#<- yeah I’m shoving those in there for the last one

[gasolinerainbowreads]

ON THE GREEN UPDATE?!?!?!??!?!

LET'S FUCKING GO HELL YEAH

The hatch takes some strength to pry open, and though you should be more nervous about what – or who — you might find inside, you’re temporarily distracted by the sound coming through your commlink. Heavy exhales, low grunts. A low groan of exertion as he pulls, followed by a breathless sound of relief. The crux of your thighs throbs, and as he disappears into the hatch, you scramble up behind him, right on his heels.

got that thang purrriiiinnngggg lmao

You grimace. “What did you call me?” “A channel rat. Your little scavenging fingers, digging through the depths of a ship for a treat.” Dismissing his teasing smile, you shake your head. “Didn’t you tell me once that those things reeked of piss?” He chuckles. “I did indeed.”

piss kink Ezra alert? 👀

That sound. You can hear it in your sleep. No different than the sound of your own zipper being tugged down, and yet, somehow, it is. You envision the entire scene with startling clarity every night: his bare fingers working the clasp, his suit falling away from his body, the sound underneath it all.

damn even a zipper is getting her worked up. he better rail her soon or she's gonna go full Yellow Wallpaper

Cross-legged on your cot, you enjoy the sounds of domesticity filling the pod: the gentle scrub of your steel cleaning brush, the clink of a metal pan on the stove, a spoon swirling along the bottom of the pan as Ezra stirs. His humming joins the din, and you glance up at him.

omg domestic Ezra 🥰

“If you go, I go.”

YOUR HONOR, I LOVE THEM

His gloved hand strokes down the smooth metal of the hatch, searching for an opening. When he finds it, you can hear a terse smile in his exhale of relief. “There she is,” he murmurs. “You gonna open up for me?”

something tells me this won't be the last time we hear Ezra say something like this 😏

“Just wait till I kill you,” the man warns between his teeth. “I’m gonna fuck that girl raw. Right here. Right next to your dead fucking –” A grizzled choking sound cuts off the man’s words, and you whirl to face them just in time to see Ezra jerking the knife out of the man’s neck. Blood spurts across Ezra’s gloves, and he shoves the knife down again, and again. The force behind it is immense, Ezra’s face contorted in a look you’ve never seen before. His jabs are ruthless and quick, cutting and deep, and his arm speeds up, his face in a rage-filled trance, his eyes wild and cold all at the same time. “Mine,” you hear him between heavy breaths, between each plunge. “She’s mine.” Frozen, you watch in a morbid sort of fascination, but also in relief. He doesn’t stop stabbing until the man is long dead.

Your hand sweeps across this skin more than once, trying not to think about all the ways you imagined touching his stomach for the first time. It’s soft under your fingertips, a slight round to his lean belly and though his neck is taut with tension, he remains still under your exploration.

nnnggghhhhh belly

Using one hand to pinch his flesh together, you brace the stapler against his skin, blood smearing on the metal. You punch the first one through, and he hisses, his hand gripping your wrist. “Shit. Shit. Keep going.”

another line I think we just might hear Ezra say again but in a different context lmao

You need him to survive and get off this planet, but you also need him more than that. Deeper than that.

oh yeah? how deep?

He’s been awake for a while. He has wished for you like this so many times.

lmao this fuckin sneaky bitch! pretending to be asleep is only gonna work so long when she sees you're bricked up 😂

He’s never been touched like this by anyone, and it takes everything he has to keep his eyes closed — until he feels you press your lips against his.

okay but can we talk about the parallels here bc, yes, she's younger/less experienced, yet here he is experiencing this sort of attention for the first time. there are still things that are new for him to experience - the emotional vulnerability (like him feeling worried), the physical intimacy that blossoms from tenderness, etc. I really love how they mirror and contrast each other all at once

“This,” you whisper back, bending down for another kiss.

I'm actually going insane that the chapter ended like this so thanks lmao

UGH another amazing chapter, Kelli! The sexual tension made me feel touch starved just reading it. And the looming threat of violence and then the high stakes action/violent scene were so so so well written. Even knowing they have more of a story, I was still sitting there reading worried something was going to happen! (yeah yeah Ezra got cut, but other than that hahaha)

THANK YOU FOR WRITING THIS! I love your Ezra so much, and I don't care how long in between updates it is, this story is worth it every. single. time. I think about it often, and it is always a better day when the next chapter to their story comes out. 💚

On The Green: 5

Ezra Prospect x f!reader

Rating: M — some prospecting violence

A/N: I cannot even tell you how much this chapter kicked my rear end — it would have never been finished without the love and care and hand holding of @the-scandalorian and @the-ginger-hedge-witch ❤️ Both extremely insightful in their own ways, I am eternally grateful to each of them ❤️ Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

—

All morning he’s been watching you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

The weight of his gaze on your back every time you turn around, logic argues it’s because he’s guiding you into something he knows you’re nervous about. But in the end, shame wins out. It tells you that he knows what you were doing last night while he was in the shower. You contemplate just asking him directly, if only to relieve the feeling, to get it out in the open.

Instead, you keep your mouth closed and decide to put your focus where it should be in the first place.

“Go over it again,” you ask him.

He nods underneath the dome of his helmet, carefully picking his way along a nearly invisible path.

“It’s a wreck. Been one for a while. I came across it a few cycles back, but once I saw that she was no longer functional, I cut my losses. Went through her innards, took what I could – which,” he looks back at you, “mind you, wasn’t much.”

He faces forward again, holding a branch to the side for you to pass. You step carefully over a thick root, accepting the hand that he holds out for help.

“She had been long abandoned even then, so I don’t think we’ll encounter any unsavory protectors today.”

You can tell from the state of the path that he must be telling the truth. The indentation made by long ago steps is covered by overgrowth, a trench you can only feel rather than see. The ground slopes underneath the creeping vines, the crooked line of it hidden by lush leaves. You follow his yellow suit like a beacon, the color a distinct contrast against all the green.

With each step, nerves unfurl in your stomach at the idea that he might be wrong. That there might be another person there, just as eager to keep what’s theirs as you are to take it. The feeling creeps through your veins like the thick vines that crawl over the soil, and keeping your eyes on the familiar yellow in front of you, you squash down the nervousness with every break of one under your boot.

“Slow now. She’s close.”

He holds a gloved hand out to the side, and you peek around the curve of his shoulder. Just beyond the trees, there’s a pod covered in overgrowth, a relic left behind. The windows are yellowed with age, mildew growing over their oval openings.

The hatch is closed, and the area is silent and still.

He takes careful, scouting steps and you follow close behind him.

“Weapon out, Birdie.”

Your thrower already in your grasp, you tighten your hold on it.

You focus on his breathing for a moment, slow and steady through the speaker in your helmet.

“You good?” His voice crackles over the comm link.

When you look up, he meets your gaze with a level one of his own. Patient, checking in.

At the hesitation you can feel in your expression, he reassures. “I promise you, any occupants are long gone.” Reaching out, he lifts the barrel of your thrower. “Still though, can’t be too careful.”

You nod, and he takes the lead, shielding you.

The hatch takes some strength to pry open, and though you should be more nervous about what – or who — you might find inside, you’re temporarily distracted by the sound coming through your commlink. Heavy exhales, low grunts. A low groan of exertion as he pulls, followed by a breathless sound of relief.

The crux of your thighs throbs, and as he disappears into the hatch, you scramble up behind him, right on his heels. There is a tense moment as he rounds the corner, but when he gives you the all clear, your shoulders drop their pressured weight. Relaxed, you both study the disarray in front of you.

Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust: the shards of broken monitor glass scattered on the floor, the torn seats with stuffing spilling out, the stripped panels from the wall. It’s easy to find the compartment you’re looking for: a gaping hole in the middle of the floor, wires spilling from its depths.

You curse silently. “Someone’s been in there.”

“They take everything?” he asks. Using the tip of his pistol, he nudges the lid off the top of a storage compartment and peers inside.

“I’m not sure.”

Setting your thrower and gloves to the side, you get down on all fours and reach into the open compartment. A tangle of wires obstructs your view and your fingers sift through them all, searching by touch alone.

Your arm disappears all the way up to the shoulder before you locate the sharp edge of the circuit board. Grasping it, you lift it free with a sharp tug. It takes forever to ease it out, but when you do, a grin breaks over your face.

Two converters. Worse for wear, but it’s something. Not near what you need, but it still feels like a victory nonetheless. Carefully detaching them from the board, you hold them out for his inspection, cradled in your palm.

“Look at you, my little channel rat.”

His levity sucks all of the remaining tension from the room.

You grimace. “What did you call me?”

“A channel rat. Your little scavenging fingers, digging through the depths of a ship for a treat.”

Dismissing his teasing smile, you shake your head. “Didn’t you tell me once that those things reeked of piss?”

He chuckles. “I did indeed.”

Going back to the hole in the floor, you study the wires left behind for possible scavenging. “If you call me that even one more time, I’ll shoot you in the back.”

His grin widens at your deadpan delivery.

“Deal.”

–

Back in the safety of your own pod, you pull in deep inhales of fresh air as soon as you lift your helmet off. There is a certain sort of pleasure to it, feeling the recycled air hit your cheeks. Inside the helmet, it’s humid and sticky, the blower pack in your suit not enough to combat the heat from your body. It’s built to keep you cool, but under the helmet, your hair sticks to your nape and your forehead with sweat. Under the helmet, your stale breath blows back into your face. Under the helmet, you feel like you can’t breathe sometimes - which is ironic, given the reason for it in the first place.

Ezra stands close, tossing his helmet down to fumble with the zipper of his suit.

That sound. You can hear it in your sleep. No different than the sound of your own zipper being tugged down, and yet, somehow, it is. You envision the entire scene with startling clarity every night: his bare fingers working the clasp, his suit falling away from his body, the sound underneath it all.

“You good?” He checks on you, and when you nod your head but don’t say anything, he bends his gaze to your level. The stark lighting of the pod makes his eyes look even darker, and his hand comes to rest on your shoulder. Right at the edge of your neckline, the heat of his palm brushes against your skin. “You sure?”

“Yea,” you reassure him, trying to ignore the weight behind your navel his touch brings. “It went good. Really good.”

“I think so,” he replies. “I’m impressed. Our first job as a duo, gone off without a hitch.”

He winks, squeezing your shoulder for a brief moment. When his hand slides away, you stop your body from chasing it.

“Here.” His voice pulls you from your reverie, a cleaning kit held outwards towards you. “You do this, and I’ll do dinner?”

Nodding, you take it from him.

Cross-legged on your cot, you enjoy the sounds of domesticity filling the pod: the gentle scrub of your steel cleaning brush, the clink of a metal pan on the stove, a spoon swirling along the bottom of the pan as Ezra stirs. His humming joins the din, and you glance up at him.

If there was something that you’d never have expected from your first confrontation with the man, a scene like this would be at the top of the list. When your attraction initially began, it used to eat you up inside thinking about how you didn’t know him. You felt immature and foolish thinking about how the feelings were rooted in loneliness, sprouting from a life lacking attention and flourishing in close proximity. However, as scenes like the one in front of you became more common, it was easier to accept it.

The want that you feel coats the space like the dust that lingers in the air outside; ever present, in every breath you take. You try to ignore it, a small pocket of embarrassment bubbling up every time you think about approaching him, though he seems like the type who would be into whatever arrangement you’d propose. Especially given how long he’s been alone. Not only that, but the way in which he carries himself suggests he’s ever fluid, open for whatever comes his way. Adaptable, a side effect of his lifestyle you’re sure.

You know better though.

His carefree conversation is practiced, a facade. One meant to disarm and distract. You’re fairly certain he’s past that stage with you, given not only the amount of time you’ve spent together, but also the way he looks at you. Unguarded, in the morning after he wakes or in the evening, right before he goes to bed. Distracted, letting himself slip into thought, his eyes hooded as his tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip.

Sometimes though, sometimes you see him looking at you in the same way he looks at others: like they are something to study, his eyes keenly assessing.

That look always gives you pause. No matter how much you know he’d probably say yes, his motives are the question you’d really want answered.

Picturing the bare skin along his ribs that rippled in his stretch the other day when he emerged from the shower, you silently flex your hand, mentally fitting your fingers along the velvet skin. Safe in the secrecy of your own mind, you let your daydreams flourish – a bubble that pops when he approaches your cot.

“Not a feast, by any means,” he says, sitting down next to you. “But it’ll do.”

You accept the bowl gratefully, steam rising from its contents. He blows on his spoon, taking a bite. The motion makes his jaw work, and when he swallows, you watch through the fringe of your eyelashes.

“You did good today.”

His easy praise just slips off his tongue, and for someone who has spent so much time in the darkness, you keen under its light.

You smile over at him, and he returns it - but only for a fraction before it drops.

He looks away, down at his food. “The next one might be a touch harder.”

“How come?” you ask, your mouth full.

“Because it’s occupied.”

You stop chewing.

His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Unattended pods are a thing of rarity. Most are occupied, and their inhabitants can be…”

You raise your eyebrows when he doesn’t finish the sentence. “Can be…?”

“Protective of what’s theirs.”

His statement hangs in the air, his expression sober.

Swallowing hard, you sit with it for a minute. “Makes sense, I guess.”

“Look,” he sighs, studying you. “I feel I should go alone, little bird.”

Frowning, you let your bowl rest in your lap. “What? Why? It’s too dangerous.”

He huffs in amusement. “You wound me with your lack of faith in my skills. I assure you, I’ve been navigating such situations alone for far longer than you’ve even been alive.”

The reminder of his age compared to yours should make you feel more at ease about his capabilities, but instead the statement temporarily distracts you. You take in his calloused hands, the lines that edge around the corners of his eyes, the grey flecks in his beard.

“I’ve taught you a lot,” he continues, “But letting the idea marinate, I believe it’s safer to keep you here.”

His suggestion catches you off guard. Everything about your arrangement has been with the word “partnership” in mind: he’s taught you how to dig, how to shoot, how to be aware of your surroundings. For him to want you to stay behind versus alongside him must mean there is something more dangerous about the situation than he’s letting on.

Not liking the idea of being separated from him, you press. “Trust me, I don’t doubt your skills. I’ve seen you in action.”

He sits up straighter, a proud smile stretching his cheeks, and you roll your eyes, undeterred.

“You’re the mechanic, I’m the muscle,” you mimic in his voice. “Weren’t those your words? If there is anyone there, you’ll deal with them so I can get the converters.”

“I’m afraid they won’t part with them as easily as your statement suggests.”

“I never thought they would.” You hold his gaze, searching. “Why don’t you want me there?”

He hesitates, and you can see a war within the depths of his eyes. Eventually, he answers, his voice softer. “I don’t want to subject you to…an avoidable confrontation. Not if I don’t have to.”

A beat of significant silence fills the space between you. Your dinners forgotten, the space around you shrinks to the size of the cot that you share. The urge to toss your bowl onto the ground and pull him to you builds the longer you sit with his statement, but there is something else about his words that tugs at the back of your mind.

You picture him walking into the Green alone, disappearing from your sight. Weeks with him at your side has you rejecting the mental image. Your stomach churns, your hand reaching out to cover his.

“If you go, I go.”

A grimace flashes over his features, the scar along his cheek highlighted for a moment. “I thought you’d say that.”

Rationally, you know he’s just trying to protect you, but you let your hand fall back, hurt. Busying yourself with your bowl again, you can feel him looking at you.

“Hey now,” he says, soft, but stern. “It’s not a lack of faith in your skills, trust me. It’s just that mercs out here are ruthless, raw. Their sensibilities have been swallowed whole by this place, and I don’t want you anywhere near them.”

His voice lowers even more, his tone gentle. “You remember what I said? About girls being rare in this place?”

You look up, and his gaze is fixed on yours, earnest and serious.

“I meant it.”

Apprehension flickers in your chest, but you remain firm in holding your ground. He can’t go alone.

“You really want to come with?” he asks.

You nod instantly. “Yes.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up, a hint of pride flashing through his eyes.

“Okay then, partner. Let’s talk about a plan.”

–

Ezra shifts on his cot, forcing his pillow into submission under his head.

“If you go, I go.”

Your words echo in his mind, your face appearing alongside. Your presence pulls at him from across the short distance between your cots, and he shifts again, rolling to face the wall.

He doesn’t want you to come with tomorrow.

He knows what this place is capable of, the way it carves out the morals of men to leave them shells of desperation. He himself has fallen victim to it, and though he hasn’t often found regret in his actions, he already regrets agreeing to let you come. He’s been here long enough to know that a partner is crucial to survival, but you…you’re unprecedented. You’re a girl. You’re something no one has seen in a long time, and he worries (an emotion he’s not used to) about how they’ll react when they see you.

If it’s anything like the way he reacts to you, you’re both in trouble.

You stir behind him, and he listens. You shift again, and he stills his breath.

The idea that you might be restless with the want you sated last night blossoms in his mind, heat pooling behind his navel. His fingers lightly scratch the wiry hair underneath it, just over where he aches. His cock twitches in interest, and distracting himself from the thought of everything that could go wrong tomorrow, he immerses himself in the thought of you.

You, right behind him, feet away.

You, trying to be quiet, slick need gathering between your thighs.

You, slipping your hand underneath the band of your leggings.

A phantom stickiness smears across the tips of his fingers, and they twitch against his skin. He teases at the band of his thermals, pretending his hand is yours. He moves it slowly, imagining your hesitation - eager, yet shy.

He thickens fully at the thought.

Unpracticed at hiding his attraction towards someone, he’s testing the limits of his self restraint with every minute spent in your presence. Constantly reminding himself of how vulnerable you are, the idea that you’d go along with any sort of proposition out of intimidation makes him sick. But you wanting it? You making the first move?

His hand (your hand) creeps a little lower, brushing against the base of his cock. It’s stiff to the touch, and he closes his eyes – only to be assaulted with the idea of someone else grabbing your hand to force it underneath their pants. His erection wanes, a series of images flashing through his mind: you screaming for help, you being forcibly dragged out of his sight, someone else taking from you what you never offered.

