I am that fan who loves fandom interpretations from where these two eventually become friends to them being mortal enemies for life. So for my particular human au, I place them right in the middle: not friends but can tolerate and work with each other for the most part. Duck even smiles sometimes. Mostly because he's learned retaining a good mood while ignoring Diesel's antics gets the younger man to stop bothering him faster.
Sukuna is willing to forgive a lot. putting petrol in his diesel jeep is not one of those things
The afternoon sun is setting over the skyline, glinting off the impeccably clean black hood of Sukuna’s diesel Jeep. He obsesses over the deep-throated rumble of its engine, monitors every minuscule rattle, documents every oil change, and lately has meticulously tracked every terrifying spike in fuel prices. To neglect this machine is to sign your own death warrant.
You know this, of course, and you know exactly how to weaponize it. You have been using the Jeep all day for errands, and now you decide to play the perfect, attentive wife and top off the tank. But in reality, being the perfect wife is just a veneer for a much, much more entertaining agenda.
You hang up the nozzle and see a satisfyingly high number on the digital display that Sukuna would normally scoff at. You finish the transaction, dial his number, and lean back against the driver’s side door with a satisfied grin.
When he picks up, his voice is a low rumble, and you can hear the faint gunfire of his game in the background. "Hey, angel. You done with the errands?"
“Almost!” you chirp with a sickeningly sweet, bubbly, and utterly misplaced sense of pride. “I’m just at the gas station. I wanted to be a good girl and fill up the tank for you since I was using it all day.”
“Yeah? That’s sweet of you,” he says, and you can hear the genuine, appreciative smile in his voice. “How much did it set you back? Prices have been an absolute nightmare lately, and that damn tank is a black hole.”
"Actually, that’s why I called! I think I found a total hidden gem of a station,” you say, your voice dripping with feigned excitement that you’re barely containing. "I paid way less than you usually do. Like, significantly less!”
There’s a noticeable beat of silence on the line. You can practically hear the gears in his brain grinding as he tries to make the math add up.
“Significantly less?” he finally asks, his tone shifting from relaxed to cautious. “How much less? What’s the price per liter?”
"Oh, a ton! I saw the green handle of the organic diesel and just thought, wow, what a deal," you say breezily. “So, it’s better for the environment and the wallet, right? Win-win!”
The silence suddenly turns cold as Sukuna’s brain hits a catastrophic blue screen. He knows you aren’t stupid. He talked your ear off for years about the difference between diesel and petrol, the cetane ratings, and the sacred, inviolable nature of a high-compression combustion chamber. But that logic is currently being obliterated by the horrifying thought that his car is in danger.
"The green handle?" he asks, his voice unnervingly thin. "Organic... what?"
“Organic diesel, Kuna! It’s green, like—like plants!” you insist, playing the role of the oblivious partner, fighting a savage battle to keep the laughter from breaking through.
"Brat," he rasps, and there’s a sound of a chair flipping over as he scrambles to his feet and keys jingling in the background. You can tell he’s trying so incredibly hard to maintain his composure, breathing in heavy, measured hitches. "There’s no such thing as organic diesel. That was petrol. You just put ninety-five octane in a high-compression diesel engine."
"Is that what it was? I just saw the price and thought you’d be happy I saved us money!"
Sukuna takes a breath so long and shaky as his blood pressure spikes. He’s clearly fighting the urge to scream his lungs out, his voice coming out in a forced, terrifyingly gentle strain.
"I am... I'm happy, brat. So happy. You did a great job saving that money," he says, sounding like he’s trying to talk a jumper off a ledge. “Truly. Best girl. But, hey—do me a huge, huge favor? Just stay right there. Don't move. Keep your hands away from the dashboard and the ignition for a few minutes, okay? I’m coming with the other car.”
You have to clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle the violent burst of giggles you’re trying to contain.
“But Kuna, that’s silly,” you protest, leaning into the bit. “I’m so close to our place. It doesn’t make sense for you to drive all the way here when I’m only five minutes away. I’ll just start the engine and be home before you know it.”
"No! No, listen—baby—" His nice demeanor breaks, a note of pure, unadulterated desperation bleeding through as you hear his rapid footsteps pounding down a flight of stairs. "Don't turn that key! I'm already heading down!"
“Oh, don’t worry, Kuna!” you say sweetly, holding the phone right next to the steering column. “I’m starting it now! See you in fi—“
You click the key into the ignition, twist it, and the engine roars to life with a deep, perfectly healthy diesel purr.
“STOP! NO! DON’T YOU DARE—“ Sukuna yells into the phone, his voice a genuine, soul-crushing wail as he envisions his engine dying. “I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD, IF YOU MOVE THAT CAR—“
"Gotcha," you laugh, cutting through his meltdown. "I’m not an idiot, Sukuna. I know what diesel is, you big baby. It was a prank. Let’s call it payback for making me spiral on our anniversary, you know?"
The line goes dead silent for five full seconds. You can almost see him standing in the middle of the staircase, hand over his rapidly palpitating heart, looking like he’s aged twenty years just from that one phone call.
He finally rasps, “I’m going to kill you.” His voice is a tense, menacing growl that mixes a touch of pure, dizzying relief with an overwhelming, homicidal intent. “I’m actually going to end you. Don’t move. I’m coming there now, and you’re walking home.”
“Love you too!” you sing-song, a triumphant smile plastered across your face, and hang up the phone, leaving him to recover from the heart attack you have so expertly induced.
notes: so, it all started with reader pretending to give sukuna the silent treatment, and then he didn't like the way she dressed... and now we're here.
hii! i absolutely LOVE your work, especially the 141 prank imagines!! could you do one for the trend where you call to tell them your car isn't working after you used the green pump/"christmas gas" (aka diesel) in it? LOL tysm
Oh, we're back to our prank prompts. I love a good prank prompt. Really. It's so much fun. Some of these have a touch of cuteness/sweetness, and some are...smutty. Thought y'all deserve a little variety...as a treat. Enjoy!
*Note: this is the green pump/diesel (US)
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x afab!reader
Content & Warnings (mdni): swearing, spanking, established relationship, pranks, sexual content, humor
Word Count: 1k
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
You know that look. The one that says you’re about to receive a spanking.
John is impassive, arms crossed over his chest, gaze intense. To anyone else, it might appear contemplative, but you’ve learned your lesson time and time again. Not that you ever act like you’ve learned anything. John’s ire is delicious.
“You’re smarter than this.”
You are.
“What was going through your head?”
Absolutely nothing.
“Tell me you didn’t.”
You didn’t but you won’t tell John that.
You aim for innocence. “Why wouldn’t I? This is a new car. It deserves good fuel.”
“The green pump is not good fuel. It’s not even the correct fuel.”
You cock your head, retaining your doe-like expression. “It’s the most expensive. Obviously, it’s the nice fuel.”
“Fucking hell,” grumbles John, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. “It’s diesel. The green pump is diesel. I know that you know this because you’ve said it before.”
“No idea what you’re talking about, John.”
It’s almost too much. You nearly crack a smile. John’s gaze narrows and you realize that you did.
“You’re taking the piss,” he growls. “Having a laugh?”
You clear your throat. “No?”
John holds a single finger in the air, making a swirling gesture. “Turn around. Bend over.”
“John—”
“Turn around,” he repeats slower and with dominance. “Bend. Over.”
With a squeak, you spin, bending over the stool John uses in the garage. It takes nothing for him to force you pants down, to yank your panties to the side, you run his fingers over your sex, lightly smacking it until the garage fills with the wet sounds of your arousal.
“Can’t hide from me,” he murmurs, bringing his palm down harder.
You yelp, body jerking as your clit buzzes.
“Taking my hand then you’re taking my cock.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
“Okay,” states Kyle, hands up and out like he’s trying to fend off a feral animal. “Okay. Okay.”
The man is psyching himself up to stay calm and not implode. You sense it in the way he’s repeating “okay” to himself instead of anyone in particular.
Okay, Kyle.
Okay, you got this.
Okay, no big deal.
Okay, you totally, hopefully, didn’t put diesel in his gas tank.
You almost feel bad, but it’s far too funny. Look at your man, your adorable problem solver. Never rageful or quick to anger. Wanting to tackle every obstacle that comes his way—even the unexpected ones.
“This is what we’ll do,” he says, arms still out in that weird “stay back rabid racoon” way. “I’ll get the suction for the siphon.”
“Kyle.”
His name on your lips goes unnoticed.
“We’ll drain the tank.”
“Kyle.”
“Flush it with fresh gasoline.”
“Kyle.”
This time you add emphasis, raising your voice a tad, produce a slight sing-song quality to the hops that’ll catch his attention. It doesn't.
“Drain it again—”
“Kyle!”
His head snaps up. “Fuck. What else?”
You place your hand over your mouth, unable to smother a giggle.
“You bloody menace,” he sighs.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Johnny’s eyes are huge and watery, nearly on the verge of tears.
“You didn’t,” and his voice cracks.
Oh shit.
This was supposed to be “funny ha ha” not “funny weird.” The truth is that you didn’t use “Christmas gas” to fuel his sport bike. Diesel is bad and you’d never, but for whatever reason, you thought this would make for a good laugh.
You’d reveal the truth, that it’s all a prank, and the both of you would laugh and Johnny might spank you—or chase you—and everything would be dandy.
Instead, Johnny looks ready to collapse, prepared to sob, creating puddles on the floor. A real Lake of Despair.
