efforts to suppress the only way of exerting the pain, it did not work. 

“Can someone get to Frankie?” Y/N blurted out, body positioning back onto the scope. Seconds of silence erupted from the men, but the screaming of bullets had adjusted the scene quite decently. 

“Everyone’s in or around the building.” While Pope stated the fact as he had run into his teammates in the building where it was suspected for holding the candidate, Y/N could feel shivers crawl up her arm. Shivers from the fact that Frankie had not been in the parameter of the group. The place he had been positioned at was somewhere near the helicopter. They had found him, and if they did- it meant they might be going after the only way the unit would be leaving.

After another bullet clashed onto the ground, Y/N huffed out, “Fuck. Just hang on Cat. Are there any more guys coming?”

“I can hear rustling.”

Eyes squinting, every fibre in her being jutted at the abrupt realization. One of the windows had been plastered with clusters of newspapers, overlapping one another as if it was made by an art’s and craft’s class. “South of the main building, there’s one window covered by newspapers- he’s in there. Just hold on Cat, I’m coming.”

“You can’t fucking leave your post Scotch!” Tom yelled through his teeth after the bodies of the people he had murdered collapse onto the ground. Y/N sighed in her head at her codename, something she had received from the dad of the group after a night of nothing but vague pop-ups. Well, that was what she remembered anyway- everyone could recall more than she could.

“Our teammate is gonna fucking bleed out on the ground. Our only fucking decent pilot! Cat, just, fuck- hold on.”

Even if the sniper had not felt happy with the mission when the unit was being dispatched, she never felt good after knowing the risk and intel, she was put on the edge of the tower she rested upon. The thought of her teammate clutching onto the oozing wound of iron while he could barely stand in the middle of engulfing trees had not only sat in the back of her head but on her head, “We got him!” The relieving words from William’s mouth trickled into her ears in a silk swerve as if she had just been rescued from the suffocating situation. Although, she was not the hostage. “Everything’s cleared.”

With the approved sign, nothing weighed heavier than the thought of losing Frankie, not even the pieces of equipment she had to drag all the way up to the tower. The wind might’ve been angered, furious as it screeches in into every person who dared to walk on the land. Y/N could barely bat her eyes at the sudden drop in her surroundings. All she had in mind was Frankie.

She wasn’t sure what roared in her chest to make her legs work up so rapidly that she might’ve have broken her own personal record of running. Maybe it was all due to the reason. Maybe it was who was in her head. So, there she was. The sniper that had killed at least a dozen was clutched in her grasp. Despite the number of kills, the only time she had felt her arms wavered in desperation to fall onto her knees was when her eyes grazed over the craned figure of Frankie. 

Feet shuffled against the packed grass, Y/N threw the firearm onto the seat of the helicopter before attending to the bloody man who rested against a tree, “Frankie? Cat?” An incoherent mumbling brushed his lips. His name sung into his ears in odd tones. “Hey, hey, don’t move too fast.” A whiny groan echoed in the air, the last bit of sound Frankie could even utter. The warmth of her palm against his cheeks had been filled in with the bitterness of the dense air. 

As she had been trained, the bandage had been in her hands within seconds. The force of his blood-soaked fingers had died down, just like the fading of his vision, “I’ll tie this up.” While she busied herself with the bandage, Frankie could only see a smeared view of the woman who attended his wound. He didn’t lose the chance to admire her.

“Don’t know why I ran back here, shouldn’t have.” A guilty exhalation puffed from his lips. The thought of the helicopter being burnt into ashes because of his irrational decision had plagued his head. What if they had done such a thing? Their last resort would have to be calling in emergencies. All because of him.

After she had successfully wrap it around his thigh, she rested her hands on his cheeks. The first thing she had noticed was the heaviness set under his eyes, guilt had been piling on his shoulders. Dullness sparkled in his dark gaze, “Don’t worry, your pretty head has had enough.” The man let out a chuckle. Before the moment shattered at the entrance of the rest.

“What are you guys doing on the ground? Come on.” Y/N let out an exasperated huff from Tom’s words. He hadn’t even bothered to stop by to check on Frankie. The leader had dashed straight to the helicopter with the rescued man beside him. 

Ben groaned out, he could feel his ageing back creak out a prayer, as he slipped his arm behind Frankie’s back, hoisting the man up. With Y/N on his other side, he finally breathed out, “I don’t think I can fly this thing, guys.”

“You can and you will, you’re the best pilot we’ve got, Fish.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes, “What a way for motivation, you should be a motivational speaker.” The soldier hummed, a smile across his lips even though he shook his head.

“Think that suits more for William.”

Nothing else was exchanged as everybody made their seats onto the vehicle. It was usually Tom who occupied the front seat beside the other pilot, but Y/N had shot her eyes for him to sit at the back. He had no choice but to sit at the back. Frankie breathed out, fingers gripped around the handles. A slight heavy sigh- more like it. His eyes peeled away from the pane of the glass to brush over the warm hands that made way on his, “You can do this, Frankie.” 

He didn’t need anything else but those words from her mouth.