He softens.

His attachment to you is something like he’s never experienced before. This urge to keep you hidden from the world to protect you, while also helping you flourish. The need that coats him from the inside out, yet is forced to stay on a leash. It feels like a fever dream sometimes, the time he spends in the pod with you. A liminal place, a trapped sort of existence akin to hell itself in the way he wants you, but also something akin to heaven.

A companionship he’s missed, a presence he ached for and now has. Like you dropped from the sky, meant just for him.

He hears you shift again, and he frowns.

He should roll over and ask you if everything’s okay, but he knows it’s not. You’re probably worried about tomorrow and you should be. You’re as ready as you’ll ever be — as ready as this place will allow you to become before you’re thrown into the heat of the fire.

He also shouldn’t because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop himself. If he rolls over, he’ll see you — see your shadowed form in the darkness, the dips and curves of your body. He pictures himself being drawn to it, crawling the distance between your cots. Settling close to you, feeling the heat of your skin. Murmured, dulcet tones of soothing. His hands smoothing away your nerves.

His mouth being drawn to yours in the dark intimacy of the night.

He wants to tuck your face into the crook of his neck and tell you it will be fine.

But he doesn’t know if it will be, and so he stays still, guilt eating at his restless bones.

—

The pod stands alone in the clearing, silent and imposing.

Boot prints have tamped down the soil surrounding it, the greenery eaten away. The tracks are fresh, and they lead in every direction.

“How many do you think there are?”

Hidden in the green together, you speak lowly even though no one is tuned into your frequency but Ezra.

“Hard to say. I’d judge two, maybe three.” He shifts, trying to get a better view. “The size of their vessel doesn’t say much for numbers. Can’t be more than that.”

“Do you think they’re in there?”

Noting no sign of life surrounding the pod, you try to peer in the windows from afar to spot any movement.

He sighs, a heavy and resigned thing through your connection. He turns his head, and you do the same, facing each other.

“Unfortunately, Birdie, we won’t know until we open the door.”

He checks the charge on his pistol, flicking his eyes to your weapon in a motion for you to do the same. “You ready?”

Nodding, you grip your thrower. “Ready.”

Standing from your hidden spot, he takes an automatic lead in front of you. His slinking steps are careful, his breathing steady and measured. The dust motes surrounding you make the whole thing seem like a suspended dream, like you’re moving in slow motion along with them. For every step he takes, you do the same until you’re moving as mirror images, creeping closer and closer.

Anticipation and adrenaline have your entire body on high alert, yet the green around you remains eerily calm. There is no movement and no sound other than the gentle rustle of the trees, and while that would normally be muted underneath the dome of your helmet, your straining ears pick it up. A bead of sweat glides down the back of your neck, your eyes focused on Ezra’s back as he reaches the pod.

His gloved hand strokes down the smooth metal of the hatch, searching for an opening. When he finds it, you can hear a terse smile in his exhale of relief.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “You gonna open up for me?”

He works the latch open with force, and you spot check the edges of the clearing. Your heart is beating so fast you can feel it in your chest, and in contrast, Ezra seems as calm as ever. You think about your own pod in the middle of a similar clearing, and how your role has reversed in your weeks here. Once the trapped person inside, now the intruder seeking what belongs to someone else.

The hatch opens, and you crawl in behind him.

It’s empty inside, though clearly in use. Two cots are pushed against the wall, blankets and pillows crumpled on top of them. Thermals litter the floor, metal dishes are stacked next to the small sink, and there is a station of cleaning tools left out, as if someone stopped mid-task.

“Speed is of the essence, little bird.”

His voice grounds you, your eyes immediately scanning the floor. It takes a minute to find the sealed compartment, but you catch the edge of it underneath one of the cots.

“Help me move this,” you ask him, picking your way over to the panel. While you’re careful with your steps, he stomps without care on anything in his way: discarded papers on the floor, a dirty shirt. He lifts the cot with a grunt, and you drop to your knees.

The panel springs open and sifting through the wires, you wish you stopped to take your helmet off. It’s hard to get close enough to the floor with the dome limiting how close you can get, and a small huff of frustration slips from your mouth as you stick your arm down, down, down, stretching it as much as you can.

Just when you’ve reached your limit, you feel the edge of the panel.

“Anything there?” He delivers the question calmly, though you can hear the slight tone of urgency that slips through.

“Got it,” you grit through your teeth, tugging it free.

The edges of it catch on the neat wiring that surrounds it, and impatiently, you tear through it all. Lifting it from the floor, your eyes widen.

“Ten. There are ten, Ez.”

You look up at him in awestruck wonder, and he returns a tight smile.

“Speedy now. Show me how you use those nimble fingers of yours.”

You click them off with practiced precision, trying to tamp down the elation that you feel at the added weight of each one in the pouch attached to your hip. When you have all ten, you toss the panel back into the nest of wires and slip the lid back into place. Standing to get out of his way, you watch as Ezra unceremoniously drops the cot back onto the floor.

He smiles at you, a genuine one this time. “You did so good, Birdie. So good.”

Relief floods your chest at his praise. Your stomach has been in knots all morning, worsening as you sat in the bush and waited, and though you know you’re not out of danger yet, you take a moment to let your victory wash over you. A sudden, fierce wish to be back in your own pod with him takes you by surprise, a burning need to throw your helmet off and have him do the same so you can kiss him. Your body subconsciously leans forward, drawn to the idea and to him and to the need to have his praise breathed directly into your mouth for you to swallow.

A similar look flashes across his own dark features, and there is a beat of weighted tension. It swirls in the space between you, filling it — and breaking, when he grabs your hand.

He gives it a squeeze, leading you back towards the hatch. “Come on. Before they get back.”

Following the back of his suit out of the pod, you notice the surroundings of the clearing seem brighter, less ominous. The dust that floats through the air no longer seems threatening and nightmarish, but more like a pleasant dream. You take in the details for the first time today, your eyes fixed where the tops of the trees brush the sky – disappearing when you’re ripped from behind with a sudden, forceful jerk backwards.

“Ezra!”

Your thrower gets tossed from your hand, and the air is pushed from your lungs as your back hits the ground with a thud. You kick wildly and try to scramble up, and a sharp kick from behind keeps you trapped in place, forcing you onto your front.

Coughing, you lift your head under the helmet, but the edges of the dome obstruct your view. Straining, you squirm underneath the heavy pressure of a boot on your back, fighting to see where Ezra is. You can see only his boots, toe to toe with a stranger’s.

The voice above you is grizzled and deep. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Looking for something we need,” Ezra drawls, and though you can’t see his face, you can picture it. The truthful admission comes out slow and confident. “We found it, so we’ll be on our way.”

You hear the charge of a thrower above you, and Ezra’s boots shift slightly. It’s a special sort of hell to hear him through the comm link without being able to see him.

“Go in there and see what the fuck they took,” orders the man pinning you to the ground.

You see his partner's boots walk out of your sight, and hear him climb the ramp to the pod.

“You stay right there,” he warns Ezra. “One move and I’ll shoot your partner here.”

Lifting your torso with a grunt, you shift just enough to get Ezra in your sights before the boot on your back forces you back down. Even though you’re prone and he’s being held at gunpoint—both at the mercy of a stranger—reassurance floods through you at just being able to see his face.

“That would be…regrettable.”

The shift in Ezra’s expression is cold and menacing, his fingers flexing slightly on the grip of his pistol.

“That so?” the man teases. His boot wiggles, shoving you deeper into the soil. “Feels kinda scrawny. Can’t imagine what use he is to you for someone so small.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ezra counters.

“Let’s see him.”

The words take you by surprise, just like the swift jerk of your shoulders. He flips you faster than you can react, his boots coming down to step on your arms and the tip of his thrower aims directly at your face – his eyes wide with surprise right above it.

“Is this – is this a girl?”

Your boot flies up to kick him in the back, and he grunts but doesn’t budge. You do it again, and he presses the muzzle of his thrower into your chest.

“Do it again and see what happens.” Antsy, he glances up in the direction of the pod and yells to his partner. “What the fuck is taking you so long?”

Taking advantage of his split second of distraction, you use every ounce of strength you have to bow your back off the ground just enough to catch him by surprise. His boots falter, taking the pressure off your arms and you quickly sit up, driving your elbows into his thighs. He growls in frustration, trying to keep his thrower on you while also bending to swipe for your leg, and you scramble backwards in the soil. Your boots slide on the damp earth, your gloved fingers digging into the ground for purchase and there is a sharp crack in the air as Ezra aims his pistol at the man and misses. You flinch, crawling backwards to get out of the man’s reach, and panic cuts through you when you hear the stomp of boots coming down the ramp.

“What the hell –”

Those are the only words the man gets out before you hear more cracking shots, and then he’s falling backwards, dead, onto the ground.

“You son of a bitch!” The man who had you pinned lunges for Ezra, his thrower tossed to the side, a knife in his hand instead.

Ezra abandons his own weapon, throwing himself at the stranger. You watch helplessly as two of them hit the ground, fighting for control of the knife. Crawling towards Ezra’s gun, you stretch your hand towards the weapon when you hear it.

“Just wait till I kill you,” the man warns between his teeth. “I’m gonna fuck that girl raw. Right here. Right next to your dead fucking –”

A grizzled choking sound cuts off the man’s words, and you whirl to face them just in time to see Ezra jerking the knife out of the man’s neck. Blood spurts across Ezra’s gloves, and he shoves the knife down again, and again. The force behind it is immense, Ezra’s face contorted in a look you’ve never seen before. His jabs are ruthless and quick, cutting and deep, and his arm speeds up, his face in a rage-filled trance, his eyes wild and cold all at the same time.

“Mine,” you hear him between heavy breaths, between each plunge. “She’s mine.”

Frozen, you watch in a morbid sort of fascination, but also in relief.

He doesn’t stop stabbing until the man is long dead.

—

The walk back to the pod is as quick as it can be, with Ezra’s weight leaning heavily on your side. All traces of joy and victory have long vanished, and the two of you say nothing to each other as you trudge along the hidden path.

His expression as he killed that man plays on repeat in your mind the whole way, along with his words.

“She’s mine.”

Though he’s trying to mask his pain, his grip on your hip tells you the truth, as does his labored breathing. You didn’t see it happen, but the man must have hit his mark at least once, judging from a telltale stain of dark red smeared across the front of Ezra’s suit. It seems to take forever to get back, and with every step, his wound gets worse and worse in your mind.

Finally back inside your pod, you strip and toss everything carelessly onto the ground.

“I need the med kit,” he groans, collapsing against the wall. His movements are jerky as he rips his helmet off, and then his gloves, using his teeth. “Fuck,” he sighs, his eyes pinched closed.

He’s pale, his sweat matted hair stuck to his forehead and you kneel in front of him with the kit, rifling through the contents.

“What do you need?”

His hand splays protectively over his lower stomach. “He got me through my suit, just here.” He shifts, a loud groan breaking free when he peels down the top of his suit. He rolls it to the waist, and gingerly pushing the fabric down, you see his thermals underneath, stained dark and saturated with blood.

He lifts it, and you wince.

“Looks worse than it is,” he breathes heavily, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“It looks pretty bad, Ez. Really bad.”

His stomach is matted and smeared with blood, and at the center of it all, a gash.

He holds his hand out for gauze, dabbing at the wound with a hiss. “See?” His stomach flinches, and he wipes it again before looking at you. “A stitch or two should do it.”

“You sure?” you ask, and he nods, letting his head fall to the side as he looks away.

“In you? Always.”

Your fingers tremble slightly when you flick open the med kit, and then rote memory takes over. You’ve done this – your father used to stumble home all the time with various gashes. Bar fights, brawls in alley ways. Prospectors are a rough crowd, and you’d stitched him up more than once. This is just like that, only better because you don’t have someone yelling at you to do it faster – but also worse, because you care about this person more. The thought leaps into your mind, and knowing you don’t have time to dwell on it, you shove it away.

Ezra flinches at the touch of your hand against his bare stomach, his muscles tensing under your fingers.

You pause, and he lets out a nervous laugh.

“Sorry. Cold hands.”

You give him an apologetic smile.

“Keep going.”

You take your time disinfecting the wound, making sure all traces of dirt are gone. Your hand sweeps across this skin more than once, trying not to think about all the ways you imagined touching his stomach for the first time. It’s soft under your fingertips, a slight round to his lean belly and though his neck is taut with tension, he remains still under your exploration. You want him to look at you: for reassurance, for acknowledgement of your hands on his skin – but he is resolute, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall.

Setting your rag down, you pick up the stapler.

“You ready?”

He nods.

Using one hand to pinch his flesh together, you brace the stapler against his skin, blood smearing on the metal. You punch the first one through, and he hisses, his hand gripping your wrist.

“Shit. Shit. Keep going.”

His breathing has turned into panting, his eyes clenched tight. You slide it along his skin an inch, and then punch another one.

The groan he lets out would be filthy, if not for the situation you’re in. It’s a strained, long thing — his head tipped back, veins highlighted along his neck and you toss the stapler to the side, pressing fresh gauze against the wound.

“All done. It’s done.”

He nods, a tired smile gracing his face. Leaning forward, he keeps one hand on his stomach and you watch nervously as he crawls onto his cot. He falls back onto his pillow, calmer now, but still pale.

“My thanks, Birdie.”

He slips into a stress-induced sleep, and you look at him for a moment before cleaning up.

At the sink, you notice his red hand print around your wrist. The blood had pooled between his fingers, the digits a slick slide over your small wrist and you brush your thumb over the marks he left behind. It looks violent, yet there is a part of you that likes it. Being branded with him, a part of him smeared into your skin.

You hesitate to wash it off.

—

He sleeps, and you keep watch.

You had worried for your father sometimes, but it was nothing like this. In the small amount of time that you’d come to know him, Ezra already meant more to you than your own father ever did.

In the dark, you finally let yourself dwell on the realization.

Your father had never truly been a father. He was more of a stranger, or a roommate at best. He dragged you down with him, keeping you close enough to use you when he needed. He was never invested in you, never cared what you thought or wanted. You never needed him for anything, but Ezra…Ezra you need. You need him to survive and get off this planet, but you also need him more than that. Deeper than that.

The respect and courtesy he treats you with is something that surprised you, given the way you met. In a short while though, you’ve come to realize it’s exactly what’s been missing from your life this whole time. His curiosity and interest is genuine, and his care for you — especially after the events of today — is obvious.

She’s mine.

Did he say that because it’s true? Or because he needs everyone else to believe it’s true?

His lashes flutter, a dream seemingly racing through his slumber and you watch the movement of his eyes under his lids. His fingers flex, and without thinking, you place your hand on top of his.

He stills, and so do you.

The minutes and hours slip by, the moon slowly making its way from one pod window to another and you keep your vigil all the while. He murmurs in his sleep, and you cradle the curve of his jaw. Even after he stops, you keep your hand in place.

Your thumb traces the line of the scar on his cheek - a hooked thing, violent. He never told you how he got it, and you long for him to wake up and regale you with the story. He’d make a meal out of it, you know he would.

When he doesn’t stir, you continue your exploration.

Delicate touches: a swipe over his silken eyelid, a trace down the line of his nose. The bristle of his moustache tickles the pad of your thumb, a direct contrast against the smooth patch of skin on his jawline where there is no hair.

He’s a killer, and you wonder how many have gotten as close as this.

She’s mine.

He’s right — you are. In a short while you have become his. The juxtaposition of the man you saw today versus the man in front of you now is jarring, as if he couldn’t be the same man at all. And maybe he’s not, for anyone else. But for you, he is.

You get both, and while you should have been scared by the way he savagely killed today, you instead find yourself proud. You find yourself drawn to it, admiration and assurance and a sense of protection swirling around in your mind.

He did that for you, something no one has ever done.

Emboldened by this knowledge and drawn to his profile in the dark, you rest on his firm chest, and your fingers splay outwards over his heart.

Leaning down, you press your lips lightly against his.

–

He’s been awake for a while.

He has wished for you like this so many times. Just like this, only he never imagined himself like this. Just his luck that his wish comes true, but at a cost.

You’re so close, your face hovering just above his. He can smell the sweetness of your breath, of your skin. The way you’re looking at him has been one he’s only ever seen in his dreams, and though his body aches with a hidden want that threatens to consume, he stays perfectly still, not wanting it to end.

He’s never been touched like this by anyone, and it takes everything he has to keep his eyes closed — until he feels you press your lips against his.

He responds instantly, his hand coming up to cup the crown of your head.

Your kiss is so soft — soft and delicate and vulnerable, just like you. Your mouth fits neatly against his own, and before he can truly savor it, it’s gone.

He opens his eyes and your shadowed form comes into focus, your proximity intoxicating. His dream come to life.

His hand slides down the back of your hair, settling on your neck. Holding you place, he can see the vulnerability that seeps out of your every pore, and he longs to soothe you. If he knew what he should soothe, he would.

He knows what he wants to soothe, but he waits.

“What are you doing, Birdie?” he whispers.

Your eyes flit between his, and you bite your lip, thinking. He watches as you war with yourself inside your head, and his touch drifts to cup your cheek. His thumb slides across the soft curve of it, and when his eyes dip to your mouth, he watches your expression change to something more assured.

Confident, resolute.

“This,” you whisper back, bending down for another kiss.

[iatetheglue]

Oh wow look a post I’m not dead

Take all of my doodles from the past couple months

You can tell which ones are older

[nereidprinc3ss]

promiscuous

in which spencer reid doesn't like that flirty!reader is going on a date. he makes that known. (bandages universe)

flangst, 18+ for discussions of sex warnings/tags: gn!reader I think, mentions of going to a bar/going for drinks, very suppressed mutual pining, jealousy from Spencer, reader implied to engage in casual sex, reader calls themself a slut somewhat disparagingly but like as a joke, it all gets resolved, he is very sweet, he rambles when he's nervous a/n: oh God I love them so much they are like so in love and they literally have no idea at all because they're so dumb... but WE can tell.. turning point for them

“Penelope wanted me to confirm that you guys are coming to drinks with us tonight?”