“Please,” he continues. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” you blurt because you hate seeing him like this and you regret every second. “It’s a joke. I’d never. I thought—”
“Oh, fucking hell,” sighs Johnny, bending in half, placing his hands on his thighs, facing the ground as he takes deep inhalations.
“I’m sorry, Johnny!”
It’s quiet for a minute, the room filling with Johnny’s breathing as he calms. A slow ascension to his full height, and that mischievous smile you know so well.
“Run, little bird.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Simon’s hands are around your throat like a collar. It’s leverage. Keeps you submissive. Simon has you in the back of his car, a large all-black SUV on loan for work. You’re in his lap, facing away from him, head and shoulders between the two front seats, hands clinging to the center console. The rocking vehicle negates the privacy afforded by the tinted windows. Simon has you stripped down to nothing while he is fully clothed.
“I taught you better,” he growls between his teeth. Using his grip on your throat, Simon turns you into nothing more than a hole. Up and down you go, pussy stretched, roughly taking his dick. “And you go and do something stupid.”
The stupid part is not that you put diesel fuel in his loaner car. The stupid part was pretending, making him think that you did, only to find out the truth later. Simon threw you into the backseat and here you are, naked and at Simon’s mercy, cunt stretched, roughly fucked, and trying very hard not to make any noise.
Silence is difficult. You’re clenching your teeth, fingers curled and digging into the center counsel. The only sounds in the car are Simon’s grunts, his voice, and the wet slap of skin. It’s too much. You moan, only for Simon to stuff a couple fingers into your mouth, grip tightening, the bouncing becoming so intense your breasts violently sway.
“Used the green pump?” Simon snorts. “Lying to me. Being a brat.”
Saliva pools in your mouth, leaking out and onto Simon’s fingers, dripping onto your chin and the console.
“This is how brats are punished.”
Simon blows his load inside you. No condom. No birth control. You wiggle, attempting to move, but he doesn’t cease, forcing all of him into your cunt.
CW: Sexual content, public sex (bus and bus stop), dubious consent, power imbalance, fingering, rough sex, overstimulation, light voyeurism, themes of obsession and control
Summary: A late-night bus ride turns raw and unescapable when a twitchy stranger won’t leave you alone - and soon has you trembling under his rough, desperate touch.
Wordcount: 8k
The bus exhaled a tired hiss as the doors folded open, and you climbed aboard. The smell of cold metal and faint bleach clung to the air, mixing with the lingering tang of diesel. It was late, well past the hour when anyone sane would still be riding, and the fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, casting the empty rows of seats in a washed-out glow.
Your heels clicked against the floor as you walked down the narrow aisle, each step echoing a little too loudly in the hollow space. The bus was completely deserted. No chatter, no muffled music from someone’s headphones, not even the rustle of a newspaper. Just you, the driver hunched in his seat, and the soft groan of the bus’s suspension as it idled.
You tugged at the hem of your skirt when you reached the very back, the fabric riding higher on your bare thighs than you wanted with every movement. The vinyl seat was cold when you sat, pressing against the back of your legs, and you pulled your jacket tighter around your shoulders. The chill of the night seemed to follow you inside.
Settling in, you leaned your temple against the rattling window. The city outside slid by in streaks of orange streetlight and deep shadows, each passing block emptier than the last. Your breath fogged the glass for a moment before vanishing, leaving only your faint reflection staring back.
For a while, it was just the steady drone of the engine and the occasional jolt as the bus hit a bump. You let your mind drift, watching neon signs blur into darkness, replaying bits of laughter and music from the party you’d just left. Out here, though, it felt like a different world entirely - quieter, heavier, the kind of quiet that made your skin prickle even though you knew you were alone.
You sighed softly, realizing it was going to be a long ride home. Stop after stop slid by in a blur of streetlights and empty sidewalks, but no one else got on. The bus rattled along through the night, hollow and too quiet, every squeak of its frame reminding you just how alone you were back here.
Until someone did get on.
The doors hissed open at a dimly lit stop, and a tall figure climbed the steps. He looked to be somewhere in his twenties, with messy brown hair, a black bandana covering his mouth and lower half of his face. His eyes and the bridge of his nose were visible, sharp against the fabric. He clutched a phone in one hand, the other braced against the seat as he moved down the aisle.
There was something restless about him. His body jerked and twitched in sharp, involuntary motions, shoulders snapping back, head giving a sudden jolt, fingers twitching tight around the phone. You’d seen Tourette’s before, you knew the pattern, the lack of control, but here, in the eerie quiet of the bus, it made his presence feel unpredictable and electric.
He slid into a seat halfway down, not too close, but not far enough to disappear into the background. His attention seemed fixed on his phone, thumb tapping the screen as though calling someone - waiting, listening, trying again. The muted glow of the device lit the edge of his bandana as he lifted it closer, shoulders twitching again.
For a moment, you thought he hadn’t noticed you. But then he shifted, turning slightly in his seat. Just once, his head angled back, and his eyes flicked toward the rear of the bus. The glance was quick, almost casual, but it lingered a second longer than it should have. Then he turned away, pressing the phone harder against his ear, waiting for someone on the other end to pick up.
The phone finally clicked, and a voice must have answered, because the guy straightened a little in his seat. His whole body jerked with another tic, elbow knocking against the window, and when he spoke his words came tangled in stuttered starts and stops.
“H-…hey, T-Tim. Wh-where the… the hell are y-you?” His tone was sharp, frustration threading through the broken rhythm of his speech. Another twitch shook his shoulders, head snapping once to the side before jerking back. “You s-said you and B-Brian were gonna puh-pick me up. P-p-promised. An’ now I’m–” his hand flew up, phone almost slipping from his grip, “–I’m stuck on this s-stupid bus.”
You blinked, trying not to stare. His voice was rough, restless, as if every syllable scratched at his throat. He dragged a hand over his hair, knuckles tightening around the phone, twitching so hard his knees jolted against the seat in front of him.
“It’s gonna tuh-take me ffff-forever to get back home now. D’you even–” he broke off, stammering through the words, teeth clicking audibly behind the bandana, “–care?!”
The bus groaned around you as it turned another corner, and you sat frozen against the cold window, your fingers twisting absently in your hair, then tugging at your skirt hem. You told yourself you weren’t listening, but there was nothing else to hear. His voice filled the space, fraying at the edges, carrying just enough that every angry word was clear.
A pause. Then his voice rose again, sharper. “Wh-what? No, don’t-you d-don’t get it, Tim. Y-you–” a violent twitch cut him off, his head snapping back. “–you never listen. N-neither of you do.”
He laughed then, a humorless, breathless sound. The kind of laugh that meant he was done.
“Wh-whatever. Just… ffffuh-fuck you both. I don’t even wanna ride in B-Brian’s stinky truck anyway.”
The call ended with a hard beep, and he lowered the phone into his lap, breathing fast, shoulders twitching with aftershocks of both tics and anger.
You shifted in your seat, mindlessly dragging your fingernails along your bare thighs under your skirt, heart thudding louder than it should have been. Who the hell was this guy? And why did it feel impossible to look away?
He sat there for a while after the call ended, bouncing one leg sharply against the floor, fingers twitching restlessly against his thigh. The air around him seemed charged, his annoyance buzzing as tangibly as the lights overhead. Every few seconds, another tic would ripple through him - head jerking, shoulder snapping - but then, just as suddenly, he went still.
You felt the shift before you even looked up.
At first, it was subtle - just the quiet hum of the bus, the sound of his phone sliding into his pocket. Then you caught it out of the corner of your eye: his body angling, his head turning.
When you glanced up, he was looking straight at you.
It wasn’t long, maybe only a few seconds. His eyes caught yours, sharp in the dim light, and then he turned back again, like it was nothing. But the chill that rolled down your spine lingered long after, making you grip the edge of your seat. It’s fine, you told yourself. Just some guy. People glance on buses all the time.
But then, after a few minutes, he did it again.
This time, he didn’t look away.
He twisted in his seat, shoulders jerking with another tic, and his gaze landed heavy on you. The bandana covering his mouth left only his eyes and the cut of his nose visible, but it was enough. Something in the way he stared - open, unashamed, as though he was studying you - felt wrong.
You forced your gaze out the window, pretending to be absorbed in the blur of passing lights. Still, you could feel it: his eyes dragging over you, down your face, lingering too long on your bare legs where your skirt had ridden up again. Heat crawled up the back of your neck.
You shifted, tugging at the hem, hoping he’d get bored, but he didn’t. He kept watching until, finally, he turned away once more, his shoulder giving another sharp twitch as though the moment had never happened.
You swallowed, forcing yourself to sit still. The bus kept moving. The night kept going. But that prickle at the base of your spine wouldn’t fade.
Your heart thudded harder with every passing stop. Maybe you should get off early, you thought. Walk the last stretch home, even if it took longer. At least then you’d be moving, in control, not stuck here with him sitting a few rows ahead and turning around whenever he pleased.
But before you could make up your mind, he moved.
The sound of his boots hitting the floor cut through the drone of the engine. You froze as he rose from his seat, twitching sharply once, then started down the aisle - not toward the door, but toward the back. Toward you.
You pressed yourself a little deeper into the corner, praying he’d pass by, maybe head for the very last seat. But he didn’t. Instead, he dropped down right beside you, the weight of him sinking the seat, thigh brushing against yours.
The scent hit you almost instantly - dirt, woodsmoke, something earthy and raw, layered over with a musk that was distinctly him. His hair was a mess, sticking out in uneven tufts like he’d run his hands through it too many times, but somehow it suited him unkept like that.
His body jerked with another tic, shoulder bumping yours, then his head snapped once, eyes flashing to you. And he didn’t look away.
He stared, wild and unfiltered, at your bare thighs, at the skirt you’d been tugging at all night. The longer his gaze lingered, the more your chest tightened, panic sparking at the edges of your calm.
You shifted slightly in your seat, your voice thinner than you meant it to be. “Can I help you?”
His lips moved under the bandana, and when the words came out, they were stuttered, broken, but laced with something that made your stomach twist. “I–… I don’t know. C-can you?”
You forced yourself to steady your voice, though it still came out sharper than you intended. “You were literally sitting over there. Why’d you move?”
His head twitched once, twice, his shoulder jerking against yours before he leaned back into the seat. His voice came through muffled by the bandana, stutter cutting jagged through the words. “P–p… prefer th-this seat.”
That was all he said. As if that explained everything.
You swallowed, trying not to show how tightly your nerves coiled. Slowly, you crossed your legs, angling away from him, dragging your skirt down over your thighs. But the fabric refused to cooperate - it rode up again with every shift, leaving your skin bare to the chill of the bus and, worse, his eyes.
And he didn’t look away.
His gaze lingered, heavy and shameless, crawling over you in a way that made your skin prickle. Your heart thudded harder, heat creeping up your neck - not just from unease, but from something else too. There was a rawness to him, twitchy and restless, but… strangely cute in a messy way.
You tugged harder at your skirt, trying to smother the thought, but his head jerked again before he stilled - staring.
That was it. You weren’t going to sit here and let this happen.
You gathered yourself, and pushed against the seat to rise. But the second you moved, his legs shifted.
Long, solid, they slid out into the aisle, blocking your path.
You froze, your knees brushing against his as you realized he wasn’t budging. He sat there with a restless stillness, shoulders twitching, but his eyes stayed locked on you, unblinking. The air between you thickened, cold crawling under your skin until panic pressed against your chest.
Your pulse jumped, frustration breaking through the fear. “Are you serious? Move.”
His head snapped once, shoulder jerking, but his eyes never left yours. The words that followed came out rough, broken by his stutter, but with a weight that made your stomach drop.
“Sit. B-back down”
Something in his tone - low and demanding, almost mocking - made your body obey before your mind caught up. You eased back into the seat, rigid, your breath shallow... and somewhere beneath the fear curling in your chest, you hated how you noticed it again. The sharp eyes. The twitchy movements. The messy hair.
Cute.
Against all reason, you found him cute.
The driver up front glanced once in the rearview mirror, then looked away. Maybe he thought you were flirting - two young people, sitting near one another, it sure looked like that. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, it was clear he wasn’t going to help.
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you sank back into the seat, his thigh pressed hot against yours, his legs blocking the aisle like iron bars. The air between you was stifling, heavy with the hum of the bus and the low rasp of his breath behind the bandana.
Another twitch ran through him, shoulder snapping against yours, and then he leaned in closer. Close enough that the faint warmth of his breath hit your cheek through the fabric. His eyes dragged down your body again, lingering on your thighs, your skirt, your trembling hands.
“Y-y… you keep t-t-tuggin’ at that skirt,” he muttered, stammer rough, words muffled but sharp. His gaze burned. “Makes me w-wonder what you’re hiding.”
Your stomach dropped. Heat prickled at the back of your neck, shame and adrenaline twisting together until you couldn’t tell them apart. You opened your mouth, some half-formed protest on your tongue, but his hand moved first.
Big, rough, it landed heavy on your bare knee. The twitch that followed wasn’t a tic - it was deliberate, his fingers curling slow, inching higher.
“You’re n-not… c-cold? In a sk-skanky li’l outfit l-like that? N-nnight like this?”
The insult landed sharp, but it was his tone, curious, almost amused, that froze you. Words tangled on your tongue, panic swelling so quickly you couldn’t breathe through it. When you tried to speak, it came out fractured, broken.
“Stop,” you breathed, betrayed by the hitch in your voice.
He groaned low in his throat, head jerking once, his eyes gleaming with something unrestrained. His hand slid further up, forcing your knees apart.
“C-can’t st-stop now,” he rasped, voice cracking around the stutter, thick with hunger. “N-not when you’re l-lookin’ at me like that.”
The bus rattled on, the driver oblivious, the city blurring past in streaks of light and shadow - and here you were, trapped under his hand, your breath quickening as his thumb brushed dangerously close to where your thighs met.
Your mind scrambled for sense, for reason, for anything solid to cling to. But his hand was already sliding higher, warm and rough against your thigh, and the sound of his voice - muffled by the bandana, broken by tics - tangled with the heat pooling low in your belly.
What the fuck is wrong with me? you thought, but the words wouldn’t stick. Not when his eyes pinned you down like that - sharp and relentless. It was too much. His gaze, his touch, the way he filled the space beside you until there was nowhere left to hide.
Your breath stuttered when his fingers found the edge of your panties, tracing over the thin fabric like he had all the time in the world. His head snapped once, sharp, but his touch didn’t falter. If anything, it grew bolder.
“Sh-sh… shit,” he muttered under his breath, voice muffled and rough. His eyes flicked up to catch yours, burning in the dim light. “You’re already so w-warm.”
Your pulse skipped, shame and want tangling until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. You wanted to shove him away. But instead, your thighs trembled as they fell open wider, betraying you completely.
He didn't waste any time. His hand slipped beneath the fabric of your panties, fingers dragging through slick heat, and your gasp cracked sharp against the quiet of the bus. He groaned low at the sound, eyes never leaving your face, every twitch and jerk of his body only making him seem wilder, more unrestrained.
“Ffffff-fuck,” he hissed, pushing one finger inside you without warning. The stretch made your back arch against the seat, your hand flying to clutch at his arm. “S-so fucking tight.”
The bus rattled over a bump, rocking your body against his hand, and suddenly he was driving two fingers deep, curling hard, his thumb grinding roughly against your clit. The wet sounds of him working you open filled the silence between you two.
This is insane, you thought, nails digging into his sleeve as your body shook. This is wrong, this is–
But then his fingers curled just right, pressure hitting so deep it made your eyes roll back, and all that confusion burned away in a white-hot rush.
You bit your lip hard, trying to muffle the desperate whimper that tore out of you, but his eyes caught it - gleaming, triumphant. His pace grew rougher, relentless, like he needed to wring every sound out of you right there in the back of the bus.
Your breath came ragged, every sharp curl of his fingers breaking you down further, dragging you into heat you swore you didn’t want. Your head thudded back against the rattling window as you grabbed at his arm, nails pressing into muscle just to anchor yourself.
You couldn’t believe this man had the audacity to just take a seat next to you and start touching you like this. It was infuriating and insane, but oh God it felt so–
The words ripped out of you before you could stop them, half gasp, half accusation. “Who… who the fuck d’you think you are?”
For a heartbeat, he froze - shoulders jerking with a sharp tic, his head snapping once to the side. And then he laughed. Low, muffled by the bandana, the sound crawling down your spine like smoke.
“I’m T-Toby,” he rasped, voice broken and rough but laced with amusement. His eyes locked onto yours, burning steady as his fingers thrust harder, curling deep until you clenched around him. “N-now stop talkin’ an’ take it.”
A whimper caught in your throat, your thighs trembling - but instead of closing, they spread wider, your body betraying you in the most humiliating way. Heat surged through you as you hooked one heel against the seat in front, opening yourself up further for him.
Your hands gripped his forearm tight, clinging to the solid strength of him as his pace grew rougher. Every thrust of his fingers shoved you higher, and you bit down hard on your lip, fighting to muffle the moans clawing up your throat.
But he saw it - the way your body shook, the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, the desperate way you clung to him. His groan came again, rough and jagged, muffled by the bandana but heavy with satisfaction.
“Y-yeah,” he muttered, stuttering through the words as his thumb ground harder against your clit. “S-so wet.”
Your breath caught when his hand shifted, when the stretch suddenly grew sharper, fuller. A third finger shoved in deep, filling you until your thighs trembled, until your body seized up tight around him.
A helpless little moan slipped free before you could stop it, soft and broken in the silence of the bus. Panic flared - you slapped your own hand over your mouth, muffling the sound, eyes wide.
“Fuck,” he muttered under the bandana, voice muffled and raw. His pace didn’t falter. If anything, it grew rougher, thumb pressing tight against your clit. His eyes flicked up to your face, catching the way you shook, the way your hand tried to stifle every sound. “C-come on. C-cum on muh-my hand.”
Your body betrayed you again, hips jerking up to meet him, your grip on his forearm tightening as your thoughts spiraled out of control. This is insane. I shouldn’t–I can’t–but God, I’m so close, I can’t stop–
The heat coiled low, unbearable, snapping tighter with every stroke until you broke. Your eyes squeezed shut, your head tilting back hard against the window as pleasure crashed through you. You clenched down around his fingers violently, moaning against your own palm as your orgasm tore through every nerve.
He groaned low in his throat at the feel of you gripping him, guttural and hungry, the sound vibrating through the fabric of his bandana. His twitching didn’t stop, his hand didn’t slow - he worked you through it, dragging every last wave out of you until you were trembling, wrecked, panting into your hand.
Your chest heaved, thighs trembling uncontrollably as he finally eased his hand back. His fingers slipped free of you with a wet sound, leaving you raw and aching, clenching around nothing. Before you could catch your breath, his voice rasped low:
“D-don’t f-freak out.”
Your brow furrowed, confusion sparking through the haze, but you didn’t even have time to form a reply. His hand tugged the bandana down in one swift motion.
Your breath hitched.