It’s something of a standing tradition for the BAU on the last Friday of every month, and usually you’d agree, but tonight, you have other plans. 

“Raincheck for me,” you say, sliding some files into your bag which you do not plan on reviewing. “I have a thing.”

“What thing do you have on a Friday night?” Morgan asks skeptically. You don’t bother looking at him as you hide a smile. 

“A date, Morgan. You jealous?”

“You’re going on a date?”

You’d nearly forgotten Spencer was in the room until he spoke—he’s been in one of those quiet moods of his where he sort of floats around everyone else and makes himself insubstantial. As you cast him a sidelong glance, trying to figure out his tone of voice, you see he’s frowning. Nearly grimacing. His brows are drawn so tight you’re worried he’ll give himself a headache. 

“Uh, yeah. I am.” Suddenly, your parade feels a little rained on. 

“With who?”

You pause, looking back down at your desk with a new frown of your own and shaking your head as if you could clear it that way. “Just… some guy from OT.”

“Dalton?”

Ding ding ding. Somehow he got it right on the first guess, and for some reason, you wish he hadn’t. You don’t want Spencer knowing who you’re going on a date with. It feels wrong. 

“Does it matter?” You evade, shoving your things with a little more force into your bag. 

“Well Dalton is an idiot, so I guess I’m just trying to figure out why you’d go out with him.”

“And if it’s not Dalton?”

“Then I’d tell you all the guys in OT are idiots and you shouldn’t waste your time on any of them.”

“Alright—” Morgan passes between your desks, placing a friendly hand on your back as he does. “I’m gonna let you two hash this out by yourselves.” He gives you a look, eyebrows raised, unsmiling, that means, go easy on the kid. It makes you feel terribly guilty. And more than a little defensive. 

“Night,” you call halfheartedly. He only waves as the glass doors swing shut behind him, leaving you and boy genius alone in the bull pen.

Silence falls, cloistering you as you finish packing up together. It seems to magnify the buzz of the overheads. You notice him intentionally lingering, and you sling your bag over your shoulder with a sigh. 

“Okay,” you say, turning to face him with your whole body. He seems uncomfortable with that, but you’re not letting this go. “What is this? Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” he mumbles, refusing to meet your eyes. “I just think—”

“Yeah. You’ve made your thoughts abundantly clear. I don’t know why you’re judging me for going on a date.”

“I’m not judging you! I just think you deserve better than a guy who looks like he… snorts protein powder for every meal and has less capacity for intelligent conversation than a mealworm.”

“Okay. Do you have someone in mind?”

The words come out a little sharper than you’d meant for them to. A little louder. Spencer looks like a scolded puppy as he swallows. 

“Not specifically. Just—someone more like you.”

He just doesn’t get it. You fold your jacket over your arm. 

“Yeah, well, until someone more like me comes along and asks me out, Dalton is the best I’ve got. I know he’s not my soulmate, Reid. But he asked me to drinks, and I said yes.”

The room is mostly dark. Only a few fluorescents remain on to cast Spencer in an almost clinical glow against a dark grey background. You’ve been here before. It feels like an interrogation. An environment where you’re practically begging for the truth without saying please, but there’s only room for measured dishonesty. 

Spencer speaks under his breath, fiddling with the strap of his own bag. “He’s not good enough for you.”

“What do you want me to do?” It’s an exasperated, confrontational sigh. Your arms raise and fall heavily back to your sides. Another long grey hallway of silence that leads nowhere. When it becomes clear he doesn’t have the answer, or he’s not comfortable sharing, you straighten. “I’ll see you Monday, Reid.”

Your spirits are completely dampened as you trudge to the elevators. What once seemed like an exciting opportunity now only serves as a depressing reminder that you’re wasting your time with a man who isn’t what you want. Maybe you should just call the whole thing off. 

“Wait,” Spencer calls, half-jogging to catch the open elevator. His bag bobs with every step, pens and things jingling around inside. It’s endearing, even though you’re upset with him. Your arms remain stubbornly crossed, but he makes it anyway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your mood.”

You laugh dryly. “Yeah, well…”

“It’s just that…” he sniffs and looks down, hair falling in front of his face. He really is sweet, even when he’s kind of a dick. He’s full of so much sincerity he doesn’t know what to do with it all. “I know how you are—you’re special, and funny, and intelligent, and, and Dalton—all those qualities are wasted on him. He looks at you and he just sees a pretty face. It may sound trite, but… he doesn’t deserve you.”

You sigh again, heart squeezing. The glowing light on the panel of floor numbers flickers. “I know your heart is in the right place, alright? But it’s not about who deserves me or who doesn’t. I’m not a prize. I’m a person, and people like to feel wanted. Sometimes, it’s just—it’s about who’s there, and who likes me enough to say it to my face. Sometimes that’s all I need, and I know you didn’t mean it like this, but when you say he doesn’t deserve me, it really seems like you’re not considering what I might want at all. Maybe Dalton is what I want.”

God—this elevator ride is like, comedically long. 

“Is he what you want?”

At least he has the bravery to ask. 

You glance over at Spencer, washed out bloodless and looking like he’s prepared to flinch, like he doesn’t know if he’s ready for the answer. The doors ding and slide open, and stale air whooshes from the chrome compartment into the lobby like a held breath finally exhaled. You swallow. 

“I don’t know why it matters to you.”

“Because you’re my friend and I want to see you happy,” he insists, trailing after you as you speed walk through the lobby. Every click of your heeled boots echos. 

“Then shouldn’t you be supporting me?”

“I’m not going to support you in making the wrong choice.”

The conversation spills out into the bitter-cold parking lot. You turn around to face him. 

“Respectfully, you have no idea what’s right or wrong for me. I don’t like whatever this is,” you say, gesturing with a finger between the two of you, as if the conflict were a tangible thing—a phone line hanging between your hearts. “I don’t know if it’s, like, jealousy, or some misplaced feeling of possessiveness, or protectiveness, or—”

“It’s not like that!” He splutters. 

“Okay—so what is it like? If you want to see me happy, why don’t you support me in pursuing the things that make me happy? And if that’s meaningless sex with some guy from operational tech, so be it! You are not in a position to give your two cents on who I sleep with!”

“I wasn’t trying to—I wasn’t even thinking about—about sex! I don’t care who you sleep with!”

He’s turning increasingly pink. 

“Fine. But if you weren’t thinking about sex, if you thought I was under any illusion that Dalton was going to be my fucking Prince Charming then clearly you’re not equipped to have this conversation. I know he’s an idiot. I’m not looking for my soulmate—thank you, though, for reminding me that it’s completely fucking pointless to even pretend. I love you, Spencer, but grow up. And stay out of my business.”

And with that, you’re turning on your heel and marching toward your car. Spencer calls your name—once. Twice. The wind lashes against your bare arms and stings your eyes as you fumble with your keys. 

It’s just the wind. 

Nothing else. 

-

Maybe you’re simply not meant for love. 

It’s a narcissistic thought in the sense that everyone has it at some point in their lives—everyone falls victim to the delusion that they are so uniquely wretched, so singularly incapable of being understood by another person. It’s the universal illusion of solitude. And you’d thought yourself above it for a long time. In college, there was fling after fling. Your bed was never empty if you didn’t want it to be. In your young adult life, you have other priorities—but you rarely have to be alone. 

Now, though, as you sit on a rickety metal stool deep in the bowels of the Bureau’s records room, banished to sort through files in search of one that had been mishandled during a cold case and is now supposedly relevant again, (although you’re not sure it actually exists) you’re pondering the nature of those connections you’d been so sure your life was full of. Were they all artificial? Designed by you subconsciously to manufacture a sense of complacent satisfaction? To stave off the aching, gnawing loneliness in your gut that you’re only now becoming aware of and has been eating you away in bigger and bigger bites since Friday night?

Morgan was supposed to be just as arm-deep into a box of dusty manila folders as you are now, but he talked his way out of it, and you’re sitting in an awkward twenty-minute-long-so-far silence with Spencer. Which isn’t helping anything. 

The tension comes and goes like the moon pulling the tides. It’s like you can sense it wafting off of each other—you feel it in the prickle on the back of your neck and the buzz in your stomach when he’s about to say something, and you glance over, and he’s already looking at you with his lips parted, and then he doesn’t say anything after all, and the silence reinforces itself. 

It gets frustrating. 

Not to mention this task is equal parts mind numbing and infuriating. Maybe Hotch just hates you. 

Eventually Spencer clears his throat, and you welcome the distraction. 

“What year are you on?”

You give him a long look which he doesn’t reciprocate, because you want to say, really? But eventually you pick up the edge of the box you’re sifting through and double check. 

“Uh… June 1979 through August 1979.”

He nods matter-of-facts. “They should be making us wear gloves.”

Your incoming tangent spidey senses are tingling. It’s not exactly an opportune time, but it’s better than silence. 

Plus—you’re pretty sure this is his idea of a peace offering. 

“Why’s that?” You mutter, flicking through yellowed papers. 

“Wood pulp paper contains an alum-rosin mixture to minimize ink bleeding, but in the presence of moisture such as that introduced in trace amounts by our fingertips it generates a diluted sulfuric acid solution. They didn’t start adding alkaline buffers into paper until 1986, and the cellulose chains that comprise the structure of the paper inevitably shorten and break down over time, so we’re actively degrading these documents by touching them without gloves.”

“Did you say sulfuric acid?”

“I said a diluted sulfuric acid solution,” he clarifies, utterly missing the point of your question as he so often does in that disarmingly endearing way of his. “Sorry, by the way.”

You look up from a photo of bloodied bell-bottom jeans. He’s caught you by surprise. 

“For what?”

“For—”

He struggles with the words—you watch his lips form a few silent ones before he gives up on the nonchalant act and sets his file on his lap. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from it, but you don’t mind. 

“For everything on Friday. I… I know it was none of my business. I sometimes struggle with… keeping my thoughts to myself. Especially when it concerns someone I care about. But I wasn’t judging you, I swear. What you said about—about sex, I—” he sighs, obviously frustrated with himself, and pushes a bit of hair out of his eyes. “That’s not where my mind was at, at all. Whatever you… do, or don’t do, is none of my business. Obviously. You don’t need me to tell you that. You don’t need me to tell you anything. I just really wanted to clarify that I wasn’t shaming you or judging you for—”

“Spencer,” you say gently, cutting him off and reeling him in before he can dig any deeper. 

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He glows under the canned lighting, a soft aura of white blurring the edges of him. The stale room buzzes. It’s otherwise quiet down here. Peaceful, almost. 

From anyone else, you might consider it overstepping. 

You wouldn’t have been willing to forgive them in the first place. 

But it’s not anyone else. 

“Thank you, for apologizing. I really appreciate it.”

He glances up at you, sort of hunched—always trying to make himself smaller than whatever force created him had intended. The deep brown of his eyes is melted and swirling and sweet and nervous. He’s not naturally good at these interpersonal things, but he’s always trying. He’s always pushing himself for you.

Do you ask too much? 

Do you offer enough in return?

Struck by sudden insecurity, you look away. Go back to your files. 

Perhaps you made a mountain out of a molehill and told him to climb it. 

“I mean, I am kind of a slut. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking so,” you laugh airily. “Maybe it was a good reality check.”

A trailing silence. An air conditioner kicks on. 

“What? That’s not—that’s not at all what I was trying to say.”

“Spencer, it’s fine.”

His stool squeaks as he sits up straighter. 

“No, I really want you to understand. Even if I cared or thought about how many people you might sleep with—which I don’t—and even if I determined that you were… sexually promiscuous, I wouldn’t assign a moral value to that judgement. Sexual promiscuity is observed all the time in the animal kingdom, it’s biologically sound and justified and in less misogynistic cultures where bonds forged between humans weren’t socioeconomic arrangements dependent on women being viewed as commodities first and foremost, it’s completely unremarkable. But I haven’t made that determination. All I know is that… you’re you. And that’s all that’s ever going to matter to me.”

Silence falls. Your voice gets stuck in your throat. 

How does he so casually show you more kindness than anyone else has ever managed to show you in your life?

Spencer takes pity on you. 

“And… we’ve talked entirely too much about something that’s none of my business today.”

It’s wry and earns a chuckle from you. Even Spencer manages a chagrined smile. That same strand of hair falls loose as he looks down. Light bounces from his self-effacing smirk. 

You fiddle absentmindedly with the fraying corner of a folder, and you’re about to open your mouth, about to speak into the sparkling cloud that the easy laughter and the melted tension has left in its wake, and tell him how much you appreciate him and how kind he truly is and undoubtedly whatever you say will be made more beautiful because of it—because of the affection you have for each other—and then you stop, eyes catching on the case file between your fingers. You frown. 

“Wait—what’s the case number we’re looking for?”

“91 18 00063 7.”

You hold the file up, eyes alight. 

“I found it.”

Spencer frowns and takes it without asking. You watch as he reviews the number in tiny black typeface along the top of the document. His brow scrunches in disbelief. 

“I genuinely didn’t think we were ever going to find it,” he murmurs after leading through the photos and glances back up at you. “We had thirty years of boxes to look through and you found it in under an hour. You’re like magic.”

It’s impossible not to smile. You feel all warm and sparkly as you snatch it back from him and stand, straightening your jacket. 

“Will you tell that to Hotch?”

“I… will tell anyone who will listen,” he assures you, and you’re confident he’s following as you make your way through the maze of stacks. “Are we not gonna clean up our mess?”

“There are people who will take care of that later.”

“Yeah. Like me. During my lunch break.”

“Don’t worry. You’re going to be well rewarded for your efforts today.”

“What does that mean?” He mumbles, and you can practically hear his blush. 

You smile to yourself. 

Still got it. 

for more of these two, check out the bandages universe masterlist!

[peaktora]

𝐂 𝐈𝐒 ��𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐘 ˚◞♡ ⃗ satoru gojo

𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬 ┊ your husband is unbearably clingy.

𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 ┊0.9k words. no pronouns used or specified gender for the reader. intended lowercase. established relationship (#married).

a/n. — i’m warning u guys right now that this is not proofread 😭 .. i literally just typed this up rq and posted it bc it’s been too long since i’ve last posted something on here

p.s. the prompt was in my notes from a longgg time ago, but i believe it’s from @/creativepromptsforwriting .. if not please lmk !!

"c'mere, hold my hand," satoru pleads for what has to be the third time. he pouts at you, who’s sitting on the countertop.

your brows furrow as you look up from your phone, "but, you're washing the dishes?”

he twists the faucet handle, and a steady stream of water flows down. after a brief glance at you, he places the plate beneath the water and says, "i know how to multitask, baby."

clinginess is defined as “the tendency to stay near someone for emotional support, protection, ect.” but there has to be another term for what satoru is, because you can't give any of those things while holding his hand right now.

you let out a deep breath and turn off your phone, watching as the screen fades to black. "satoru, there's no way i'm sticking my hand in that dirty dishwater," you say, sliding your phone into your pocket.

he practically shoves the plate into the drying rack. "i can't believe this," he huffs. "we literally had vows."

“what are y—“

“we had vows that said you’d love me in sickness and in health.”

"well…are you sick?" you ask, crossing your arms across your chest.

he pauses his task of washing dishes, leaving them untouched. leaning over the sink, he rests his arms against its edge. he steals a furtive glance at you, only to find your gaze locked onto him. with a hint of hesitation, he softly mumbles, "no..." before you can respond, he interrupts, "but i’m in health, and the vows said that you have to love and cherish me in this state too."

you lean back, searching your mind for what the alternative of holding his hand would be. because in no world would you hold his hand in dishwasher. then, it hits you. "for now, would a hug make you feel better?"

he answers your question with a hum, and you can't believe he's debating whether or not to accept your offer after all that drama over holding hands in dishwater. even so, he adds, "i'll have to give it some thought."

two can play that game.

“it’s okay,” you say, gracefully hopping down from the counter. a smirk spreads across your face. “i could just go—sit on the couch?” slowly, you start to walk in his direction and make your way over to the living room.

he doesn’t say anything, letting you do as you please. it’s not until you start to pass by him, that you get the reaction you wanted.

or atleast, somewhat similar to what you wanted.

"on second thought—" he exclaims, and the dishwater swirls around him as he turns around, his hands still wet and dripping.

you cringe as small puddles gather on the tiles. "hey—" but he interrupts you as he reaches out to grab your wrist. “ew—I—what the hell?”

you instinctively try to pull back, but he slips his wet hand in yours; sealing your fate.

“satoru—”

“what happened to nicknames?”

“satoru.”

"’m not sure who that is. i go by a lot of names, but not that one. lets go down the list, yeah?” he clears his throat. “i go by "babe, baby, swe—"

"you should consider adding "gojo" to that list."

"now, when have you ever called me gojo?”

"right now, in exactly ten seconds.” your husband gasps, hanging his mouth open. “satoru go—"

“woah woah woah—what’d i do to deserve this treatment?”

“you put your dirty dishwater hand in mine.” you jerk your hand back, struggling to escape free of his grip.

his grip tightens on your hand, “if you’re feeling like not loving me today then just say that.”

“hey—don’t discredit me. i offered you a hug and you said you had to “think” about it.”

“cause holding your hand ‘s better.”

you sigh, “after you’re done with the dishes, you can hold my hand as long as you want.“

he lets out a soft, thoughtful hum—the same hum that got you both into this situation in the first place. at the same time you shake your head, a mischievous twinkle appears in his eyes, and a smile twists onto the edges of his lips. "deal" he says, shaking your hand. “but before-“

you tsk, making him drop his excuse.