The lower half of his face came into view, and your eyes went wide before you could stop yourself. The scar carved across his cheek was brutal - half-healed, raw-looking, the skin jagged and pink against the dim glow of the bus. It pulled at his mouth when he smirked, twisting his features into something harsh, something impossible to ignore.
And then he raised his hand.
You froze as he brought those slick, glistening fingers to his lips. Without hesitation, he shoved them into his mouth, groaning low as his tongue dragged over them, sucking them clean like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
Your stomach flipped, heat flooding your face as you stared, unable to look away. He licked each finger down to the knuckle, slow and messy, his scar tugging with every obscene movement.
You told yourself not to stare - don’t be rude, don’t be obvious, you just came on those fingers– but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t know what shocked you more: the jagged wound that marked him, or the way he demolished every drop of you like he was starved for it.
Your thighs clenched again, trembling against the seat, and shame burned in your chest at the realization that watching him, scar and all, only made you throb harder.
He caught your gaze then, mouth still wrapped around his fingers, and groaned around them like he knew exactly what effect it was having on you.
He leaned back against the seat, breath rough beneath the scarred twist of his smirk. His hand shifted low, adjusting the front of his pants, and your eyes darted down before you could stop yourself. The outline was unmistakable - thick, hard, and straining - and the sight made your face burn hot.
Your throat worked as you tried to steady your voice, but it came out in stuttering fragments. “Um–hey, I… I’m really sorry, but… the next stop’s mine. I’ve gotta–gotta get off.”
His laugh was low, muffled by the way the scar pulled at his cheek. He didn’t even look rattled. Just rolled his shoulders with a twitch and leaned closer, his voice a rasp that coiled right into your chest.
“Yeah. We’re g-gettin’ off t-together.” His eyes gleamed. “We’re not done yet. And I d-don’t wanna fuck you with the bus driver s-seein’ the whole show.”
Your breath caught, your whole body going hot at his bluntness. Fuck. Fuck, what does he mean, we? What am I even doing?
You pressed your thighs together, trying to shift discreetly, but the slick dampness between them was impossible to ignore. Adjusting your panties only made it worse - the fabric clung, sticky and wet, reminding you exactly what he’d just done to you. Your fingers trembled, your chest tight with the humiliation of it.
God, I’m soaked. And he knows.
You risked another glance at him, and your stomach twisted all over again. The scar, the uneven tufts of messy brown hair, the wild glint in his eyes, everything about him screamed danger, wrongness. And yet you couldn’t look away.
Your gaze lingered too long. You knew it.
And when his head snapped suddenly in one of those jerking tics, his eyes found yours. He caught you staring. He didn’t call you out, didn’t say a word, but the way the corner of his mouth tugged into a slow, knowing smirk was worse.
Like he could read every thought in your head.
Before you could gather yourself, his rough hand caught yours. He dragged it down, shoved it past the waistband of his pants until your fingers brushed the hot, rigid length of his cock.
You gasped, eyes going wide as your palm closed around him. You couldn’t see it but you felt how thick and hard it was. Way bigger than you expected. Your gaze snapped up to meet his, your lips parting in shock.
His chest heaved, twitch shaking his shoulders as he rasped through clenched teeth, almost desperate:
“Touch m-me.”
Your breath came shaky, your whole body trembling, but you couldn’t make yourself pull away. Instead, you sighed softly and began to stroke him - messy at first, awkward, but firm. The heat of him filled your hand, your knuckles bumping against the inside of his pants with every pass.
A broken sound escaped him, his head snapping once before settling. His hips jerked into your grip, uncontrolled and needy.
“H-harder,” he muttered, voice strained and raw.
You tightened your hold, pumping him with more strength, and the low sound that tore out of his throat made your thighs press together. His tics grew sharper, twitching through his shoulders, but his eyes never left yours.
Then his mouth brushed against you. Just the faintest press, his lips ghosting yours, testing. Your chest fluttered, heat rushing straight to your core, and you didn’t pull away.
You stroked him harder, hand working him in steady pulls, and your words slipped out before you could stop them - soft, shy, tangled in the heat of the moment.
“What… what happened to your face?”
The question hung heavy, and for a second you wished you could snatch it back. His tongue darted out, wetting his scarred lip, his hips twitching into your hand as he rasped low:
“Why… y-you disgusted?”
Your heart lurched. “No, no,” you stammered quickly, stroking him harder to prove it, your cheeks burning hot. “It’s not that, it’s just–”
His chuckle cut you off, rough and jagged, but there was no anger in it. Just that same wild edge, raw and unfiltered. His twitching head jerked once before he leaned in, mouth catching yours with a sudden, hungry pressure.
This time the kiss wasn’t tentative. It was hard, messy, teeth and scar and heat, his groan vibrating against your lips as your hand worked him faster.
The brakes hissed, the bus lurched, and before you could even think, he was pulling your hand from his pants. His grip didn’t loosen, if anything, it tightened, rough fingers wrapping around yours.
“C’mon,” he muttered, voice rasping through the scarred twist of his mouth. “Y-you said this was our stop.”
You stumbled after him, caught off balance as he yanked you down the aisle, ignoring the curious glance the driver gave in the mirror. The doors folded open with a tired groan, and then the cold night air hit you, sharp against your overheated skin.
The street was deserted, shadows spilling long across the pavement. Just a lonely bus stop sign jutting from the curb, a cracked bench, the faint hum of a streetlight buzzing overhead. And nothing else.
The moment the bus hissed shut behind you and rumbled off, his grip on your hand changed - twisting, pulling you into him like he couldn’t stand another second of space.
Your chest hit solid muscle, your breath knocked out in a startled gasp. You tilted your head up, ready to speak, ready to ask something, anything, but his mouth crashed down on yours first. Bruising, desperate, his scar tugging at the kiss, his tongue demanding.
“Um–so what now–?” you tried between breaths, your voice small, shaky.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even seem to hear you. His body was twitchy, jerking, but his hold on you was unyielding. Broad hands found your hips, fingers digging in possessively as he dragged you flush against him. You felt the hard line of his cock through his pants, grinding into your skirt with a low groan.
“F-fuck,” he muttered against your lips, words tumbling out jagged, needy. “You’re s-so hot. Th-that skirt–fuck.” His hips rutted harder, forcing you to feel just how desperate he was. “Thought I g-got f-fucked not gettin’ a ride back home, but inst–stead…” his lips dragged over yours again, rough and clumsy and aching, “…I g-get this.”
Heat flooded your cheeks, your pulse hammering. His words, the wild hunger in his eyes, the twitchy strength of his grip - your head spun with it all, leaving you dizzy and breathless under him.
You broke from his mouth just long enough to catch a shaky breath, your chest heaving against his. “That was your friend you were talking to on the phone back on the bus, right? I… I couldn’t help but overhear…”
His lips brushed your jaw, hot and messy, his voice muffled against your skin. “Mhmm. My friends.” The word came sharp, bitten out. His hands slid down your hips, squeezing, grinding you back against the thick outline in his pants. “B-both assholes. F-fuck ’em anyway.”
One broad palm cupped your ass through your skirt, kneading possessively, and you let out a shaky laugh before you could stop yourself. The whole thing - the scar, the twitching, the blunt way he spoke his mind - it was unbelievable. Odd. Wild. But so real it made your head spin.
He pulled back just enough to stare at you, his scarred mouth tugging into a crooked smirk like he knew exactly how ridiculous he was. And somehow, that only made you giggle harder.
“Y-you’re laughin’,” he muttered, twitching as he ground harder against you, his cock straining thick against your belly. “Y-you like this.”
Your heart hammered as you rose on your toes to kiss him again. Your fingers tangled in his messy hair, tugging hard until he groaned into your mouth. His hips jerked at the pull, rutting into you with a raw need that left you breathless.
You couldn’t stop yourself - couldn’t stop the way your body arched into him, couldn’t stop from feeling every inch of his outline grinding against you.
Your lips were moving against each other, messy and desperate, the scar on his mouth making every kiss rougher, uneven, a little strange - but you couldn’t stop. He groaned into you, twitchy and restless, and then his hand moved down, tugging his waistband low.
You broke the kiss just long enough to glance down, and your throat went dry.
He pulled himself free, thick and veiny, the kind of cock that made your pulse jump. Bigger than anything you’d seen before, heavy in his fist as he gave one quick stroke.
You swallowed hard, heat flooding your face, and he caught your reaction with a brief glance. His expression didn’t change much - just a twitch, a little smirk tugging at his scar. Like he’d seen that look before, like he expected it.
Your hand moved without thinking, wrapping around his cock, stroking awkward but eager as his lips dragged against yours. His hips jerked at the contact, twitching, his groan vibrating against your mouth.
“I w-wanna fuck you,” he rasped suddenly, his voice cracking on the words. Both of his big hands slid under your skirt, rough palms kneading your thighs until they caught the thin band of your panties.
You gasped as he yanked them down, the cool air rushing over your bare skin. Before you could even process, he crouched slightly so you could step out of them completely, and then he was bringing the fabric to his face. He sniffed, low and filthy, eyes closing for a heartbeat, then stuffed them casually into the pocket of his jacket like they belonged there.
Your stomach flipped, panic and arousal tangling until you almost couldn’t breathe. “Toby… what if… what if someone comes?” you whispered, voice cracking.
His eyes snapped back to yours, wild and intent, and his mouth twisted into a crooked grin. “Baby,” he chuckled, muffled and jagged, “if s-someone comes, I’ll t-take care of it.”
You didn’t even know what that meant. But you didn’t care. Not when your thighs were trembling, not when your heart was pounding, not when every nerve screamed for more.
In a sudden motion, he spun you around, pressing you forward until your knees hit the cool metal of the bus stop bench. Your palms splayed against it, breath catching, as his broad hands gripped your hips and bent you over, your skirt pushed up high.
The night air bit cold against your skin, but all you felt was the heat of him behind you. His rough grip shoved your skirt higher, baring you completely, and then the blunt head of his cock pressed between your folds.
You gasped, your fingers clutching the edge of the bench as he pushed forward. The stretch was immediate, sharp, almost too much - your breath hitched high in your throat as your body struggled to take him.
“Fffff-fuck,” Toby groaned, twitching hard as his hips ground deeper, his scarred mouth hanging open. His fingers dug bruises into your hips, desperate, like he was scared you might slip away if he didn’t hold on. “So f-fucking tight.”
Your moan cracked as he bottomed out, filling you completely, leaving you trembling under the sheer size of him. One of your hands slid back instinctively, grabbing at his where it clamped your hip. The solid warmth of him grounded you, and you sobbed out loud at the feel of him pulsing thick inside you.
“Yeah,” he rasped above you, his voice low and raw. His twitch jerked his head to the side, but his pace didn’t falter. “Y-you like that?”
Your head bobbed frantically, hair falling in your face, your voice too broken for words. “Mhm–yes–so big,” you gasped, your body clenching helplessly around him.
That was all it took.
His grip tightened, bruising, and then his hips snapped forward again. Harder. The bench screeched against the pavement as he fucked you into it, every thrust slamming through you, stealing your breath and tearing moans from your throat.
The world shrank down to the sound of skin on skin and your ragged moans tearing into the night. Toby slammed into you hard and deep, his hips snapping with a brutal rhythm that left you gasping, his cock dragging every inch inside until your knees scraped against the cold metal bench.
One of his hands fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so your cry echoed into the empty street. Every twitch of his body jolted through the thrusts, only making them harder, sharper, his ragged breath hot against your ear.
“Yeah,” he stuttered out between thrusts, his voice breaking into a growl. “Tuh-take it… take it, you f-fucking b-bitch.”
The filthy words punched through you, shame and heat colliding until you moaned even louder, your body clenching around him like you couldn’t get enough. His chuckle was rough, and he yanked harder on your hair as he drove deeper.
“F-fuck… s-so sexy like this,” he groaned, hips slamming you into the bench so hard it screeched against the pavement.
Your voice broke on a gasp, needy and desperate. “Yeah? You think I’m sexy?”
His shoulders jerked with a hard tic, head snapping once before settling. Then his hand slid down, rough palm gripping the curve of your ass before he smacked it, sharp and loud in the quiet night.
“Mhmmm…” he rasped, voice low and broken around the stutter. “F-fuck, yeah, I do.”
Then a sudden sound cut through - the sharp buzz of a ringtone, muffled in his jacket pocket. His hips faltered for a second, the vibration pressing against your ass.
“Shit,” he growled, slamming into you harder, angrier, like he meant to drown the noise out with the sound of your cries. “J-just… just ignore it. F-fuck… j-just focus on m-me. Yeah. Tuh-take my big dick j-just like this.”
His pace grew frantic, every twitch of his hips driving deeper, every stuttered word tearing you further apart as your moans carried into the dark.
Then the ringtone buzzed again, sharp and insistent. His thrusts stuttered, breath ragged, before he let out a frustrated groan.
“F-fuckin’…” He dug a hand into his jacket pocket, hips still rolling slow inside you, pulling his phone free.
You twisted your head, hair messy in your face, shooting him a look. Really? But you didn’t say a word - because he was still buried thick in you, even as he swiped the call.
“Hello?” His voice came rough, impatient, still muffled by his stutter. “Wh-what do y-you want n-now, Tim?”
Your body jolted as he absentmindedly snapped his hips forward, his free hand still iron-tight on your hip. He glanced down once, eyes catching the slick stretch of him sliding in and out of you, and his breath hitched even as he listened to whatever reply came through.
“Oh, what, n-now you g-guys wanna p-pick me up?” His tone sharpened, words spilling in a jagged rhythm as his pace picked up a little. “You said y-you c-couldn’t and… n-now you’ve ch-changed your mind? You an’ Buh-Brian are such assholes. I s-swear I’m s-so tired of being treated–”
You tuned him out, impatience sparking in your veins. Heat coiled low in your belly, desperate, aching, and you couldn’t take the distracted thrusts anymore. With a shaky breath, you braced yourself against the bench and rolled your hips back, shaking your ass, bouncing yourself up and down on him.
The effect was instant.
Toby groaned low, sharp, his words cutting off mid-sentence. His eyes snapped back down to where your body swallowed him, and his hand clamped bruisingly tight on your hip.
“Y-yeah…” he muttered, the phone slipping lower against his ear as he lost focus. His voice cracked, rough and hungry. “J-just like that. F-fuck.”
His thrusts surged harder, chasing the rhythm you’d set, his grip anchoring you in place as he buried himself deep again and again, the call all but forgotten.
Tim’s voice crackled louder from the phone, sharp and demanding. You couldn’t make out the words over the sound of your own heartbeat, but Toby’s grin widened, scar tugging as he snapped his hips harder into you. He adjusted the grip he had on his phone and pressed it tightly against his ear.
“Wh-what am I d-doin’?” he barked into the receiver, his thrusts slamming deep, the bench screeching beneath you. “T-take a g-guess, Tim.”
The next thrust stole your breath, your moan spilling raw and loud into the night.
Toby groaned low, twitching hard, his pace turning brutal. “Y-yeah. Th-that’s r-r-rrrrright. I’m f-fucking someone.”
And then, suddenly, the phone was in your face. His hand shoved it close, pressing against your cheek. “C-come on, baby,” he rasped, hips driving deeper, “l-let ’em hear you.”
Heat blazed through you, the ridiculousness of it all colliding with the raw pleasure until you couldn’t hold back. Your moan broke sharp as you gasped into the phone, voice high and desperate:
“Fuck me harder, Toby, please–!”
Toby’s groan turned guttural, chest shaking against your back. He yanked the phone back to his mouth, eyes wild, pace merciless.
“Yeah, I’m f-fucking a hot g-girl,” he growled into the receiver, voice thick with triumph. “An’ y-you two are sittin’ in Brian’s stinky truck. So g-guess what, Tim? I WIN.”
He hung up with a violent jab of his thumb and tossed the phone back into his jacket pocket.
You dissolved into breathless giggles, your voice mixing with helpless moans as his cock pounded you harder. “Y-you’re insane,” you gasped, your knees trembling against the bench.
His scarred mouth curled into a grin, his voice rough but laced with something almost gleeful.
“Y-yeah,” he muttered, hips slamming into you with bruising force. “I kn-know.”
His thrusts slowed, hips grinding deep one last time before he slipped free of you, his hand still gripping your hip. His breath came rough, twitchy groans spilling against your ear.
“Sit on me,” he rasped, voice jagged with need.
Your legs shook as you straightened, thighs trembling from being bent over. You looked at him, dazed and flushed, as he sank onto the bench, his cock still thick and slick in his fist.
You giggled breathlessly, covering your mouth with your hand. “You’re really gonna sit there? Your ass isn’t gonna get cold on that bench?”
For the first time tonight, his laugh rang out full, muffled by his stutter but genuine, raw. “I d-don’t g-get cold.” His scar tugged with his grin, twitch jerking his head once as his eyes locked on you.
You smiled, lips twitching despite yourself. “Oh, yeah, sure.”
He didn’t give you time to doubt. Big hands wrapped around your hips, dragging you toward him until you stumbled into his lap. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your thigh, and his breath hitched sharply as he adjusted his grip.
You straddled him, knees bracketing his thighs, arms looping instinctively around his neck. The closeness made your pulse race - his mouth inches from yours, his twitching body restless beneath you, his breath ragged in the night air.
Your lips found his again, messy, as his hand slid lower. He held himself steady, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance as his other hand guided your ass down.
“C-come on,” he muttered against your mouth, voice low and wrecked. “T-take it.”
And then he pushed you down, slow but steady, his cock stretching you full all over again as he groaned deep in his throat.
Your knees dug into the cold bench as you bounced on his lap, his hands gripping your ass, guiding you down hard onto him with every thrust. He twitched beneath you, groaning raggedly, his head jerking once as his lips crashed hungrily against yours.
You let one hand wander up, trembling, brushing over the jagged scar carved across his cheek. The skin was rough, uneven, but when your fingers lingered there he stilled, almost instinctively leaning into your touch. His groan against your mouth wasn’t just hunger, it was something almost softer, needier.
Your heart raced, your lips breaking from his as you searched his face in the dim glow. His hands clamped on your ass, bouncing you faster, deeper, the thick stretch of him making you gasp out loud.
“You feel so good,” you panted, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. “So deep inside me, Toby–”
His scarred mouth twisted into a crooked grin, his voice low and stuttered as he thrust up into you. “Y-yeah?”
You nodded frantically, moaning through the words. “Mhm. I’m so close.”
That made him growl, his grip tightening bruisingly on your hips as he shoved you down harder, hips jerking erratic with his tics.
“F-fuck… you’re s-so pretty,” he groaned, eyes locked on the way your body moved on his. “Wanna s-see you completely n-naked. Not just skirt up like th-this.” His voice dropped darker, filthier, his breath hot against your ear. “F-fuckin’ insane, r-riding me outside like this. L-like a fffff-fuckin’ whore.”