“wh—“

"the quicker these dishes get done, the quicker you’ll be able to hold my hand. so get on with it—go," you playfully command, and his grip loosens in response. seizing the opportunity, you slide your hand out of his grasp. you look down at it, seeing bits of food that’ve stuck to your palm. gross.

you walk over to the sink, feeling the cool water flow over your hand, washing away the food and dirt that clung to your skin. as you stand there, you hear satoru's voice grumbling from behind, "i hate doing dishes,” and you can’t help but snort.

before you know it, you feel his presence close behind you, his body pressing against yours. his arms encircle you, creating a cozy pocket of space between the counter and his body. satoru leans over your shoulder, gets a sponge from the soapy water, and starts washing a bowl. you simply lean back and look at his features.

the sight almost makes you want to stay in his arms forever. that is, until you realize the predicament you're in.

“you did not,” you whine. you desperately try to break free from the cage he’s trapped you in, but your attempts prove more and more pointless.

"oh, yes, i did," he declares with a smile. “what did you say earlier?" he clears his throat before proceeding. "the faster these dishes are done, the sooner you'll be able to hold my hand," he says, mockingly imitating your tone. "so, the faster these dishes are done, the sooner you can leave and do anything you want."

you sulk and moan while you reluctantly grab a dish and a spare sponge from the sink. “i hate you.”

“i love you more.”

[gh0stsp1d3r]

Logan is never one to stray from blood.

warnings: fem!reader, period sex, oral (f receiving)

A/n:. freaky ahh hcs. ☠️ im writing another logan fic rn so take these hcs while i do.

Masterlist | kofi

˚｡��୨୧˚ don’t even think of telling this man “stop, im on my period.” because he dgaf at all.

he looks at you, confused as to why that would stop him, hands still on them hem of your pants. He already knew you were.

“Okay?” He says with furrowed eyebrows, just continuing what he was doing, you whining and shoving his hands away so he finally stops.

˚｡⋆୨୧˚ you tell him that you don’t want him to see you like that or something?? he’s still confused as shit.

“Do you really think that blood is gonna stop me?” He asked you with raised eyebrows, you huffing and shrugging. “Do you not want to… or..?” He asks, slightly worried he did something wrong.

“I mean… I do, but I didn’t think that you wanted to see me like that. I’m just warning you.”

˚｡⋆୨୧˚ he straight up says “I don’t care about some blood.” And continues to rip off your panties.

˚｡⋆୨୧˚ logan is a #pussyeatingchampion. you wonder how tf he got so good then remember he’s got a couple 100 years of experience. lmfaoo. Anyways…

nothing changes when you’re on your period, he’s still eating you out like a fucking god. and a small part of him enjoys it even more than he usually does like this.

it’s messy, your hands gripping at his hair, his tongue lapping at your pussy like it’s his last meal.

˚｡⋆୨୧˚ and he fucks even better! he’s a lot more slow when you’re on your period, gentler even. he wants you to be comfy, and he doesn’t wanna do anything that would hurt you ):

He’s coaxing like 3 orgasms out of you, not that he ever wants to stop (if you get the reference LMFAOO) but he knows that he also has much more stamina than you do, so yeah…

You both end up having to sleep on the couch on those nights, the sheets messed up. You’re a bit embarrassed after, but he makes sure that yk he cares less about the blood, and as long as you feel better that’s all that matters. :>

your honor he’s my baby boy

[deadsetobsessions]

Edit: thank you @tetranationaltortoise for pointing out that the Red Spot is on Jupiter instead of Saturn! Fixed it! You’re not nickpicking, you’re providing very appreciated constructive criticism (and a basic fact check I should have done lol) <3

Danny, as usual, hadn’t meant to become the local cryptid. Local being extremely relative, as his locality in this instance is… space.

He just wanted to have some relaxation time. He just wanted to do some homework, chill on Mars or something, and then call it a day.

This hero business was taxing and Danny took his breaks when he could. Take that, work-life balance! Just kidding, Danny had no work-life balance. His life is a mess and he's overworked.

What was it that Superman had said in that one interview?

“Evil never sleeps."

Apparently, that also meant Danny never slept either.

“Hrk!” Danny snorted awake, looking around wildly at the vast expanse of space to see what woke him.

….

Yeah, that’ll do it.

In front of him, merrily floating through space, is the battered remains of what used to be an asteroid and a mecha that’s a weird combination of Gotham’s vigilante hero, Batman, and Metropolis’ Golden Boy, Superman.

The vibrations of the collision had shaken Danny awake.

Danny got up, baffled as hell and half asleep still. He floated to the giant Bat insignia tumbling around, inching closer as he saw the- oh hell, that’s so cool, it’s a plane!- cockpit and the passed out hero inside of it. Danny clicked his tongue, the sound swallowed by the lack of air.

He shoved the plane closer to earth, passing it to a bewildered (and both beat up and stressed out) Superman, who did a double take at the glowing green boy chucking him the Toy-maker Batplane.

Danny had waved, blinked out of visibility, and had gone back to his nap.

After phasing inside the plane and nabbing a batarang from Batman’s pouch, that is. Danny will consider it payment for the clean up service he’d unwittingly signed himself up for.

And so went the first encounter.

——

The second time he met the so called Big Leagues, Danny had just come back from fighting Dan. He wanted a break, dammit, and if staring at Saturn’s gorgeous rings and gaseous formations helped him sleep better, then that’s what’s going to happen.

Then, a similarly green glowing Green Lantern “landed” to where he was floating curled up. Danny knew about Lanterns. Their council often tried to meddle in his court.

“Hello,” the Ring projected its Lantern’s words to Danny’s head. Danny tilted his head without looking at the Lantern. “I’m John Stewart. What are you doing out here, kid?”

Danny thought this guy had a nice, soothing voice. Powerful, as Latern tended to be, but infinitely kind.

Danny decided that this one wasn’t immediately on his shit list.

“Phantom.” He said, and the Lantern asked him to repeat it as the glow of his ring enveloped the halfa.

“Phantom. Are you lost, Phantom?”

“No, just dead.”

John Stewart paused. “…Dead?”

“I’m a ghost,” Danny raised his hands and phased it through the Lantern’s arm.

“Ah,” the man said, flustered. “Right. So… you’re just…”

“Hanging out.” As he talked to the Lantern, Danny had a rather amusing idea. He rotated himself- turned- towards Jupiter and pointed to the Red Spot. “That’s actually my grave.”

John Stewart paused. “I’m sorry…?”

“My grave. Don’t disturb it. It’s rude,” Danny lied through his sharp ghost teeth. “Your council disturbed my grave the last time they stopped by and it took ages to get it back right.”

The green Lantern shield enveloping Danny flickered as John Stewart went through the five stages of grief. To be fair, the council had last visited this solar system... a couple thousand years ago, so John was no doubt rapidly doing some mental math regarding Danny's age.

“The council disturbed your grave…?”

“Not that they knew it, those pretentious weirdos.” Danny pretended to be offended, just to see the struggle on John’s face as he debated defending the council or telling a dead child their grave didn’t matter. Because Stewart was a hero, he went with the latter.

“I see. I am sorry, on their behalf.”

“Eh, whatever. Just make sure they don’t do it again. So… what can that ring do?”

——

"Hi. Could you not litter in space, please?"

Wonder Woman whirled around, sword out and pointed at Danny.

"A... child? Who are you, child?"

"I'm not a child-! You know what, it doesn't even matter. See that?" Danny waved at the pieces of shattered meteor and smashed up alien tech floating outside of the watch tower. "Littering is not cool."

"How did you get in here?"

"I'm Phantom. This is kind of my neighborhood." Danny let his mouth run, sleep deprived and exhausted. "I'm dead, that's how I got in here. Could you not litter in my backyard, please?"

He had better things to do than cleaning after full grown adult heroes.

"Oh, you are the ghost child Lantern mentioned! I see! My apologies, the clean up will be starting in a bit." Wonder Woman slid her sword back into its sheath.

"Great. Nice meeting you. I'll stick around to make sure you young whipper snappers clean up properly."

With that, Danny sunk into the floor. After a moment's deliberation, he decided to take a nap in the floor vent.

——

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Danny jolted awake once more. Ancients, like mentor, like mentee. Robin stared at him, awkwardly wriggling through the floor vents.

"I'm taking a nap here," Danny grumbled. "What are you doing in the vents?"

"Me? What are you doing in the vents? I'm allowed in here!"

"Wonder Woman knows I'm here," Danny replied. She knows... probably? "I'm Phantom."

"Robin."

"So... what are you doing?"

"Knowledge is power," Robin intoned, clearly imitating the Bat.

Danny stared.

"... You're stalking the JL?"

"Information gathering!"

"Stalking," Danny concluded, ignoring Robin's grumble. "Yeah, okay. If you need help, let me know, I guess."

"I don't need help." Robin paused, tilting his head to the side like a particularly curious bird. "Unless you're up for some pranks? Green Lantern's been getting on my nerves lately."

Danny frowned at him. "I like John Stewart."

"You've met- no, not him, the other one."

"Oh. What do I get out of it?"

Robin reached into his belt pouch and pulled out... a bag of marshmallows? How the hell did that-? Ah, right, hammerspace.

"Oh, wait, can you eat this?"

"I'm dead, not tasteless. I love marshmallows, hand it over. I'll help out."

"Deal."

——

"I swear to god, Spooky, there's something in the walls. It's even creepier than you!"

Batman grunted. He'd stop Robin if he went too far and it started affecting Lantern's abilities on the field, but as far as the Dark Knight was concerned, the Green Lantern had it coming. Robins were vindictive on a good day. If Hal hadn't learned that from Dick, then Jason's retaliation was well deserved.

"Oh, maybe it's the ghost!" Hal said, looking around with his ring glowing.

"I thought John said he was a godling?" Diana polished her sword as she looked on in amusement.

"The boy." Batman grunted. "Not human, his pointed ears and green skin is proof of that. Did J'onn say anything?"

"Not yet."

"Whatever he is, he saved Batman. He's welcome in the Tower," Superman tilted back as his hearing picked up on Robin's and Phantom's snickering.

[luvsupa]

“YOU’RE A STAR!”

tags: musician!choso x manager fem!reader, reader has a secret fan account, both are in 20, choso has lots of tattoos and is an r&b singer, he has piercings, smut (p in v), ōral sex (f!recieving), sub!choso (ish), voyeurism, etc. mdni.

w.c: 3,2k

a/n: YALL I’m almost at 2k LIKE THATS INSANEEEE!! TY GUYS SOSOS MUCHHH AHHH

+ erm if there’s errors lmkk

you sit in choso’s expansive dressing room, surrounded by his makeup and fashion assistants, eyes glued to the big screen as he finishes his final song of the concrrt. the sound of thousands of screaming fans fills the air, their voices blending with his deep, angelic one. even from back here, you can hear the unmistakable roar of the crowd, hanging onto every note he sings. the way he commands the stage, the way he moves—everything about him makes your chest tighten.

he looks unreal tonight, his stylist outdid themselves. the subversive, edgy look suits him perfectly, especially the ripped wife-beater that showcases his inked arms, gleaming under the stage lights. the body glitter you suggested—yeah, that was definitely a good call- catches the light in all the right ways, making him look out of this world.

you’re supposed to be his manager, maintaining some form of professionalism, but damn, it’s impossible when he looks this good. especially when he runs his hand through those messy brown locks , letting a few strands fall over his face. you bite your lip, trying to focus on anything but the way your heart races when he’s on stage.

the thought of professionalism slips even further when you pull out your phone, dimming the brightness low. not for work—no, not tonight. instead, you open the app you use to connect with his fanbase under your secret username.

chogetsmewetter

it still makes you smirk every time you see it. his fans had been relentless, trying to bribe you for the username. but it’s yours, and you're not giving it up for anyone.

chogetsmewetter: are u guys seeing how good he looks… need him immediately

responses flood in almost instantly.

chososwhore: baby, nobody wants him more than i do…

choochoo: y’all send videos of the concert plzzz :(

kamosbaby: my baby daddy lookin good on stage.

you’re too caught up in scrolling through the candid photos and fan reactions, smiling like an idiot, when the makeup assistant catches you off guard.

“what’s got you smiling like that?” she teases, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

you quickly shove your phone into your pocket, plastering on your best fake smile. “just checking cho’s schedule for next week. his brothers want to surprise him at the last show.”

it’s a lie, of course, but you’re used to spinning quick stories, and she just shrugs, moving on. but not without another jab. “girl, you love calling him cho, don’t you? does he let you call him that in bed too?”

your eyes widen as choso’s fashion designer giggles along with her. “guys, nothing’s going on. we’re strictly business—i manage his schedule, and that’s it.” but the words taste bitter, even as you force them out. nothing more. yeah, right.

the deafening cheers from the TV rescue you from any more teasing. all eyes turn to the screen as choso wraps up, thanking the crowd with that deep, velvet voice of his. the camera zooms in on his face, his lips curling into a soft smile as he waves and blows kisses to the adoring fans. gosh, he’s perfect.

a few moments later, the dressing room doors swing open, and there he is. choso, in the flesh, followed by his bodyguards. his team erupts in cheers, swarming him with praise, but you move to the back in the corner, blending into the background. moments like this are too chaotic for you, but you know you’ll have your moment later, probably on the tour bus.

amidst the chaos, his eyes find you, and he frowns a little when he sees you typing away on your phone, oblivious to the world. he doesn't know, of course, that you're replying to posts about him.

before you can finish your latest message, you feel him standing right in front of you, towering over you. the air feels thick between you two, and you curse internally as you slip your phone into your pocket once again, heart racing.

“you forgetting something?” his voice is low, teasing, as he glances down at your hands.

you quickly shake your head, trying to play it cool. “c’mon, cho, you know i’d never survive in that crowd,” you say, nodding toward the gaggle of team still dying for his attention.

his hands, cold from the stage, slide into yours, pulling you just a little closer. you swallow hard. “i knowww, but your support matters the most outta all of ‘em,” he says, rocking slightly, his lips curling into that perfect half-smile. the one that makes your stomach flip.

he smells incredible, the scent of his unreleased cologne wrapping around you, making your head spin. you smile, turning away, but he moves with you, trying to catch a glimpse of that smile.

“c’mon, let’s grab dinner. my director’s waiting,” he says, releasing your hands, and you instantly frown, missing his touch.

you follow him and his bodyguards out, offering a quick farewell to the makeup and fashion team. they don’t miss the chance to wink at you, clearly still enjoying the teasing.

as you near the exit, the noise outside grows louder—fans desperate to catch one last glimpse of choso. this is the part of the night you dread, knowing how insane the crowd can get. but when he looks over his shoulder and gives you that grin, the chaos doesn’t seem so bad.

two guards swing open the doors, harsh light flooding in as flashes from cameras blind you instantly. the screams grow deafening, and you brace yourself. this is always the worst part—being unable to see, disoriented, as the paparazzi go wild trying to capture every inch of choso’s presence.

but choso? he thrives in this. he’s in his element, beaming as he dives straight into the crowd. signing albums, posing for photos, accepting gifts—he eats it all up. you trail behind one of his bodyguards, eyes flickering to where he’s standing. your heart clenches as you catch sight of him—his lips locked with a fan.

you swallow hard. it’s not the first time. he always does this with her—his so-called “number one fan.” he remembers her face, her name, every single time. each time he kisses her in front of his adoring crowd, it feels like a punch to the gut. the fans love it. the media laps it up, turning her into a minor celebrity among his fandom.

how do you know? through your secret fan account.

you scoff quietly to yourself as you slip past the crowf, making it safely onto the tour bus. heading straight for the private area at the back, you drop your bag onto one of the leather couches, sinking into the seat by the window. from here, you can still see him outside, giving the fans hugs, taking endless photos. you watch in silence, jealousy simmering just beneath the surface.

finally, after what feels like forever, choso steps onto the bus, breathless and flushed. he walks down the aisle toward you, eyes gleaming with excitement.

“fuckkk, they’re amazing,” he groans, collapsing onto the couch beside you, still riding the high from the crowd.

they’re amazing? or she’s amazing…

you force a smile, eyes glued to your phone. “you looked like you were having fun, choso,” you mutter, distracted by your personal texts. his head drops back with a groan. one thing he can’t stand is when you don’t give him your full attention.

before he can start whining, one of the fashion designers calls your name from the front of the bus. you sigh, getting up quickly to see what the issue is. in your rush, you leave your phone behind on the couch.

choso watches as you walk away, eyes narrowing when he sees your phone lying there. you never leave it behind, always keeping it close, and curiosity gnaws at him. his leg bounces as he contemplates it. fuck it.

he snatches your phone up, eyes widening as the first thing he sees on your notification center is all he need to see.

[chogetsmewetter] new like from choochoo and 100+ others:

I need to fuck choso nowww, he’s so fuckin hot it’s not fairrr.

damn.

a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. so that’s why you’ve been acting weird. he sets your phone back down just as he hears your footsteps returning.

you return, completely unaware of what just happened. “choso, they said we can’t leave until another hour—” you start to explain, but he’s not listening. his thoughts are elsewhere, his leg bouncing slightly as he bites the inside of his cheek.

“how do you want me to fuck you?” he suddenly blurts out, his voice low and dark.

your eyes widen, body stiffening as his bold words hit you like a train. you fumble for the curtain, pulling it shut so the driver can’t hear.

“w-what the fuck are you talking about?” you stammer, your breath catching in your throat. his dark brown eyes lock onto yours, unwavering. he doesn’t need to say it—his gaze tells you everything.

he knows.

panic rises inside you as you glance toward your phone and then back to him. he nods slowly, confirming your worst fear. he found out.

“so… are you those shy freaks…” he asks casually, standing up from the couch. his towering frame looms over you, and your world feels like it’s shrinking as he removes his leather jacket, revealing his tattooed, muscular arms.