A shudder tore through you at the words, your moan breaking loud into the empty street. You clenched tight around him, your body reacting to the filthy praise no matter how shameful it sounded.
Your hand slid down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. The little circles sent sparks shooting through you, and you moaned, head tilting back, the other hand tangling tight in his messy brown hair. His groan rumbled against your lips as you rode him harder, chasing it.
Your eyes fluttered shut, the heat building unbearably. “Fuck, Toby,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your thighs shook. “I’m so close–fuck, I’m so close–”
His hands clamped down on your hips, grinding you down onto his cock with bruising force, every thrust deep and erratic with his twitching. His forehead pressed against yours, sweat slicking between you.
“C-cum,” he rasped, voice raw and jagged, almost a plea. “C-cum on my d-dick.”
That was all it took.
Your body seized, a cry ripping out of your chest as your climax crashed through you. Your walls clenched tight around him, pulsing, squeezing his cock as you shook in his lap. Your nails dragged through his hair, pulling hard as your moans broke against his mouth.
“Yeah, th-that’s it,” he groaned, his own breath faltering, his twitchy body jolting beneath you. His forehead stayed pressed to yours as he talked you through it, rough and desperate, his voice breaking. “Ride it out, buh-baby, s-so fuckin’ good. T-take it all.”
He held you there, his arms locking you against him as though he couldn’t let go, groaning through clenched teeth as your release soaked him, his own hips jerking wildly underneath you.
Your body was still trembling, aftershocks rolling through you, when his grip on your hips tightened. His voice cracked, jagged and wrecked against your ear.
“D-don’t stop. Keep g-going. I wanna c-cum inside you.”
His twitch jolted through him, his forehead knocking lightly against yours, but his eyes stayed wild, pleading.
You nodded breathlessly, legs quivering as you rose and slammed yourself back down onto him. Again. And again. Each thrust drove him deeper, your slick heat squeezing tight around him, dragging desperate groans from his chest.
“F-fuck, fuck,” he snarled, voice breaking as his twitching body jolted with every thrust. His hands forced you down harder, faster, until he was lost to it, his groans spilling hot against your mouth.
And then he broke.
His cock pulsed deep, hot release spilling into you as his hips bucked erratic beneath you. “F-fuck, ohh fffff-fuck,” he stuttered out, wrecked and raw, his groan muffled against your kiss.
You yanked at his hair, messy and desperate, kissing him wet and unsteady as you rode him through it. His mouth moved sloppily against yours, teeth and tongue clashing as his climax shook him, twitching and trembling beneath you while he filled you up.
His grip on your hips stayed bruising, holding you flush against him as if he needed every drop buried inside. You moaned into his mouth, your chest pressed to his.
You sat there on his lap, your foreheads touching, your breath ragged and uneven. The night air felt too cold, too sharp, every sound too loud. Reality crept back in all at once, and it hit you hard.
This stranger. This crazy, twitchy, scarred man. So desperate. So odd. And yet… you’d let him fuck you at a bus stop.
Your body trembled as you shifted, his hands tightening around your waist to steady you. His cock was still inside you, twitching with the aftershocks, keeping you connected even as your mind spun. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh, scream, or both.
Finally, with shaky legs, you pushed yourself up. He held you steady as you slid off him, his release hot and sticky between your thighs. Your skirt fell down around your hips, not doing nearly enough to cover how bare you felt without your underwear.
Because he still had them.
You swallowed, dragging down the hem of your skirt, folding your arms across your chest like armor. “Can I… have my panties back?”
He glanced up at you, scar tugging as he smirked. His hands worked at his zipper as he shoved himself back into his pants, pulling them up with twitchy, careless motions.
“N-nuh uh,” he rasped, almost playful, patting the bulge in his jacket pocket where the lace was tucked.
You sighed, shaking your head, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips anyway. The absurdity of it, the insanity of it all - him, this moment, what you’d just let happen.
“Figures,” you muttered, crossing your arms tighter.
But your heart still thudded fast, heat lingering in your chest as his wild eyes stayed locked on you, like you were his even now, panties or not.
He ran a shaky hand through his messy brown hair, the movement jerky with another tic. For the first time since he’d grabbed you on the bus, his posture shifted, awkward. Almost shy.
“U-umm… hey,” he muttered, scarred mouth tugging into something halfway between a grin and a grimace. “I’m n-not g-gettin’ that ride home… and I’d h-have to w-walk for hours.” His eyes flicked up to meet yours, twitching once. “M-mind if I… c-crash at your p-place?”
You stared at him, incredulous. Every nerve screamed that the right answer was no. Hell no. This dude had just taken you in the back of a bus and bent you over a bench like it was the most normal thing in the world. And now he wanted to stay over?
But then he looked at you again.
Hands shoved deep into his pockets, twitching and fidgeting, his eyes carrying a plea he didn’t quite say aloud. That restless stance, that half-grin pulling his scar, those jerks of his head and shoulders - it all should’ve unsettled you. Instead, it disarmed you.
What’s the worst that could happen? you thought weakly. It’s not like he’s some psycho killer.
You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “Fine. But just for tonight.”
The grin that spread across his scarred cheek was instant. His rough hand slipped out of his pocket and found yours, his fingers interlocking yours with surprising gentleness.
“Alright,” he said, twitching as he squeezed your hand. “L-lead the w-way.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, your heart thudding fast as the two of you started walking into the dark together.
can ya’ll walk with me a moment and picture ben poindexter aka bullseye akaka my death row husband, my day 1, my every time hes on screen i have a full body reaction, my man (even tho what he did to foggy is unspeakable i sat there crying unable to make a sound because there were other people in the room and i had to remain normal)
anyways— picture dex with a mean north star!reader who absolutely basks in the fact youre nice (nice, a relative term used loosely) to only him. that everyone but him who enters your line of sight receives a withering glare from your dazzling, attention capturing eyes that only soften for him
him. no one else
and, walk a little faster with me as we continue along talking about dex’s mean north star who knew/knows foggy, matt and karen for some reason i cant be bothered to come up with right now. and then he doesn’t even have the decency to tell the so called love of his life vanessa hired him
its almost like he knew the effect it’d have on you! gunning down a friend of theirs because the woman married to the man who took him away from you!
safe to say dex hears nothing from his north star for a long time. he excuses you of course. youre perfect, you can never do a single thing wrong, telling himself you have to lay low, that you cant use your phone or write or contact him at all unless you wanted to be caught, unless you wanted them to get you. and of course you dont. youre his north star, you made promises to each other to keep yourselves safe for the other. dex’ll get out, he has to. soon if he doesn’t hear from you but then some prison guard calls his name, claiming he’s got a call.
and its you. its his north star. dex would have cried at the first sound of your voice, had he been alone. you dont say much, he knows youre mad. can hear the strain in your voice and knows youve been crying but before he could ask, you voice crackles through the line,
“do you love me?”
dex’s world would stop. “i love you.” he whispers only because he was too shocked and hadn’t fully processed your question to be any louder. “of course i—“
“then why did you kill foggy?” you’d sob at the end. because foggy nelson was the light, the bright happy place in the lives of everyone he’s met. because it was foggy nelson, the man who walked half way across the city in the rain to bring you his mother’s homemade soup because you weren’t feeling well.
and the man who swore he’d die before hurting you, killed foggy nelson.
you tear through dex worse than any bullet, knife, punch or wall he’s thrown into. the diesel flavored icing on his maggot infected, moldy cake, is that you hang up. the line goes dead before your sob stops echoing in his brain.
bile courses through him and its all dex can do to shove it down. he has a major crash out tbh. breaking the phone and the box its connected to, hitting himself, brawling with anyone who gets too close until he’s eventually somehow taken down
which leads him to breaking out to find you and beg for your forgiveness on his knees with his face buried in the skin he bruises between his trembling, terrified hands.
but what happens when his north star has moved from the safe, cozy apartment he left you in? and he has no way of finding you?
anyways… i am waiting SO impatiently for jessica to appear in ddba. every single time matt hones in on a single approaching heartbeat im tearing out my hair “its her its her! it has to be her!” and it literally never is
Summary: The chase was supposed to end with the storm. Instead, this one starts with it. You and Tyler find yourselves parked on the edge of a dying cell. Rain hammering the windshield, thunder fading in the distance. It’s been months since you walked away from him, and yet the air between you feels the same: charged, wild, one bad decision away from burning up again. He’s still talking about the storm like it’s alive, dangerous, beautiful… and when his hand finds yours, you remember exactly why you could never stay away. Maybe heaven doesn’t have a name, but it sure as hell feels like Tyler Owens.
Song Title + Artist: Heaven Don’t Have a Name - Jeremy Renner
Character (Name + Fandom/Film): Tyler Owens (Twisters)
Kink/Trope: Car (Truck) Sex, Exes to Lovers
Warnings: Reader discretion advised: this is a graphic work intended for mature audiences only (18+). This fic contains explicit sexual content including Car Sex/Sex in a vehicle (Tyler’s Truck), exes to lovers tension, strong language, some dirty talk. There’s also mentions of dangerous weather (thunderstorms, tornadoes, etc.)
Word Count: 2,141
Author’s Note: Parts of this (mostly the smut) was inspired loosely by a reread I did of the Lightning On My Lips Series by @echoingbirdsofprey that I’ve been doing. I believe it’s Chapter 12 or 13 that kind of gave me the vibe for how I wanted the smut to go. If you haven’t checked out her stuff yet, you definitely should! She’s incredibly talented!