“y-you wanna do this here? in front of the fans?” you whisper loudly, eyes darting toward the windows that are now covered by the blinds.

he chuckles, low and wicked. “you didn’t seem to care posting your dirty thoughts in front of me.”

and he ate with that one.

just like how he’s now devouring you in the back of the tour bus. you’re nestled on the couch, right in front of the curtains that separate the chaos outside from your little world. choso is on his knees, going at you like a possessed man. your legs are pushed tight against your chest as he laps up your juices, sucking and swallowing your sweet fluids. his cold nose piercing nudges your clit as his tongue thrusts deep inside you at an inhumane speed. any trace of shame has long evaporated, replaced by his loud moans vibrating against your cunt, making your eyes cross slightly.

your hands tangle in his silky brown locks, tugging gently, which earns you a whimper as he pulls back, your essence and saliva coating his chin and glossy lips. “mmm, p-pull on it more, pretty,” he urges, gazing up at you with doe eyes, brows furrowed in concentration as he loses himself in you once again.

obeying him, you tug harder on his hair, bucking your hips against his face while his hands grip the back of your thighs, pushing you deeper into your chest. he’s growling now, lost in the pleasure he’s giving you.

“yesss, f-fuck, you’re so goooddd,” you praise, head thrown back as he slurps at your juices like a starving man. he pulls away to admire your twitching hole, his fingers parting your folds wider. he spits a wad of saliva directly into your gaping pussy, making you clench instinctively as he slides in two thick digits, effortlessly gliding through your sloppy walls. his thrusts are calculated as he studies your features, which are now squeezed shut in bliss.

“hmm, she’s fuckin’ wettt,” he comments, your pussy responding with loud, squelching sounds that fill the back of the bus, echoing your mess. “hahh, you put that username to use,” he taunts, your body burning with embarrassment. his thick fingers pick up speed, massaging that sweet spot, and your back arches off the couch, your lower tummy tingling as your breath quickens.

choso can sense you’re close, the way you tighten around him. suddenly, he sucks hard on your clit, swirling his tongue around your poor nub. you cover your mouth with your hands, muffling the moans that threaten to escape .

just before you can cry out his name, he pulls his fingers out, leaving you undone. he retreats from your soaked clit, watching your translucent essence dribble down your convulsing hole, spilling onto the couch. your breath hitches as he delivers a sharp slap to your pussy, jolting electricity through your body, and the sticky remnants of your orgasm cling to his palm, igniting an insatiable addiction to your sensitivity.

“nahhh, is this the wettest you can get?” he says, rising from his knees and unzipping his jeans, pulling his throbbing cock free from its confines. your mind goes blank at the sight. fuck, he definitely never lied about his size, especially in his songs. choso sits beside you, manhandling you onto his lap, your pussy pressing against his hard cock as you whimper,

this is really happening.

“ride me, darling—use me all you want.” he states, and it feels like you’re living out your dirtiest dream, because yu are. he leaves trails of kisses along the side of your neck, his glossy lips—coated in your cum—smudging against your skin. you stare down at his shaft, his leaky tip begging to be touched. raising your hips, you grab the base of his cock, making him wince as you align his rosy tip with your drooling entrance. his crownhead stretches you open, and you whimper at how big he is with each inch you take. your velvety walls accommodate his size, practically expanding as he settles into your pussy.

without warning, choso grips your hips, slamming you down against him. you wail as every inch of his cock plunges deep inside your walls, and he moans at how tight you are around him. “f-fuck, baby, takin’ so fuckin’ l-long,” he says impatiently, thrusting up into you as each movement leaves you more dazed and breathless.

with newfound courage, your hips immediately fuck back into his, faster than his sloppy thrusts, making his eyes roll back in pleasure. your grinding drives him wild, your pussy gripping him like it’s life or death. choso’s head falls back, broken moans slipping past his lips, his adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to hold back even more sounds of ecstasy.

you can feel the heat building between you, his cock stretching you further with each thrust. you grind down harder, relishing the way his body responds, each movement causing him to whimper and squirm beneath you. his hands grip your waist, guiding you, but you can tell he’s losing himself in the sensation, growing more ditzy with every upward thrust.

“c’mon, baby, ride me h-harder,” he begs, voice thick with desperation. his eyes fluttering as he’s moaning loudly. it’s intoxicating, watching him come undone because of you. you match your pace to the rhythm of his moans, your slickness coating him more with each thrust. the sound of your bodies slapping together drowns out the cheers of the fans outside, your pussy so noisy it’s almost too loud for your own liking.

“mmm, keep your eyes on me, pretty boy,” you purr, brushing your fingertips through his hair, tugging a big- earning a whimper at the pet name. you can see the way he bites his lip, trying to hold back more moans, but you know he won’t last long.

“hgn, you think jus’ cause you’re on top ‘m your bitch?” he groans, the tension between you two thcick. his gaze is wild, pupils dilated, and it only drives you further as you increase your pace, your hips slamming hard against his thighs, coating his throbbing base with your slickness. you giggle as he pathetically moans out, hands gripping your flesh tighter as you grind harder. his chubby tip sloppily kisses your cervix, sending shockwaves through your body as it begins to shake.

the way he reacts to every thrust, every grinding motion sends a thrill down your spine. he’s completely lost in you, his breathing ragged and unsteady. “y-you feel so good,” he stammers, voice breaking as he struggles to keep his focus, each word laced with pleasure. you smirk, feeling powerful, proud at the control you have over him.

“mhmm, ‘m starting to think y’er all talk, cho. you’re not showing me how you’d fuck me,” you taunt, leaning in his ear and tugging on his ear piercings, making him shudder at your seductive voice.

your words truly did something to him, awakening something much darker within. without hesitation, he carelessly picks you up, sliding his cock out of your hole as he slams you against the table adjacent to the couch. bending you over, he realigns himself with your hypnotizing cunt, the air thick with the heat of your lust. choso slams his entire length into your pussy, the sound of slickness echoing in the cramped space as your body squelches loudly, both of you moaning in unison. he grips your hips tightly, pounding mercilessly into you, each thrust sending shockwaves through your body as you cry out, not caring if the bus driver or any staff hears your cries of pleasure.

“cunt so good,” he growls, feeling you clamp down hard on his girthy length. his moan resonates deep within your core as he swats your ass, the sound of skin meeting skin sending electric jolts through you. he feels like he’s deep in your guts, rearranging everything inside you, each thrust making your pussy squelch obscenely. it’s so loud that it drowns out any sounds from outside, the wet slaps of your bodies merging into a symphony of lust. you’re practically squeaking like a damn mouse with every thrust, your body unable to contain the pleasure coursing through you.

without warning, he grips your hair and pulls you up against him, his mouth brushing against your ear as he whispers, “take it all, mama. you can take it.” his words send a shiver down your spine, the duality of his sweet yet dominating tone intensifying your arousal. you nod, feeling yourself surrender completely to him, wanting nothing more than to be his.

“m-more cho’ ,” you whine, and he responds with a primal growl, his hips slamming into yours harder, faster, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. his movements are relentless, each thrust a story to his desire, his need for you. you can feel the tension coiling tighter within you, the pressure building to a breaking point.

but then, in the midst of your euphoric bliss, you slowly open your eyes, and your jaw drops in shock. he placed you directly in front of the window, where all the fans are just outside, oblivious to the scandalous scene unfolding inside. the reality of the moment crashes over you, and you gasp, suddenly aware of the possibility of being seen.

“c-cho… the—fuckk—the fans,” you manage to warn, your entire body jolting with his relentless thrusts, each one motivating him to go even faster, to claim you harder.

“nahh, now you wanna back out?” he snarls through gritted teeth, going absolutely feral. his grip tightens as he reaches to grab the back of your hair, pulling you flush against his chest, forcing you to take him deeper. the blinds rattle as he yanks them open wider, letting in more light for the fans to see everything happening inside. the flashes from paparazzi cameras blind your vision as they snap multiple shots of your fucked out expression, choso grinning behind like a devil at each click.

“say cheese, pretty. you’re gonna be a star,”

[jjongslutz]

이희승 HEESEUNG 💋 YOU'RE STILL A VIRGIN? [ MDNI. ]

IN WHICH you realize you never completed your most important new year's resolution: losing your virginity. luckily, your roommate is willing to help you out with that

WARNINGS ⨯ smut, porn with a smidge of plot for context, not proofread cuz who needs that, fingering, orgasm denial (briefly), missionary, very vanilla sex, heeseung's kinda awkward #pathetic_men

WORD COUNT ⨯ 3.1k

AUTHOR'S NOTE . . . first work of the year!! sorry for taking an impromptu break so suddenly, but my works will still be coming out slowly as of now, so thank you for your patience 🫶

# TAGLIST ! @wonkifangirl @chlorinecake @sunjaywoning @jaeyunthejakesim @deobitifull @notevenheretbh1 @jvngw0nlvr @jongszn @ineedsomezzz @haelahoops @seongslutt @fakeuwus @leeheeheeseung @aheewonenthusiast @lprww @wonsbaer @heeseungssidechick @smisworld @rayofsunshineeee @starrypen @heerated @snwosgf @nycapartmentsworld @sooyeonvida @dear-hoon @nikiiitties

“We never finished sharing our new year’s resolutions.”

You stop mid-bite into your pancakes. You and Heeseung had spent all morning making them, finally testing out the new oven you got after the last one broke down during another pancake morning. It survived, luckily. There’s only the taste-test left, but Heeseung’s comment catches you so off guard, you put the fork back down.

“New year’s resolutions?” you repeat. “You mean the ones from basically last year?”

He nods, shoving his first bite in. He hums at the taste. Success. “Yeah, we made those lists and started sharing but then—” Heeseung tilts and quirks his brow in thought. “—I can’t even remember. We probably got distracted, but either way, we never made sure we both completed our lists.”

Chuckling awkwardly, you keep your eyes on the plate. “I don’t even know if I still have mine—”

“I do,” Heeseung interrupts. “We put them in that box, remember? I found it this morning, that’s why I thought to bring them up, ha.”

“You didn’t, er, read them, did you?”

Heeseung shakes his head, chewing through another bite. “I thought it’d be fun to go through them and see what we’ve done or not.” He lightly taps his fork around his plate. “We’ve got a few days before the new year starts, no plans, I don’t know…”

“No, no, yeah, I get it,” you assure, nodding quickly. “I just, um, they were stupid. I was stupid. This year changed me, you know?”

Your roommate looks at you with a teasing glint in his eye. “Oh yeah?” He watches you nod again. “All the more reason to get them.” And before you know it, he’s rushing to his room to, you assume, get the box he’d mentioned earlier.

It’s not long before he’s practically skipping back into the kitchen-dining area bringing the box. Tossing his plate aside, he sets the box in between you two and sits back down. You’re anxious at how he unfolds the lid and pulls out two sheets of crumpled paper.

“Yours was the one with the rip at the top,” you say, reading the questions in his mind. Your face flushes as you realize that’ll only prompt him to take it out the other first.

He smiles at you before hiding his face behind the paper. He begins to read it out loud. “Resolution one: Learn how to make (good) pancakes—” Grabbing his fork, he clinks it twice against the porcelain. “Check. Number two: Make weekly savings—Check, right?”

You hum, your leg shaking beneath the table.

“Alright, and then—” He lowers the paper. Your eyes widen. “Lose my virginity?”

“Okay!” you say overenthusiastically. “See! I was being stupid, such a dumb thing to write on a new year’s resolution list, right? Haha, so funny, let’s just throw these out—”

“Wait, but we can cross this off, though, right? You had that boyfriend?”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” you clarify. “He was… gross. I never really liked him like that, so it just never happened. It’s whatever, I’m a virgin, okay, let’s move on. Isn’t the next thing I put down like eat more salads—”

“You’re still a virgin?”

You look at him bewildered. What was up with the intonation? Was it really shocking? Why does he even care? You suppose he’s always been the nosy type, just never assumed it would translate to this, as well.

He seems to realize the second meaning to his words and fumbles to take them back. “Okay, not like—I didn't mean it in a weird way, I’m just surprised that you’re... you know?”

“It’s… whatever,” you clarify. “It’s fine. It’ll happen at the right moment, right? That’s what they all say.” You'd shovel another bite into your mouth and you can’t help but taste the bitterness from your words with the sweetness of the syrup. “I’ll get over it when it’s done and gone.”

Heeseung clears his throat, paper discarded to the side, his eyes fixed on your plate in deep thought. “Do you…”

You raise a brow.

“Do you want my help?”

-

In your defense, you really hate being a virgin. Not that it’s embarrassing or shameful to be one, but the fact that you swore to yourself that you wouldn't be a virgin anymore since last year makes you want to crumble up inside.

You just don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your past self. Imagine her laughing at you? That’s a new low.

Which leads to this moment right now. Laying in Heeseung’s bed, in Heeseung’s room, waiting for Heeseung to come back into said room with the “supplies” he was rushing out to get.

The door slowly swings open as Heeseung pushes it with his back, his hands full. He makes eye contact with you and a pout makes its way across his lips. “You’re still wearing your clothes?”

Your eyes snap open wider. “Yes?!”

“We’re gonna have sex, Y/N, your clothes aren’t supposed to be on.” He smiles at you as he sets down lube and condoms.

A wave of relief washes over you when you realize he’s just teasing. Heeseung’s a gentleman, but it’s not like you've gotten the chance to know the side of him you two swore to never let you meet. He could’ve been a weirdo creep for all you knew, as long as he was paying his half of the rent it never mattered until right now.

“Do you want me to turn around when you take them off?” Yep, just the same old awkwardly sweet Heeseung you’ve always known.

You smile, albeit nervously. “You’ll see me naked anyway, might as well put on a strip performance to get you in the mood.”

He laughs at your sarcasm, then points to the lights. “We could turn those off if you want.”

For a moment, you consider it. If not for the hopes of Heeseung seeing the least possible, but for the ambiance. Do people leave the lights on or off during sex? Not like you know. Ultimately, you shake your head, getting off from the bed and sticking your hands under the hem of your shirt. “Ready?” you ask him, though the question is more internalized.

His hum is muffled by his hands reaching at the collar of his shirt.

At once, you two pull your shirts off together.

Standing bare chest to bare chest - with bra - you eye him carefully. “You take your shirt off from the top?”

“What?”

You mirrored his previous action. “You took your collar and pulled your head through the neck hole first—” your words muffle as you reenact it sloppily. “Normal people take their arms out first.”

Heeseung stiffles a laugh behind his hand. “Aren’t you supposed to try to seduce me?”

“Is this not sexy?”

“Oh, please, go on, you’re making me hard.”

The two of you laugh and you realize you’re not so nervous anymore. The anxious jitters left your hands and you can feel your muscles relaxing. It’s just Heeseung. Just Heeseung.

As he recovers from a fit of laughter, you look at him in a way you haven’t taken the chance to ever since you met almost two years ago. His arms that flex when he wraps them around himself. His smile which switches to a sly smirk when he’s resisting the urge to laugh louder. His hair that falls neatly into place, over his eyes that glint to the point you can’t take your gaze away from them.

Heat rushes to your cheeks.

He’s attractive. Yeah, that’s been obvious.

Your type? Maybe…

But this is different. And, oh god, he’s going to have sex with you.

Heeseung clears his throat, snapping you out of your daze.

“Pants?” he asks cautiously. His eyes are brimmed with concern, probably sensing your confused thoughts, clearly not understanding what you’re telling yourself.

You respond by tugging at your sweatpant laces, letting them drop down dramatically. Heeseung keeps his eyes glued to your movement, eyes widening at the sight of your bare legs and white panties. He quickly reaches for his belt.

To your surprise, you can see that he’s, at the very least, getting hard. Maybe it’s nerves. You try not to think too much about the possible influence the sight of your almost-bare body has on him.

Still, to test the waters and ease or completely disrupt your mind, you ask, “Can you help me with my bra?”

He fumbles an answer, you’re pretty sure you hear a ‘yes’ through his blabs, as he kicks out of his pants fully and stumbles to your side of the bed. You turn your back to him, giving him the cue by raising your hair away from the clasp.

Shivers run down your spine at his gentle, warm touch on your skin. You never knew you were sensitive, but with every simple movement, every brush against your back has you feeling goosebumps running up your arms.

Heeseung’s breath is hollow behind you.

When the clasp is finally undone, you pull your arms out of the straps, letting the material drop to the floor with your other discarded clothes.

You turn to face Heeseung, his eyes saying more than any words could mean. Stunned, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” you whisper in return, eyes drifting down to his mouth.

He doesn't hesitate to lean in. His arms naturally slide around your waist, pulling you flush against his body as his lips hungrily crash into yours. You gasp through the initial shock of ferocity, relaxing into his hold with your hands coming up to the nape of his neck.

His fingers squeeze your skin pulling a sound from your mouth, muffled by his lips. You don’t even notice the way his knees push you back until you’re laying on the bed, lips still attached to Heeseung’s, but even those pull away eventually. You almost get up onto your elbows to chase after his touch, but stop yourself at the sight of his intense gaze.

Your gazes lock with each other for a moment, before he finally breaks contact to rush to the bedside cabinet where the lube bottle sits. He pours a generous amount on his fingers, rubbing the gel slowly. He eyes the way it reflects the light and this one reaction makes you think he’s never seen it before, but you doubt it — you’ve heard his sexual escapades thanks to your graciously thin walls.

“I’m going to finger you first,” Heeseung interrupts your thoughts.

You simply hum in return, letting your legs fall apart for him to get back into place, between them.

Heeseung has one hand on your thigh, the other levitates over your skin with nearly-dripping lube, but his eyes are on yours, waiting for another nod before he can continue.

Giving him the signal, you aren’t prepared for the chill that runs down your spine at the cold sensation of the lube on your sensitive skin. Soon enough, though, your gasps turn to gentle hums as Heeseung draws little circles on your bare pussy.

“This okay?”

You nod needily.

One finger finally intrudes, swimming through your walls and curls to find that certain spot. Your hips roll into it—you never thought it'd be this different from your own fingers.

“More,” you whimper.

“Already?” Heeseung teases, but you can hear partial genuinity in his tone.

Wordlessly, your hand reaches down to his, pulling at it to get another finger inside of you.

Heeseung chuckles in disbelief, but doesn't disobey your request.

Two fingers in and you’re letting soft gasps escape your lips, eyes already threatening to roll back at the rhythmic pattern Heeseung’s keeping up. He pushes in, pulls out, pushes back in and curls into you. You match his pace with your hips, hoping to deepen his touch. He’s so close, so close to where you need him.

Meanwhile, his thumb rolls gently over your clit to ease the tension of the stretch. It helps, making your head spin and forcing you to focus entirely on the pleasure you feel, rather than the pain.

Heeseung doesn't warn you when he slips in a third, but you’re busy throwing your head back, moaning to tell him off for it.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the ceiling. “‘Is so good.”

Your back arches as Heeseung’s fingers reach your G-spot, curling and tickling the bundle of nerves, ripping out more muffled moans, your hand thrown to your mouth not to disturb the neighbours.

“Right there!” you moan. “Right—shit, yes—Right there!” When he keeps at it, you can't hold on much longer. “Fuck, I’m so close—”

And then it’s gone.

All the pleasure is ripped away from you as Heeseung pulls out of you coldly, barely looking your way as he turns to the bedside cabinet.

“Hey,” you whine, albeit childishly.

It’s as if something clicks and he turns back to you. “Sorry,” he singsongs out. “I didn’t want you to come so soon, I still have to actually fuck you, right?”

You pout, but ultimately he’s right. That’s what you're here for. “Fine.”

He fumbles with the condom packet, eventually giving up at going at it with his lubed-fingers and rips the package with his teeth.

“I could’ve helped,” you tell him, smiling teasingly.

“I got it. I got it.” He waves his hand at you before he uses that same hand to roll down the condom and—Holy. Shit. He’s packing.

You never took the time to think about his size, though you probably would've determined it was a decent size from the outline of it when he's chilling on the couch with sweats on.

But now that it's out, hard and flush against his toned abs? You take a deep breath and try not to think too much about how it must taste, how it’d feel to have him down your throat—as if you even know how to give a proper blowjob. Maybe he could guide you, holding your head from the back and pushing it back and forth rhythmically up and down his cock and—

“Y/N?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you’re sure about this?”

He’s pumping his cock as he asks. You resist the urge to lick your lips.

“Yes,” you say. “I’m ready.” And there’s no lie in your words.

Heeseung crawls back onto the bed once more, staying on his knees when his body is lined up with yours. He nods to himself and you before lining up his dick with your entrance, one hand falling to the side of your head, the other resting on your lower stomach as he pushes in slowly.

The intrusion is unfamiliar. The stretch hurts more than expected. Yet, your mouth is agape in frozen pleasure — Heeseung let his hand fall lower and is now drawing circles on your clit to ease the tension.

He keeps his thumb on your pussy while slowing his movement to a stop. “Tell me when I can move.”

Instead of relaxing into the stretch, preparing yourself for more friction, you focus entirely on Heeseung’s movements on your clit. Rolling the bud of pleasure between his two fingers, your eyes flutter shut in pleasure.

You test the waters by flexing your core muscles, squeezing your walls against Heeseung’s cock.

“Fuck,” he groans, snapping his hips forward at once, but he quickly stops himself. Heeseung looks up at you with cutely worried wide eyes. “Shit, sorry—Are you okay?”

You giggle. “Go!” you say between laughs, rolling your hips down to get him going.

He doesn't need to be told twice. He quickly resumes his previous thrust, your legs are naturally pushed apart to give him more access—moans spill from your lips at the newfound depth he reaches.

Heeseung’s head dips, his hair falling over his face, but does nothing to hide his expressions. You watch him for a moment, reveling in how good your pussy is making him feel. You clench around him again and his mouth falls open. He lets out the most harmonious sound you never expected from him but want to hear again and again.

So, you roll your hips into his, until your lower stomachs are threatening to brush against each other, until Heeseung lowers from his hands to elbows, and your bodies are flushed against each other. Your skins are sticky with sweat, but you can’t be bothered. Not with his rhythmic thrusts reaching so deep inside of you. Not with his fingers still playing with your clit, torturing the bud with nonstop pleasure. Not with his lips so close to your mouth, and your head pulling itself upward to capture them in another kiss.

Your hands snake to the back of his head, curling into his messy hair and pulling gently to bring him closer to you. His free hand finds its way into your hair, too, pushing the flyaways back into the rest of the mess, away from your face, before it rests gently on your neck, guiding you in the kiss.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers into your mouth as your walls clench around him again.

Your head spins at his low tone, pleasure bubbling in your stomach in a way it never has before. “I’m—Shit—I’m so close!”

Heeseung takes this as a signal to speed up his fingers on your clit, and slows down his thrusts, deepening them with each push in.

“Come on, come for me.”

And you do.

So much, like never before.

Your back arches into him, head thrown back, letting out a sinful string of moans. You’d curse from the pleasure, but your thoughts aren't coherent enough to form words.

You’re frozen in place, legs shaking as Heeseung pulls out to finish himself off. He jerks off into the condom on top of your wasted body, coming undone as soon as your dazed eyes meet his hungry gaze.

He doubles over, landing on his hand, face mere inches away from yours. “Fuck,” he says.

“Fuck,” you repeat, a giggle in your tone.

“Congratulations,” he says, rolling onto his back to be laying beside you. “You’re no longer a virgin.”

Your weak arms raise in a small celebration. “Yay.”

“How was it?”

You can’t even respond, hands coming up to cover your flushed face. You can feel Heeseung’s smirk behind them.

“I’ll take that as good.” Then, after a beat. “Does that mean you'd want to do it again?”

Your hands fall flat to your sides in one quick movement. “What?”

“There’s so much more I can teach you.”

“No,” you say while shaking your head. He looks defeated, you almost want to reach up and pet him like a dog. “Not until you buy me dinner.”

[hoshifighting]

Can you pleaseeee also write staff mingyu x idol reader🥹🥹

staff!mingyu

WARNINGS: angst, fluff, jealousy, suggestive. may be triggering because of; extreme diets, blackout, getting scolded by the choreographer, fingering, a bit of possessive talk, hair pulling, cock riding, devoted mingyu too.

staff!mingyu who you're in one of those tiny-ass dressing rooms with, the ones where you can barely move without smacking into a light fixture or tripping over cables, andhe's , towering over you, big frame almost making the room look even smaller. he’s your stylist-slash-PA-slash-damage-control-for-whatever-stupid-thing-you-say-in-interviews guy, which means he’s there to check every last detail on you, no matter how close he’s gotta get.

it’s day four of this overseas tour—barely halfway in, and you’re already feeling like you’re running on fumes. you’re dodging local food left and right, not ’cause it doesn’t look good, but ‘cause it’s either not on this wild diet they’ve shoved you on or it just doesn’t sit right with your stomach. for real, you didn’t think there’d be a point in your career where you'd be skipping meals, just ‘cause the food doesn’t fit some "ideal look" they cooked up for you.

and staff!mingyu... always there, at the exact moment when your stomach’s about to start an opera of complaints, hands full of grocery bags and this half-smile on his face, like he’s in on some inside joke only the two of you share.

“alright, sit down,” he says, like you’re gonna argue, and starts unloading enough ingredients to feed a small village. he moves around the hotel kitchenette—pots, pans, seasonings, a whole rotation of stuff he’s pulled outta his endless stash. he even managed to drag around a few of those little plastic spice bottles from home, ‘cause apparently, foreign supermarkets don’t stock paprika exactly how he wants it.

“didn’t know your resume included chef duties,” you joke, propping your chin on your hand as you watch him chop veggies with the same focus you’ve seen when he’s backstage, touching up your makeup or fixing your outfits.

he laughs easy. “oh, it doesn’t,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “but you looked like you were about to faint this morning, so i figured i’d make an exception.”

“what, you gonna make a whole buffet?” you tease, but the moment he sets that first plate down, you’re quiet. it’s nothing fancy, but it smells like heaven—garlic, spices, veggies mixed with something hearty, real food for the first time in days.

“look, you eat this, or i swear i’m shoving it down your throat myself,” he says, crossing his arms, and even though he’s joking, there’s this serious fringe in his eyes. like, he won’t let you get away with just picking at the food.

“alright, alright.” you dig in, taking that first bite, and it’s somehow exactly what you needed—warm, filling, like someone wrapped you in a blanket from the inside out. you’re not even halfway done, and he’s already cleaning up, telling you about how he once had to do this for himself, back when he was training and could barely afford takeout, let alone proper meals.

“so, yeah, i’ve been cooking for years,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. and it hits you then, this guy, who’s supposed to be here to make sure your eyeliner doesn’t smudge, is actually going out of his way to make sure you’re not just a shell of yourself on stage.

“you know, if this whole career thing falls through, you’d make a damn good chef,” you say, and he just shakes his head, laughing.

“nah,” he says, “i think i like this job better. get to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t faint halfway through a song.”

staff!mingyu who notices everything, who noticed how you walked into the practice room that day looking like... hell, honestly. there were bags under your eyes so dark they could’ve been bruises, and your skin was that shade of pale that came from days of no sleep, maybe a crazy diet, who knows what else. mingyu was hanging out with a bunch of the other staff in the corner, narrowly paying attention at first, but then he caught sight of you—really looked at you—and yeah, it wasn’t just fatigue. he knew what he was seeing; it was that same look he’d seen too many times in trainees and idols back in the day. the look that meant you’d been pushing way too far for way too long.

by the time you got through the first set of counts, your choreographer was already on your case, his tone sharp as knives. “again,” he snapped, crossing his arms, and you could practically hear his frustration from across the room. “you’re not even hitting the moves properly. what is this?” he scoffed, giving you that disappointed stare that always made you feel about two inches tall. “do you even want to be here right now?”

mingyu’s fists clenched a little. he’d seen you pull off that choreography a hundred times before, and he knew damn well it wasn’t that you didn’t care. it was that you literally didn’t have anything left in the tank, and this guy was still going in on you like you were some slacker.

but you didn’t argue back, didn’t defend yourself, nothing. just bowed your head, muttering, “i’m sorry,” in this tiny, defeated voice. mingyu could see the exhaustion written all over you, the way your shoulders slumped, how you couldn’t even lift your head all the way back up after bowing. you just stayed there, bent over in that apologetic pose, like maybe that was the last bit of strength you could pull together.

but then, as he watched, you didn’t straighten up at all. in fact, you didn’t move for a solid couple of seconds. and then, like you were a puppet whose strings had just been cut, you dropped. one second, you were still standing, and the next, your knees buckled, and you collapsed right there on the damn floor.

for a split second, no one reacted; it was like the room had frozen.

but then mingyu snapped out of it, his heart racing as he lunged forward. the rest of the staff started moving too, voices rising in panic, but mingyu was already at your side, leaning down and calling your name, voice barely hiding the worry.

“hey! hey, can you hear me?” he said, reaching out to gently shake your shoulder. you were breathing, but it was shallow, and your face had gone even paler than before, if that was possible. mingyu felt this pang in his chest seeing you like that. you’d been pushing so hard that your own body just gave up on you.

someone behind him was calling for water, another person was getting the choreographer to back the hell off.

jobs in general weren’t easy, he knew that. but for mingyu, there was nothing worse than watching idols, the people he was supposed to support and protect, get wrecked like this—shoving themselves into diets, swallowing the criticism like it was part of the gig, sacrificing sleep and health just to fit into a pair of jeans or to mold into some industry standard that kept shifting.

he’d been in this job for years, and he’d seen it all before. too many nights spent watching trainees lose more weight than was healthy, idols pushing themselves until they’d practically faded away. sometimes, in the back of his mind, he wondered if it’d be worth leaving, finding a path where he didn’t have to witness it all so up close. he’d think about it on those long nights when he was running on four hours of sleep and too much coffee, wondering what the hell he was doing here when he could be somewhere else, not dealing with the cycle of pushing and breaking and then pushing even harder.

but then there was you. you, with your stubborn smile and that relentless drive he couldn’t help but admire. maybe it was that same drive that had you here, running yourself down like you’d forgotten how to stop. but mingyu had felt that pang deep in his chest at the thought of not being around you—of not being there to see you through the highs and lows, to make sure you had someone who cared about more than just your stage presence.

it was that thought, that tiny, persistent ache, that kept him rooted here every damn day. even if he had to watch you crash sometimes, even if it drained him dry just trying to keep up, he’d stay. he’d be right there, whether you knew it or not, making sure that someone in your corner would be looking out for you, whether you wanted it or needed it, or not.

staff!mingyu who’d quietly made it his side mission to keep you fed, like he’d added it to his job description without anyone even asking. it started small, maybe just a little sandwich he’d stash in his bag for you after seeing you collapse that one time. but then it became routine, almost sacred, the way he’d show up like clockwork with that lunch pack in hand, looking half like your bodyguard in his all-black staff gear, half like your own personal chef with a menu that he swore changed every time he showed up.

“mingyu, what’d you make me today?” you’d ask, bouncing into the dressing room after each performance, all amped up and practically beaming because, let’s face it, you’d come to love his little surprise meals more than you’d admit.

and mingyu, with that smug but bashful little smile, would act all nonchalant. “oh, nothing much… just a little chicken and veggie stir-fry,” he’d say, but it was always something next level—some five-star recipe he’d learned just for you. and the best part? he’d make it seem like it was nothing, just a side gig he’d taken up on the fly, when really he’d been researching recipes, planning, and even practicing to make sure it came out perfect.

he’d hand you the lunch pack like he was passing off something top secret, keeping a close eye as you took that first bite, watching for any sign you didn’t like it. but, of course, you always loved it. because mingyu wasn’t just making food—he was making damn art. you’d take a bite, eyes lighting up as you hummed in appreciation, and he’d try to hold back that grin but always failed, shoulders relaxing like he’d just won something.

“you don’t get it, mingyu,” you’d say, mouth full but smiling like a kid on christmas. “i think you’re the reason my performance’s getting better. you’re, like, my actual secret weapon.”

and he’d laugh, pretending to brush it off, but inside? he was proud. because knowing you were hitting the stage with a full belly, with energy to burn and that spark back in your eyes—that meant everything. it was his way of giving back to you, even if you never asked for it, even if you didn’t realize how much he cared.

staff!mingyu who somehow became the world’s best photographer without ever meaning to, taking these casual, almost-too-good photos of you that drove your fans insane. you’d be walking through some cobblestone street in italy or leaning out of a coffee shop in tokyo, and he’d be there, catching that perfect shot with his phone. no fancy equipment, no staged poses—just mingyu, with his natural eye for what made you shine, snapping photos that were somehow intimate and made you look like everyone’s dream. fans called them “girlfriend pics,” and if only they knew the man behind the lens.

you had to admit it—he was stealing your heart a little more with every click. at first, you brushed it off as some harmless crush, a side effect of him being so damn good at his job. but then he’d do something small, like bring you soup when you were sick, or drape his coat over your shoulders when you got cold during a late-night rehearsal, and it’d hit you all over again. mingyu, with that goofy smile, the biggest heart, and hands that somehow felt gentle and grounding as he adjusted your hair or let you lean on him during those endless backstage waiting times.

it was easy to fall for him. too easy, really. and the way he cared? the way he was there for you, always? how could you not? he had this way of making you feel seen, like no matter how chaotic things got, he was your solid ground, always steady, always there to keep you safe and keep you going.

but, of course, staff!mingyu was a catch to more than just you. you’d see the way the other staff members watched him, the way some of them giggled and whispered, eyes lingering a little too long. and mingyu, ever the nice guy, didn’t even seem to notice—or maybe he did, but he didn’t really care. he’d give his number when they asked, smile back when they flirted, just being his usual, friendly self. you’d tell yourself it didn’t bother you, but the truth was, it was like a little ache in your chest every time.

after a show one night, you and the whole team went out to celebrate, and mingyu was right there, laughing, clinking glasses with everyone, in his element. when it got late, exhaustion finally started to settle in, and you decided to call it a night. you told everyone you were heading back to the hotel, hoping he’d maybe do the same.

but mingyu didn’t. he stayed behind, still chatting and laughing with a few of the girls from the staff, and you could feel it—that twinge of jealousy, the frustration, knowing they’d probably spend the rest of the night with him, hanging on his every word, maybe more.

as you looked back one last time, watching him, it hit you like a punch in the gut. maybe to him, all this was just work—a job. you were part of that, someone he cared about, but just someone in his care. and the pang of that realization stung. maybe you weren’t so special after all.

what you were about to do wasn’t right. hell, it felt downright selfish. you sat in the bathtub, hot water swirling around you, trying to drown out the nagging voice in your head that told you to just let it go, that this was a bad idea. but you couldn’t shake it off—every thought twisted into a knot in your stomach. you felt almost sick, like you had this strange, heavy weight pressing down on your chest, something that felt more like heartbreak than anything else.

“god, what am i doing?” you muttered to yourself, scrubbing at your skin like it might wash away the confusion. you knew mingyu was just doing his job, that he was sweet and caring and everything you admired. but watching him flirt with those girls, knowing they’d likely take him away for the night, made you feel like you were going to hurl.

“ugh, this is so dumb,” you groaned, splashing water around, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles. “why can’t i just be normal about this? it’s not like i’m his girlfriend or anything.”

but then the truth hit you again, a sharp stab of clarity amidst the chaos. you wanted to be.

after a few more minutes of spiraling, you said “fuck it,” feeling a rush of determination surge through you. you fished your phone out of your towel, thumb hovering over his name. your heart raced as you typed out the message.