You always loved storms for their audacity. The sky over Oklahoma bred monsters, dark bellied and mean, and you could respect that. But tonight the monster looked different: sleek, dangerous, almost beautiful, if you ignored how many towns it had already shredded.
And you did, because the only thing that mattered was this exact moment: Tyler’s truck eating asphalt, the world liquefying around you in streaks of rain and light. The dash clock glowed 9:17 in radioactive green. Lightning mapped itself across the windshield. Tyler drove with both hands clamped at ten and two, knuckles bloodless. His jaw was locked and gleaming with sweat. The cab vibrated from the storm and from the diesel engine. Inside, it smelled like wet leather, gun oil, and a tang you’d later, sheepishly, admit was fear.
He flicked his eyes to you for a half-beat.
“Buckle up.”
You rolled your eyes. Like you hadn’t buckled up already. Out the window, the darkness was alive. Telephone poles bent with the wind, their wires singing an off key song. Lightning stuttered in the distance, briefly illuminating the fields: wheat bowed flat, barns warped, a trampoline pinwheeled through the air like a child’s drawing of disaster. You’d been on chases before. Interned under a News 9 meteorologist who wore three wedding rings and drove like a mortician, but this was different. Tyler was different. He didn’t chase storms for footage or grants or TV fame. He chased them because he loved the chase.
“How much farther to the eye?” You asked.
He grinned, teeth wolf bright in the dashboard glow. “Five, six miles. Or zero, if this sumbitch turns south.” His Arkansas twang never sounded real to you until he was at the wheel, and then it was as elemental as the wind itself. “You scared yet, darlin’?”
You considered the lie, decided against it. “No,” you said, “but I think you are.”
He laughed and glanced over at you for a second before turning his attention back to the road.
The truck shot over a ridge and the world opened up. Flat Oklahoma land, dotted with grain silos and the twinkle of distant farmhouses. The storm wall loomed on the horizon, boiling black and iridescent purple. Tyler rolled down the window and stuck his head out, hollered something wild, and grinned back at you with rainwater running into his collar.
“You’re insane,” you yelled over the wind.
“Then what’s that make you? The smart one?”
A voice suddenly cut through the radio static. “Repeat: Catastrophic conditions across all of Caddo and Washita Counties. All residents advised to shelter in place.”
You and Tyler exchanged a look. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel.
Then with a soft, almost reverent tone he looked at the funnel starting to form and smiled. “That’s our girl.”
You nodded, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore. His whole self was pointed into the storm. You watched his jaw clench, relax, clench again; watched the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen. There was a specific kind of beauty in people who loved something dangerous. You wondered if he noticed your hands shaking, or the way your mouth went dry when you looked at him.
The truck bounced hard, fishtailing on the muddy shoulder, and he corrected with a flick, never hesitating.
“She’s getting close,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Real close.”
“I see it,” you said. The tornado was a half-mile ahead, blurry but solid, a spinal column twisting down from the clouds. It spun with impossible grace, hypnotic and awful. Tyler eased off the gas, foot hovering, then jammed the brake and swerved onto a gravel turnout, stopping just shy of a barbed wire fence. You watched as his right hand reached for the trigger connected to the augers and then you heard the whirr as they came to life and began to plant the truck into the Oklahoma clay.
The tornado hit a row of trees and sucked them clean from the earth, a slow-motion violence that made your stomach drop. Tyler’s breath caught, just once, then steadied. He reached over, this time not hesitating, and gripped your knee just above the kneecap, fingers firm.
You closed your eyes, let the sound of the wind and the touch of his hand fill you up. There was no one else for a hundred miles, maybe more. Only you, Tyler, and the beautiful, destructive thing you were chasing.
When you opened your eyes, he was still watching the storm. His face was lit up like a church on Christmas Eve.
You squeezed his hand, just once, and he squeezed back. His gaze flickered to your face, searching.
“You okay?” He asked, a hint of concern threading through his voice. “You look a little pale.”
You didn’t want to admit that you were terrified to your core. That you only agreed to come because it meant more time with you.
“Yeah, I’m good.” You said back even though it was a lie.
You closed your eyes, let the sound of the wind and the touch of his hand fill you up. There was no one else for a hundred miles, maybe more. Only you, Tyler, and the beautiful, destructive thing you were chasing.
When you opened your eyes, he was still watching the storm. His face was lit up like a church on Christmas Eve.
You squeezed his hand, just once, and he squeezed back. Neither of you moved at first. Tyler’s hand stayed on your knee, casual, but you could see the pulse ticking in his wrist, see the effort it cost him to sit still. You matched his breath, slow and shallow. Every exhale fogged the windshield, every inhale tasted like metal and sweat and the leftover tang of lightning.
You looked at him, really looked, and it felt like seeing someone through the wrong end of a telescope: farther away, and yet somehow intimate, private. His face was all planes and shadow, more honest in the half-light. He watched you back, and something in his eyes made you shiver.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’,” he said, voice almost a growl, “and I’m liable to forget where we are.”
Thunder rumbled somewhere distant, a gentle reminder. The cab shrank; the air between your bodies disappeared, replaced by something taut and trembling. Your nerves felt like exposed wires, all current, no insulation.
Tyler’s hand slid a little higher, not quite tentative, and his thumb found the soft skin above your kneecap. It was barely a touch but it landed like an earthquake. You stared at his mouth, memorized the split in his lower lip, the way he seemed to bite back a smile even as he lost control.
“You ever think about what comes after?” You blurted, regretting it instantly.
His smile flickered, softened. “After what, sweetheart?”
You swallowed, shrugged. “The chase. The storm. I dunno.”
He closed the distance. Slow, but not gentle. “No,” he said, voice warm against your mouth. “’Cause I don’t let myself get that far.”
The kiss was not what you expected. Not hesitant, not exploratory. It was immediate, desperate, like he’d spent hours thinking about it. His mouth was hot and rough, his stubble scraping your cheek, and when he inhaled, you felt it in your spine.
You clung to his jacket, knuckles digging into denim, the fabric stiff and sun-bleached and smelling of oil. He tasted like rain and salt and the ghost of whatever he’d been chewing before, but mostly he tasted like Tyler: defiant and alive and unsweetened. You kissed back hard, matching his need.
One moment you were pressed mouth-to-mouth, hands in each other's hair and hips and jacket, and the next you were pulling him into you, as if the pressure difference inside the truck demanded it.
Windows fogged so fast you could have sworn the storm had snuck inside, turned the cab into a terrarium of sweat and breath and desperate noise. Tyler’s hands, rough from work and too many bad habits, mapped every inch of you with a kind of fevered precision. He wanted to get it right. You could tell by the way he hesitated, just for a second, before his hand slipped under your shirt.
You laughed into his mouth. “You goin’ soft on me old man?”
He nipped your lower lip then smirked. “You should know better than that. Just tryin’ to enjoy it. I don’t get many second chances.”
You didn’t want to talk. You wanted to feel every inch of him pressed hard against you, so you did: you climbed into his lap, thighs bracketed around him, head colliding with the ceiling of the cab. He made a strangled, happy sound.
Outside rain drummed on the rook. But in here, you and Tyler made a different kind of music.
Tyler tore at the buttons of your shirt, impatient, and they pinged off the dash. His hands spanned your back, trembling.
“Jesus, you’re…” He didn’t finish. You let your hair down, let him get tangled in it.
“Keep going,” you said, breath hot in his ear. “Please.”
That “please” did something to him; you felt it in the way his arms tightened, the way his hips jerked up into you. His hands slid beneath your waistband, thumbs scribing rough circles along the softest parts of you. He worshiped you like a man who never learned the words, only the gestures: every squeeze, every hitch of breath, a kind of prayer. You bit his shoulder hard, and he gasped your name into the hollow of your throat.
Lightning stuttered, bleaching the cab, catching Tyler’s face in a frame of silver: eyes wild, mouth open, lost. You memorized the way he looked at you, like you were the thing he’d been chasing all his life.
He undid your jeans with one hand, the other never leaving your skin.
“You sure?” he said, voice thready. “Don’t got any protection so if we do this, I’m doing it bare.”
You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He lowered the back of the seat and then rolled the two of you so you were beneath him, seatbelt buckle digging into your shoulder, his body a weight you didn’t want lifted.
He was gentle, but only until you dragged him closer and bit his neck again, harder this time. You lost track of time. Minutes, maybe hours, maybe only seconds, collapsed in the wet dark. You felt every stutter of his breath, every surge of muscle, every shock of his mouth on yours. The truck was an oven, a pressure cooker, a confessional booth. You told him things without saying a word.
He was careful at first, but that didn’t last. The storm wanted violence, and you both gave in. The seat squeaked, the windows ran with sweat and breath, and he finally, finally slid inside you, and it was the only thing in the world that made sense. You clawed at his shoulders, left marks. He groaned and kissed the hollow of your collarbone, and the heat between your legs was matched only by the heat in your chest.
It was messy, it was frantic, it was so much better than any story you’d ever heard. He said your name like it was a mantra, syllables running together, and you said his until your throat was raw.
At the peak, as your world narrowed to a white hot point, Tyler bit your earlobe and whispered, “You’re the only heaven I’ll ever believe in.” The words struck you like a blow, like a gift. You locked your ankles around him and let go. You felt him still inside of you moments later, a raw, unrestrained release that filled you completely. The sensation of him inside you again shattered any thoughts that would be logical or reasonable. You were both too lost in the throes of ecstasy to think of tomorrow’s consequences of letting your ex finish inside you.