“hey, mingyu. i know you’re probably busy, but i just wanted to say... i’m not feeling great. kind of sick, actually. do you think you could come by?”

you hit send, the knot in your stomach twisting tighter as you leaned back against the tub. was this too much? but then again, maybe it was time to stop hiding how you felt, to admit you needed him without a million excuses holding you back. it was either that or let him slip away for good, and you weren’t ready for that.

mingyu came in a rush, as if he’d been waiting for your text the entire time. you barely had time to wrap yourself in a towel before he was at your door, knocking frantically. “y/n! are you okay? open up!”

you opened the door, and the sight of him—hair a little messy, eyes wide with worry—made your heart race. “yeah, um, just feeling a bit under the weather,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady, but it wavered slightly. you didn’t want to come off as dramatic or needy.

he touched your forehead and you leaned into his touch without even realizing it, closing your eyes for a brief second “you don’t have a fever at all,” he said, confsed.

you pulled back abruptly, the warmth fading as reality crashed back in. clutching your towel tight around your body, you walked over to the window, pretending to be fascinated by the view outside. the city lights twinkled in the distance.

“y/n?” mingyu called, confusion clear in his voice. “what’s going on?”

you couldn’t believe you took one of his rare moments of lounge because of being selfish. mingyu leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his brow furrowed in confusion. “y/n, you were perfectly fine just a few hours ago. what’s really going on?” he asked, the suspicion creeping into his voice.

“i told you, it’s just a little... off,” you replied, avoiding his gaze. the guilt gnawed at your insides, knowing you were lying, but the way he was looking at you made it hard to come clean.

“off?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. “that’s the best you can come up with? you don’t just go from fine to ‘i need my staff member to check on me’ for no reason.” he took a step closer, eyes narrowing. “you’re not actually sick, are you? what’s up?”

you shifted uncomfortably, the towel clinging to you. “seriously, mingyu, it’s nothing. maybe just a little headache or something,” you said, hoping the casual tone would brush off his concern.

he let out a huff of disbelief. “a headache? so bad that you needed me to rush in here? that doesn’t add up.” he studied you, like he was piecing together a puzzle. “just tell me the truth. are you really feeling sick, or is there something else bothering you?”

“i just thought maybe you could... keep me um... company, you know? just for a bit.”

“keep you company?” he repeated, tone incredulous. “so you fake being sick just to get me in here? you could’ve just asked! you know i’m always down to hang out.”

“mingyu—” you started.

but he cut you off, his voice firm, the playful light fading from his eyes.

“why would you do that? this isn’t some joke, y/n. my job isn’t a game. it’s serious.”

you pressed your lips together at his louder tone, the shock of it stinging more than you expected. you hadn’t meant for things to escalate this badly, and as you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, it hit you like a ton of bricks: you never thought mingyu would raise his voice at you. it felt so out of place, so foreign, and your heart sank.

“hey, hey, i’m sorry,” he said, the anger melting away as he noticed your expression. he stepped closer, the care flooding back into his eyes.

you quickly wiped your eyes before the tears could fall, you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks. “you know what? i hate it,! you blurted out, unable to hold back any longer. “i hate when they’re all over you, mingyu! it makes me sick to my stomach!”

his brows furrowed, clearly caught off guard. “wait, what? you hate it when who’s all over me?”

“those girls! the staff!” you said, your voice rising with every word. “the way they throw themselves at you like you’re some kind of trophy. and you smile back at them, like it’s all just a joke or something. it drives me insane!”

mingyu looked stunned, blinking at you as if he were trying to process what you were saying. “y/n, are you—are you... jealous?”

“i — well— hell yeah, i’m jealous!” you shot back, frustration spilling over. “you’re so kind and caring, and they see that. they want you, and it feels like they think they can just waltz in and take you away from me. it’s infuriating!”

“but it’s just… it’s just me being friendly,” he stammered, “i’m not trying to lead anyone on. you know that, right?”

“i know, but it doesn’t change how it makes me feel,” you replied. “it’s like you’re this perfect guy, and they all want a piece of you. and here i am, just trying to keep my head above water, feeling like i have to compete for your attention.”

mingyu shook his head, a soft smile creeping onto his face despite the tension. “you don’t have to compete for anything. you’re… you’re the one who has my heart. all those girls? they’re just… coworkers.”

you pause, processing his words, and mingyu scoffs lightly, a teasing grin on his face.

“oh please, it’s true. you think i’m not bothered when i see those idols shoving their numbers on your sandwiches?”

you blink at him, completely taken aback. “wait, sandwiches? what are you talking about? i only eat the ones that you make for me.”

he interrupts you with that signature smile of his, one that always makes your heart race a little faster. “yeah, exactly. that’s ‘cause i always give those sandwiches to someone else.”

“mingyu, what the hell?”

“y/n, what the hell?” mingyu mocks, raising an eyebrow at you, a playful smirk creeping onto his face. “you seriously thought you could pull this off? lying about being sick? that’s low, even for you.”

you roll your eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of defiance. “i wasn’t lying, i just—”

“sure, sure,” he cuts you off. “and is wearing just a towel part of your grand scheme too? because if it is, you’re gonna need to step it up a bit.”

“and what if i just want you to come over… in a towel?”

“then i’ll take that as a personal invite,” he grins, his gaze flickering to your towel before meeting your eyes again. “just know, if you’re gonna pull this kind of stunt, you better be prepared for me to take advantage of the situation.”

staff!mingyu who wastes no time, pressing forward until you’re caught between his solid frame and the cold glass, as his body pins you in place.

“you really went all out for this hm?” his fingers trailing down to the knot of your towel.

staff!mingyu who tugs the fabric free, letting it drop to the floor, leaving you fully naked. his hands spreading wide over your back, fingers firm as he turns you around to face the glass. your chest presses against the cool surface making you gasp as mingyu’s hand trails up your spine, steadying you.

staff!mingyu who grips your hips, pressing you forward, and then trails his hands up over your sides, his fingers brushing along your curves until he reaches your shoulders, leaving no part of you untouched, as though he’s marking every inch of your skin as his.

staff!mingyu who leans down, one hand sneaking around to splay across your stomach, pulling you closer to him, making you feel his hard erection on you.

staff!mingyu who lets his hand slip lower, teasing over the sensitive skin of your thigh before slipping higher, his fingers skillfully finding your pussy as he watches you through the reflection, face contorting in pleasure, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“don’t look away.” he instructs, his tone a command softened by that grin of his.

staff!mingyu who keeps one hand firm on your hip, controlling your every move as he slips his fingers inside you, “all this just because you couldn’t stand seeing me with someone else, huh?” he curls the fingers, trying to pull a response form you. “admit it,” he coaxes as he presses you harder against the glass, his fingers never relenting. “tell me you wanted this—wanted me.”

staff!mingyu who doesn’t stop until he feels you melt against him, a soft, teasing chuckle escaping as he takes in your breathless state. “next time,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, “just say the word. i’ll come running.”

staff!mingyu who yanks your hair, tipping your head back to meet his lips as you twist in his grip. it’s a little clumsy, the angle throwing you off, but he holds you steady, his mouth hot and insistent on yours. you’re all melting into him, trusting the way his hands keep you secure, letting him take control as his grip on you tightens.

staff!mingyu who, somehow, maneuvers you both towards the bedd, he scoops you up with ease, laying you back as he hovers over you, he presses his hands into the mattress on either side of your head, caging you in as he dips down, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your collarbone, down to your shoulder, and back up to your jaw.

staff!mingyu who takes his time, exploring every part of you with slow touches, like he’s determined to map out every reaction, to memorize every place that makes you moan.

staff!mingyu who, even in bed, is all about making sure you’re comfortable, arranging the pillows just so, adjusting the blankets if they’re too rough, whispering “is this okay?” and “tell me what you need” like he’s got all the time in the world. his hands are warm, grounding you, and he never rushes, taking the time to check in, to make sure you’re exactly where you want to be, that he’s giving you what you want, down to the smallest detail.

staff!mingyu who lets you wrap yourself around him however you want, all limbs and tangled sheets, whispering soft reassurances in your ear as his hands trace your back, making sure you feel safe. he’s patient, careful, coaxing you with soft, murmured words, taking his time until you’re both lost in it, every sensation heightened.

staff!mingyu who surprises you by pulling back, catching his breath, and suddenly flipping the roles—guiding your hands to explore him, encouraging you to take control. “i’m yours too, you know,” he murmurs, watching you with that familiar smile, the one that’s equal parts playful and sincere, as he lets you explore, giving you the chance to take the lead.

staff!mingyu who’s all breathless and desperate under you from the moment you take the lead FORREAL and ride him, his hands gripping your hips, trying to guide you even when he’s struggling to keep up. soft, wet sounds filling the room as you roll your hips in slow circles, making him whine. his head tips back, eyes fluttering shut, but you bring a hand to his cheek, making him look up at you.

“tell me,” you murmur, lips brushing just against his ear, “tell me you’re mine, mingyu. that none of these hoes matter.” he looks up, his eyes hazy but still so focused on you, like he’s trying to pour everything into that gaze.

“i’m yours—yours, only yours,” he chokes out, his voice rough and pleading, like he needs you to believe it. he’s babbling now, his grip tightening on you, thumbs pressing into your skin, anchoring himself as you move, each drag pulling another whimper from his lips. “none of them—none of them mean anything,” he gasps, desperate, brows knitted together. “just you. only want you.”

staff!mingyu who’s practically begging at this point, his hands sliding up to your waist, trying to pull you down, closer, as if he could somehow get more of you. “please.” he whispers, his eyes filled with so much want it makes your heart pound.

“you’re mine, mingyu. no one else. got it?” and the way he shudders, that choked, relieved sound he lets out, is everything. he nods frantically, hands gripping you tighter as he starts to lose control, bucking up into you.

staff!mingyu who’s wholly ruined beneath you, lost in every kiss, every whispered word, clutching onto you as if he’s scared you might sneak off, even when you’re right there, telling him over and over again—“all mine.”

[wonderjanga]

Marvel Being Destructive

Marvel’s destructive. It’s not even on purpose too. It just happens. He can’t control it. For the most part, that is. Like, he’ll get startled and pull a Castiel from that one episode of Supernatural.

Marvel: *trying to steal some food for Billy*

Flash: “Cap, buddy!”

Marvel: *startles and the lightbulb above them just bursts*

*loud silence*

Flash: “Cap, whose leftovers are those?”

Marvel: *slowly turns around to look at Flash, sure enough, Marvel’s holding a container or Tupperware, with a sticky note that said GL* “Uh… mine?”

Flash: “I can see that they’re Hal’s.”

Marvel: *takes off the sticky note and crumples it in his hand. Then proceeds to fry it with lightning* “What’re you talking about?”

Flash: *a little speechless*

Marvel: “Right… So I’m gonna go. See you, Flash.” *little wave as he walks off*

Billy felt really bad about it, but the kid needed it more than Hal at the moment. Probably. Look, he was running low on money at the moment and hadn’t eaten in a couple days. The hunger pangs were getting to him. He did end up making a bunch of food for Hal in an attempt to apologize.

GL: “Woah, what’s all this?”

Marvel: *in full lightning bolt apron* “Uh… Remember how you were complaining last week about how someone stole your food?”

GL: “Yeah?”

Marvel: “Right, well that was me.”

GL: *dramatic gasp* “I vented to you about that! And you just took it like you were innocent?!”

Marvel: “I know, I know, and I’m sorry. Just eat all the food I made for you. Please?”

GL: *looks to the freaking feast Marvel made for him* “Yeah, okay. I forgive you.” *starts chowing down* “By the way, why’d you steal my foot anyways? I thought you didn’t need to eat.”

Marvel: “I just really needed it at the time.”

GL: “Why?”

Marvel: “Just eat the food, Hal.”

Then, there’s the fact that Billy sometimes forgets he isn’t as small as he usually is. Like, he’s gotten used to it. After all, he’s been Cap for almost four years now. He now unconsciously bends down when entering and exiting through doors due to the fact he’s cracked his head on more doorframes than he can count. This even bled over to Billy who’s only about 5’4 and definitely doesn’t need to do it. But, every now and then as Cap, he’ll slip up and forget he isn’t that little scrawny short kiddo.

JL: *all having a meeting* Marvel: *drops something under the table and leans down the pick it it up*

GA: *immediately grabs his mug of coffee and scoots back from the table*

Other JL members: *watch in confusion as GA scoots back but then watch in slow motion at Marvel tries to get back to his chair and stands up to early. The table slowly starts tilting up and all of their stuff slides to the floor. Marvel then gets out from under the table and the table falls back to the floor with a loud bang*

Marvel: *confused by the loud bang and looks back* “Where’d all your guys’ stuff go?”

GA: *scoots back to table and puts his mug back down* “No idea, bud.”

The reason Green Arrow knew to take his stuff and scoot back is that one time when he got lunch with Cap, he watched in real time as his burger and soda slid off the table when the big man went down to grab a fork he dropped.

Then, there’s the super duper ultra rare times he forgets his own strength. Like, once a year, he’ll break something or someone and then end up having to apologize a lot.

Batman: *shows Marvel an explosive batarang* “These are extremely delicate. If they’re chipped or thrown at someone, they’ll explo-”

Marvel: *reaches over to touch it and accidentally snaps a piece of it off*

*silence*

*beeping noise starts*

Marvel: *panics and breaks the rest of it and shoves it in his mouth, basically eating the explosion, Superman style*

Batman: *stares for a solid minute* “I could’ve turned it off, Captain.”

Marvel: *coughs up smoke looking embarrassed* “Sorry, Mister Batman Sir.”

Batman: *stares for another solid minute* “Can we talk about how your first instinct was to eat it?”

Marvel: “I’d rather not.”

Batman: “I really think we should.”

[sleepyjuice]

r u mine? — jj maybank

summary: you weren’t sure what to call you and jj. friends with benefits? a situationship? either way, the two of you certainly acted like more than friends.

word count: 4181

warnings: lowkey toxic!jj but we love him, jealousy, smut 18+!!!, unprotected p in v sex, squirting, creampie, some fluff

a/n: i am quite proud of this one so I really hope y’all like it! let me know what you think! <3

“Ugh, I hate that word.” You shook your head, taking a swig of your nearly lukewarm beer, grimacing at the skunked taste on your tongue.

“What else would you call it?” Sarah scoffed, raising her eyebrows inquisitively at you as she playfully shoved your knee.

“Hanging out, I don’t know…” you mumbled, your feet playing absently with the sand below you.

“Yeah, okay. It’s okay to call it what it is. A situationship.” Sarah grinned, nodding her head oh so matter of factly at you.

You and Sarah somehow ended up at a kook party. It just kind of happened. It had been awhile since the two of you had been to one, but seeing as the rest of your friends either had plans or were working, it was either this or another night at home, but the former somehow seemed only slightly more appealing.

You didn’t like labels, but if you had to pick one, you were a pogue. You were in a similar boat as Sarah and Kiara. Rich parents, but you hated nothing more than the snobby, ‘I’m so much better than you’ lifestyle the people on your side of the island lived by. By no means were you ungrateful for the life you were given. Your privilege was not ignored. But it was the country club luncheons and the uptight fakeness and the general attitudes of those you grew up around that you wanted no part of. So one day, you met Kiara, and the two of you clicked almost instantly, both of you finding solace in someone who shared the same views. Next up you met Sarah, and the three of you were inseparable. Your friendship was great until it wasn’t, and you and Kie found home in a group of boys from the cut while Sarah completely turned the other way.

But that was old news, history. Sarah came around, started macking on John b, and the three of you eventually made up. Shit happens.

So here you were, on your third beer, sitting on the beach next to Sarah, the full blown kook party going on only a few hundred feet behind you. The two of you tried to mingle, but that lasted for a total of about five minutes before you took advantage of several coolers stocked to the brim with beers, each of you grabbing a few cans before making your way down to the mostly empty beach in front of the Oceanside home holding the party.

You found comfort in the peace and tranquility of the ocean, the soft glow of the moonlight illuminating your senses could have very well brought you peace, if your phone wasn’t blowing up with messages every few minutes.

jj maybank: you really ain’t gonna text me back? got me over here double texting and shit??

jj maybank: knew you’d go back to full kook eventually. my lifestyle ain’t enough for you huh?

jj maybank: alright that was out of pocket I can’t lie my b

You and jj had gotten along since the second you met. Apparently Kiara had been hyping you up, because surprisingly, jj showed zero apprehension to letting another ‘kook’ join his circle. The attraction was also immediate, on both ends, but that took a bit longer to come out. Shared glances weren’t uncommon, neither were legs brushing against each other on the boat, even though there was more than enough room for the two of you to sit apart.

You and jj were friends for about a month before you hooked up the first time. It wasn’t anything crazy, you were both drunk and horny and one thing led to another. It was sloppy and pretty quick. But instead of it being a one and done deal, it kept happening, no alcohol involved.

You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment where it went from purely sex to more, but it just happened. You and jj would spend time alone without the rest of your friends, cuddling on the couch at the chateau while everyone was out, or you calling jj late at night sobbing after a particularly nasty argument with your parents, which led to him climbing through your bedroom window and staying the night, sneaking out before you woke up the next day. Since that night, you would keep your bedroom window cracked ever so slightly, and most nights, like clockwork, jj would make the familiar climb up and through the window to be with you. Sometimes this led to sex, but other times it didn’t. That’s why it was weird.

You had both agreed that you weren’t in a relationship. jj for one didn’t want to commit, and you didn’t either. Several shitty relationships prior to meeting jj would taint your view on love. So it seemed like you were on the same page, but both of your actions proved otherwise.

This is why it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence that jj was currently blowing up your phone. For two people who are not in a relationship, you both had your fair share of jealousy issues. But you shouldn’t, because you’re not in a relationship.

“He’s freaking out right now,” you groaned, turning to Sarah with an exasperated sigh as your eyes glazed over the messages on your phone, “he’s mad that I’m not responding and that I’m here, but he knows it’s Kelce’s birthday party and so he assumes Jake is here since they’re best friends… but he’s acting like I’m gonna do something, like are you serious?” You vented, finishing off the last few drops of your beer.

Jake was your most recent ex. Total asshole. You cringed every time you thought about your time shared together, hating the fact that you ever gave him the time of day. He was overly preppy, but also overly possessive, yet he still cheated on you. Imagine that.