He collapsed on top of you, face buried in your hair, breathing you in like oxygen. You threaded your fingers through his.
Outside, the storm spent itself. The wind died, the rain softened, the sky went back to being just sky. You lay there, twined together in the humid dark, not speaking, not needing to. The truck smelled like sweat and ozone and everything you’d just done.
He stroked your back, slow circles, and you heard him whisper it again, almost to himself: “Think I know what heaven feels like…”
You almost laughed, but didn’t. You just rested there, letting the world come back in pieces: the tick of the cooling engine, the drip of water from the wheel well, the afterglow in your own bones.
For once, you weren’t thinking about the next storm. You were just being in the moment.
Hi hi, can I watch a documentary and good profile inspo for a k9 human apocalyptic themed headmate. We have a fragment they kinda need help forming... One thing we know that their very quiet with slight mutism (we belive), deadpan, and like gas masks and weapons. Alot.
✦ Dislikes : being called a bad boy , being crowded with attention , when xts favorite person is away , being punished / lectured , weird textures , teething pains , ear pains , when people pet claw too harshly
✦ Neu : being called a good boy , soft and gentle pets , affection , being touch starved , sleepiness / naps
✦ Typing Quirks : the quick brown fox jumpz over the lazy brown dog ( a = x , s = z )
✦ Species : canine , dog , wolfdog
✦ Hobbies : digging in mud , getting dirty , playing outside , chewing bones , fetching toys , doing k9 work ( sniffing out drvgs , sniffing out possible hazards )
✦ Appearance : big fluffy ears , dark red eyes , mouth piercings + a septum , always in band tees and a belt , a sensitive nose and hearing , half-blind
✦ Personality : can be aggressive when protecting , otherwise is a soft , silly , gooby guy , always wanting pets and affection and love
✦ Outfits :
✦ Hairstyles : very layered and fluffy , like a wolfpup's pelt almost ? never styles it much
✦ Stances : cringequeer , radqueer adjacent
✦ Quirks/Facts : very sweet boy despite his looks and protective nature , just gets carried away while doing 9s job.
✦ Speech Habits : only speaks when necessary , like genuinely necessary to.
✦ Int status : iwcare , iayor , iwcau
*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:
✦ Boundaries ⊹ no you/yours , they/them pronouns for close only , dehumanizing terms only , pings off
✦ Role Fulfillment : 8.7/10 , sometimes gets distracted causing xi to mess up at xir jobs / roles.
✦ In-sys pets : none , considering xt is the in-sys pet?
✦ Lyric : “ i push my fingers into my eyes ”, “ hard to say what caught my attention.. ”
✦ Pet Peeves : people who try hiding drvgs or illegal things , “saints” who are just soo perfect , people who are ignorant and continue using you/yours or pinging
✦ Opinions : misanthropy [ everyone deserves death ]
✦ Phobias : the world not ending , failing xts job
✦ Mood boards :
✦ Stim boards : here , wolfies
*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:
✦ Verbality : semi verbal , selective mutism
✦ Stimming : howling , trotting around , getting zoomies , moving xts paws up and down
✦ Coping Mechanisms : misanthropy , wishing death upon the world , hatred
✦ Playlist : all slipknot songs , headache - motionless in white , activist - bring me the horizon , (i used to make out with) medusa - bring me the horizon
✦ Productivity : not the most productive but still does things needed , like xir job
✦ Faves : death , bones , digital stimming
✦ Preferences : NO you/yours. NO pinging. NO they/them unless close. ONLY friends can nickname.
So while I have only delved into the sheer bedlam that is the Arcane Critical tag once, every now and then one of those feisty little diesel drinkers makes it onto my feed and I am treated to something like this as reasons season 2 supposedly sucked (their phrasing was much more unpleasant):
1. The people of the Undercity died to save Piltover while wearing Enforcer uniforms despite Piltover doing nothing to earn it.
2. Silco was turned into a mouthpiece for forgiveness and letting go of the past despite being one of the only pro-zaun characters.
3. Jinx was redeemed by sympathizing with topsiders, forced to apologize for killing Caitlyn's mom and felt like she needed to die so Vi could run off with Caitlyn.
4. Vi didn't care about the grey and serviced Caitlyn in a prison cell where she was locked away by Enforcers as a kid.
5. Jayce acting like Viktor's illness that was caused by Piltover wasn't something that needed to be cured.
6. Ekko never calls out Heimerdinger for his failings, Vi for joining the Enforcers, and risks his people (the firelights) to help Piltover.
7. Sevika almost being cut completely, never reacting to Isha's death or interacting with Jinx in act 3 and risking her life to help Piltover which is way out of character.
Okay... breathe deep... it hurts.. I know it hurts. It hurt me as well to read such a strong concentration of felonious stupidity all in one place as well. But we must never falter. There are a lot of ways I could respond to this. And perhaps at some point I will go more in-depth. But the simple fact is nothing here requires a long, drawn out, point-by-point defense. Because I have seen the show. Which clearly gives me the upper hand here. So, I am going to give each of these the amount of attention they deserve.
The people of the Undercity died to save Piltover while wearing Enforcer uniforms despite Piltover doing nothing to earn it
Hey there. Remember him? Does it seem like once he pacified Piltover he was just gonna call it a day, get back in his gigantic astral hamster ball and fuck off back to the compound? No. His goal was the evolution of humanity. Not Piltover. Jayce spells this out clearly. "This isn't a fair request". But it is the truth. And regarding the uniforms. The average Undercity character is seen is some variety of leathers/cloth/wool whatever that usually is displaying a decent amount of skin. THE ENFORCERS WEAR ARMOR.
Silco was turned into a mouthpiece for forgiveness and letting go of the past despite being one of the only pro-zaun characters
Okay. I am going to make this is as simple as possible so you can follow along with me:
As we know, Silco is not there. Jinx is essentially working this out in her own mind through these hallucinations
Her status as Silco's daughter, being a symbol, his influence and shadow, it is all tying her to the past which as we know is filled to the brim with delicious sugary trauma.
Even though he was a monster, she views him as a father figure. And as much as it sucks to say probably more than Vander. She was so young when Vander died. She was with Silco during her real formative years. And I would bet she has pushed Vander away mentally to protect herself after everything that has occured. So while Vi sees Vander in the barfight when she wants to give up, Jinx sees Silco.
Silco is giving Jinx the permission Jinx realizes she has to give Vi to save both of them.
Jinx was redeemed by sympathizing with topsiders, forced to apologize for killing Caitlyn's mom and felt like she needed to die so Vi could run off with Caitlyn
Again. HUMANITY ENDING THREAT. Also ya know her fucking sister wanted her by her side.
OH NO! OUR MURDEROUS MENTALLY ILL TERRORIST IS HEALING AND TRYING TO TAKE ACCOUNTABILITY FOR HER MISTAKES! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! NOT CHARACTER GROWTH!
3. True. In that moment she felt she needed to die.. because as she says, she feels "there's no good version of me". I know it's unfair you have to watch the whole scene to get it. But you have taken a profound moment of Jinx's love for her sister and her recognition of how Vi loves her and made it.. whatever this was supposed to be.
Vi didn't care about the grey and serviced Caitlyn in a prison cell where she was locked away by Enforcers as a kid.
I have done this so... so many times. I am not doing it again. I will go with the same blanket statement I have been using lately: A non-lethal crowd dispersal weapon in targeted locations against dangerous drug lords and a terrorist who likes blowing shit up? Seems like a decent plan.
Well done. You have taken a beautiful moment of meaning between these two characters and simplified it down to the utmost degree. There are numerous thoughtful, in-depth and heartfelt breakdowns of this scene available and I promised myself I wasn't going to waste a bunch of my time responding to this mind-melting ignorance. So I will just say this. If that is all you see in that scene, I really am sorry for you. I hope someday things improve.
Jayce acting like Viktor's illness that was caused by Piltover wasn't something that needed to be cured
Because it wasn't about Piltover or Zaun you crusty dishrag. Viktor was trying to purify all of humanity after a life-time of seeing the imperfections and weaknesses in himself as a start. Jayce loved Viktor. I'm not even getting to romantic or platonic, he LOVED VIKTOR. I suppose you would have preferred for him to look at Viktor and yell "You know what you diseased freak you have a point! Good for you taking everyone's humanity. WELL DONE!"
Ekko never calls out Heimerdinger for his failings, Vi for joining the Enforcers, and risks his people (the firelights) to help Piltover.
Heimerdinger is very aware of his failings. You have to watch in season one. Again.. watching the show you talk about.. very hard I know. And as close as he and Ekko are in season two I think we can safely say they are on the same page. Never mind that Ekko has shown he has no trouble calling out anyone who needs it.
Ekko and Vi are family. So while it is true he may be angry and we don't see it, I think a character of immense heart like Ekko who loves Vi would actually talk with her. You know.. rather than the savage degradation of Vi some people seem to wish for.
AGAIN FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY
Sevika almost being cut completely, never reacting to Isha's death or interacting with Jinx in act 3 and risking her life to help Piltover which is way out of character
She is a side character. Sorry but she is. But after a lifetime trying and failing to stand for Zaun she becomes their first ever voice on the council. She is the representative of every person she has wanted to protect. Sorry if that doesn't cut it.
When exactly would we have seen this? I also would have been curious to see her reaction but they were dealing with the whole ya know.. war?!
Same to above. I wish we could have seen Jinx rallying the undercity with Ekko. I actually give you this one. I think this was a missed opportunity.
ONCE MORE WITH FEELING
I'm sorry scary Viktor. I don't know why they keep forgetting you.