“He’s mad about Jake?!” Sarah gaped, leaning in closer to you as she glanced down at your phone, not missing the texts flooding through from jj.

“That’s what I’m saying… I hate him, and it’s not like I’m gonna cheat on him —“

“Ah, you can’t cheat on someone you’re not dating.” Sarah hummed, shaking her head at you.

“Ugh, you know what I mean. This situationship bullshit is so stupid. But either way, that’s a valid point. Not only do I want nothing to do with Jake, but even if I did, jj isn’t my boyfriend, so he shouldn’t even be mad,” you rambled, pausing for a moment before looking back down to your phone, “yeah, no, that’s a good point, that’s what I’m gonna say.” You mumbled as you began typing out a response to jj’s multitude of texts.

you: you say it’s about the kooks but seems to me like it’s one kook in particular you’re mad about

you: yeah, jake is here. I ain’t dumb jj, you’re transparent as fuck lmao

you: also I’m just trying to figure out why you’re mad bc you know I hate him but even if I wanted him, why would that be your problem? We’re not dating soooo??

you: have a good night at work! <3

You locked your phone, but not before putting it on do not disturb and shoving it in the back pocket of your denim shorts.

“Oh, well now he’s gonna lose his shit even more.” Sarah giggled, having watched you type out your messages.

“I don’t care, let him. He’s pissing me off.” You shrugged, rolling your eyes, but you couldn’t help but laugh along with Sarah. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the thought of jj freaking out with jealousy over you made your stomach tingle. Just a little bit though…

An hour had passed since you had texted jj and you haven’t checked your phone once. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t the slightest bit curious to see his response, but your stubbornness was strong, outweighing your curiosity for the time being. The four beers in your system helped too, lightening up your overall mood and somewhat helping you forget about jj for a little while.

You were only a little tipsy at this point, but you and Sarah had mutually agreed to call it a night and start your trek home.

You both felt generally safe walking home. Streets were pretty well lit and it was figure 8, all the drunk creepy frat guys you had to worry about were down the street at the party.

“Hey, text me when you get home, okay? And keep me updated on jj whenever you check your phone. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t show up at Kelce’s after that exchange.” Sarah giggled as the two of you approached her house, giving her a quick hug goodbye and promising to update her. You only lived one street away from her, and she had plans with John b early the next morning so you decided to not sleepover this time.

You continued your journey home after seeing that Sarah had made it inside safely, sighing to yourself as the soft island breeze gently blew against your face, cooling down your slightly flushed cheeks.

You arrived home only five minutes later, tiptoeing through your dark home so as to not wake your sleeping parents, humming softly to yourself once you made your way upstairs and into your bedroom, pulling your shirt over your head and letting it fall onto the floor before fishing your phone out of your back pocket and tossing it onto the bed as you went to unbutton your shorts.

“Oh, so you do have a phone.”

You gasped, nearly screaming as you scrambled to flip your lights on, immediately spotting jj laid back on your bed, hands behind his head as he leaned seemingly comfortably against your headboard.

“jj what the fuck?!” You whisper yelled, wishing more than anything that your parents weren’t home so you could truly yell at him. You didn’t have to question how he got in, though. You had left your window cracked like you always did, as jj would have more than likely came over tonight anyways, but that was before you had started bickering over text. He had done this before, too, surprising you in your bedroom while you were at work or out with friends, coming home to the boy waiting for you in your bed.

“You put your shit on ‘do not text’ or whatever and I couldn’t get ahold of you. I was going to go straight to Kelce’s party, but I took a moment to consider the fact that that wouldn’t be a good idea, so I decided to wait for you here. Were you just gonna ignore me all night?” He sat up once you had acknowledged his presence, his hands playing with one of your pillows as he looked at you.

“First of all, it’s ’do not disturb’ and second, you were blowing up my shit and being annoying. Therefore, you were disturbing me.” You rolled your eyes, feeling jj’s eyes on you as you grabbed a sleep shirt from your closet and pulled it over your head before sitting on the edge of your bed as you worked to untie your shoes.

“Why do you do this to me?” jj whispered after a few moments of silence, scooting himself closer to where you were sat.

“What am I doing to you, jj?” You asked, not looking at him as you removed your first shoe, now untying the other.

“You — fuck. You make me fuckin’ crazy. I don’t like that I feel like this.” He muttered, and you could feel by the movements in the bed that he was anxiously adjusting and readjusting his hat, an anxious tick you had picked up quite early in your friendship with him.

“I make you crazy?” You questioned, your brows raising as you kicked off your other shoe and finally turned to look at the boy sat behind you on your bed.

“Yeah, and I hate it. Got me… got me checking my phone every two seconds to see if you texted me, fuckin’ — picturing you with that douchebag ex of yours… literally has my heart pounding. Like I can’t think about anything else.” He admitted, and you couldn’t miss the way his knee was shaking anxiously, his fingers playing absently with your blanket, yet he still kept his gaze on you.

“jj…” you breathed, your voice softening now. You felt for him. You knew it wasn’t easy for him to express his feelings, and you didn’t want to dismiss the way he was feeling just because you had argued. You would also be lying if you said you wouldn’t be jealous if he was around his ex all night… but you can blame that on your shitty past relationships, not because you didn’t want jj around girls he used to call his… definitely unrelated.

“Listen, I get what you’re saying, okay?” You sighed, slowly placing your hand on his bouncing knee. “But… we aren’t dating. We’re just friends who sleep together, you know?” You added quietly, hating the words that left your mouth, but it was the truth. There was no gentle way to say it.

“You’re right, you’re right. But let me just,” he reached for your hand over his knee, moving it to your side, “let’s just not talk about that right now, okay?” He licked his bottom lip, his hands now finding your thighs, rubbing the soft skin slowly, his fingertips inching their way up past the top of your shorts and underneath your shirt.

You didn’t speak as he took a hold of the bottom of your shirt, lifting the fabric over your head, leaving you completely bare from the waist up. You didn’t protest, your body heating up at his touch like it always did. He let out a long breath as he took in the sight of you before him, his hands quickly grabbing your tits, squeezing the soft flesh in his calloused hands, causing your back to arch slightly, your lips parting as an almost inaudible gasp left your lips.

His eyes found yours quickly following your reaction and you nodded at him, no words spoken between the two of you as you fully gave into his touch, crawling all the way onto your bed and scooting yourself back towards your pillows.

“So pretty..” he cooed, his fingers pinching your hard nipples, making you whimper softly, fully giving into him. You reached forward, pulling his hat off of his head and tossing it onto the floor alongside your shirt, your fingers entangling in his messy locks as you pulled him closer to you, wrapping your legs around his middle, bringing his face right up to yours before you connected your lips.

You hummed into the familiar feeling of your soft lips against his, and only a few seconds passed before your mouths had both parted and your tongues were moving sloppily together, his soft groans sending vibrations into your mouth and through your body, your core feeling even hotter and wetter as the seconds passed.

His hands continued to toy with your tits, but they eventually began to trail down your stomach, unbuttoning your shorts blindly as you continued to kiss. You lifted your hips up as he tugged the denim down your legs, leaving you in just your underwear.

You opened your mouth in protest when he suddenly pulled away from the kiss, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you caught your breath, about to say something about him pulling away but stopping once you watched as he pulled his shirt over his head, and your attention was now turned to his naked torso.

“Shh, I got you, I got you.” He murmured, his hands now tugging the zipper of his cargo shorts down, ridding himself of his shorts entirely, the two of you now only in underwear. Your eyes flew immediately to the ever present bulge in his boxers, and you didn’t miss the wet spot right where the tip of his dick was, no doubt leaking precum. You had almost an identical wet spot in your underwear as well, your arousal practically dripping out of you as each second passed, eager for his touch.

“jj, please.” You grumbled, wrapping your arms around his neck as he lowered himself back down to you, your lips connecting again, this time moving a lot quicker and more sloppily than only moments ago. Your centers both connected within seconds, you bucking your hips up to grind against him and him grinding himself down against you. Who had gone for it first, who knew. You were certainly on the same page.

“Please what, baby? Hm?” He breathed, holding himself up above you with only one hand as his other wriggled its way between your bodies and down to your wet core, fingers barely even teasing at the waistband before he slipped them inside, cupping your pussy.

“Fuck —“ you moaned, shamelessly grinding yourself against his hand, desperately aching for more of him. The feeling of just his hand had you crumbling, any thoughts of your disagreement from earlier were long gone and forgotten in this moment.

“Use your words, baby. You want my fingers?” He questioned, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, yes, please. Touch me.” You answered immediately, and that was all it took for him to yank your underwear down your legs and push his middle finger inside of you, effortlessly sliding into your slick yet tight walls. Your head fell back onto your pillow, a long exhale leaving your swollen lips as he pumped his finger quickly, adding a second after you began to adjust.

“Goddamn, you’re fuckin’ soaked, woman.” He spoke lowly, quickening his pace once he found a good rhythm, curling his fingers into your g-spot, emitting soft whimpers and curses from your lips, you still being half mindful of your sleeping parents down the hall.

The sight of jj’s furrowed brows and parted pink lips had your stomach turning, and you watched as he watched intently at the sight of his fingers moving in and out of your pussy, a look of concentration mixed with arousal evident upon his features. That and the spots his fingers had found inside of you had you crumbling quickly, your fingertips that were lazily resting in his hair now gripped tightly into his locks, your eyes squeezing shut as you felt your orgasm approaching quickly.

“jj, gonna cum, oh fuck, oh — oh god.” You panted, head flat on your pillows now as you felt him quicken his pace, hearing his own moans as you pulled on his hair.

“Yeah, let go for me, baby, come on now.” He urged, and that was all it took for you to let go, your orgasm hitting you at full force. He quickly shot his free hand up to your face to cover your mouth, quieting your loud cries of pleasure. He loved the sound of your sweet moans, but being caught by your parents would be less than ideal. You cried into his palm, your juices gushing out of you and all over jj’s hand and torso, dripping down and soaking his stomach and boxers.

“Oh fuck, that’s right, so good, so good, huh?” He cooed, his fingers slowing down as you rode out your high, uncovering your mouth once you had fully finished and planting several soft kisses all over your parted lips as you worked to catch your breath.

You lifted your head after a moment, your eyes opening to meet his hungry gaze, untangling your fingers from his hair to reach for his boxers. You needed more of him.

“Need you now.” You spoke, voice still a bit shaky as you had just caught your breath. You removed his boxers with his help, his leaking cock springing free from the restraint of the tight fabric. Your mouth watered at the sight, watching as he pumped himself slowly, finally giving himself some relief.

“Need me inside you, sweet girl? Hm?” He licked his bottom lip as you nodded eagerly, a smug grin present on his lips at your neediness. You didn’t care, he could be cocky after the orgasm he just gave you. He could have his moment.

“Please. Please fuck me.” You pleaded, pushing your hips up to rub yourself against his cock. He groaned at the contact, giving himself a few more pumps before tapping his tip against your sensitive clit, causing you to gasp and push your thighs together purely out of reflex.

“Ahh, keep those legs open for me. Gotta open up so I can fuck you, sweet thing.” He tisked, pushing your thighs open with his free hand, positioning his cock against your entrance, slowly pushing himself in. Once halfway inside, his hand trailed down from your thigh to grab your ankle, lifting your leg to wrap around his back, quickly doing the same with your other leg.

Finally getting you positioned like he wanted, he pushed himself all the way in, jaw going slack once he bottomed out, grunting at the depth he reached inside of you.

“Fuuckkk,” he breathed, his messy hair falling onto his forehead as he looked down at the two of you, fully connected. He inhaled sharply before he began moving, struggling to keep his eyes open as your tight pussy hugged his cock perfectly. But he wanted to watch you, that was one of the best parts.

You did everything in your power to not scream, his cock immediately hitting all the right spots inside of you, his pelvis hitting your clit with every thrust. You couldn’t stop yourself from moaning however, your arms wrapping around his neck to hold you up, keeping your body somewhat up. Your fingernails found home in the soft skin of his back, each trust and movement he made surely forming scratches into the skin.

“So good, so good,” he moaned, sweat beading past his hairline as he found the perfect pace, his balls slapping your ass as his cock disappeared inside of you, “you’re fucking perfect, yeah, oh fuck.” He breathed shakily, almost whining as you squeezed your legs tighter around his torso, his body pushing closer to you if possible, his dick hitting deep inside your wet pussy.

You were a mess beneath him. The tension throughout the night and the way he was fucking you perfectly was not doing anything to prolong your orgasm. But you could feel by the way he pulsated inside of you that he wasn’t going to last long either.

“Shit, I’m close, baby. Where d’you want me to cum?” He asked, slowing his thrusts for a moment as he attempted to gain composure of himself, wanting to give you one last orgasm before he finished.

You didn’t even hesitate before responding.

“Inside.” You answered, eyes looking up to meet his.

He cocked his head in confusion, stilling his movements following your words, almost unsure if he had heard you correctly.

“Don’t fuck with me —“

“I’m not, jj. Please. Want you to cum inside me.” You assured him, pushing your hips up, urging him to move again.

“You… okay.” He resumed his movements, each thrust bringing both you and him closer to the edge.

“Oh fuck jj, I’m gonna cu-“

“Say you’re mine.” He cut you off, not stopping his movements, his breathing was shaky but his voice was steady, and he was serious.

“What?” You panted, your chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Say you’re mine.” He repeated himself, soft grunts following his words as he watched your face below him.

You knew what he was saying, and maybe it was the impending orgasm, or maybe it was the fact that you had never felt this way with anyone before him. Maybe after you said it and you both finished you would both get hit with that post nut clarity and go back on your words, but you could figure all of that out later. You could be his. You wanted to be his.

“I’m yours.” You spoke, and that was all it took for him to reach his end, his balls tightening, thrusts sloppy but still quick as he released inside of you in hot spurts, his face falling forward as he moaned, triggering your own release.

The wet sounds of his cock pushing into your cum filled pussy filled the room, his movements slowing down as you both rode out your highs together, eventually stopping completely before he slowly pulled himself out of you.

His cum leaked out of you almost immediately, but jj was quick to reach over the side of the bed and grab his shirt, placing it under your leaking pussy.

“Shit,” he breathed, rubbing your lower stomach gently as your bodies both began to relax, leaning down to kiss your swollen lips gently.

“You still mine?” He asked after a few moments of silence, mentally preparing himself for your rejection, nervous you had only said that in the heat of the moment. He meant what he said though.

“Mhm, I’m still yours.”

[dadsbongos]

giving minimum wage clerk laios sloppy

3.1 k words / warnings - oral sex, hand jobs, public but it isn't focused on, you call laios 'good boy', not proofread

summary - you flirt with your coworker laios and suck him off in an alley outside

~~~

Laios slumps against the bag racks after returning the pharmacy key up front, prompting you to be nosey and ask,

“What’d he need?”

“Condoms.”

“Oh.”

“Right? I don’t get why they’re so shy about it,” Laios yawns, squeezing his eyes shut to revel in the sweet resulting burn, “It's worse to go in unprotected.”

“For sure,” you hadn’t meant oh as in oh, you’d meant oh as in oh because you don’t want Laios to talk about condoms. Him talking about condoms will make you think of him using one, which is only going to fluster you.

“He also wanted Plan B.”

“Crazy.”

He yawns again, then letting his head droop while bracing himself against the end of your lane. Arms pin straight and (mostly) visible, since all he’s wearing is a black Tee. Past the edges of his store apron is red vinyl, crackled from no doubt years of wear and wash. He’d shown up with a hoodie, which is strange because it’s the middle of summer, and no matter how hard you pray: the nighttime provides little relief. Either way, you’re glad to see he hasn’t snuck it on -- his arms look so much better bare.

“You tired?” a stupid question on your part.

Thankfully, Laios is your favorite coworker for a reason. He earnestly answers with a weary nod and quiet, “Yeah.”

“Poor thing,” you sit against the divot to your left, where your own set of bags rests and perch your chin in your hand, “How come? Usually you don’t get the sleepies until ten.”

And again, if it were anyone but Laios, you’d be mortified to have let that tidbit slip.

Laios perks up, scrambling for his phone as he speaks, “I was finishing that red dragon set.”

“Jeez,” you lean forward as he holds up a picture of the completed plastic array of knock off Legos; more affordable and just as dependable, “You did that all last night?”

“Took four hours, but it was worth it.”

“I thought you were gonna complete it on your weekend.”

“I was, but then, look!” he swipes over the screen before shoving it back into your face, “A winged lion!”

“Oh, cool,” when you feel that’s too bland, you add, “Isn’t that the final piece in your Griffin set?”

“Technically,” he grumbles, “I hate how they called it the Griffin set. Only one of them is a Griffin. This is just a hybrid, and the other one’s a Hippogriff. But it still looks super cool, and the instructions are way longer than any of the other ones.”

Laios looks up from where you were supposed to be staring at his screen, finding that you’re instead watching him with a stupid smile on your face. Your cheeks heat up at being caught. Just before you can stutter out an excuse, though, Laios is speaking again,

“Awesome, right?”

“Very,” you confirm with a nod.

“I’ll have to move some stuff so I can display it on my desk properly. I just have no idea where,” he pockets his phone, rolling his head onto his shoulder, “I’d have Marcille or Chil’ help but they’ll probably just tell me to trash it all.”

“Aw, I’m sure they wouldn’t! They're your friends.”

“Right. They just…”

“They tease a little too hard.”

“Exactly.”

“You can say something, you know?”

“It’s easier to just ignore,” he shrugs.

You open your mouth to retort, to encourage him to tell his friends off, but a demon beats you to it.

“Well, don’t you two look bored!” all warm fondness freezes in your chest the minute an approaching middle-aged man says that, “Break time’s over!”

Another reason Laios is your favorite is that he doesn’t find those jabs funny. You even heard that back when he first started, he’d reply to those remarks with stern sincerity. Now in his ancient wisdom, he just lets you blankly stare the man down. With clerks like Doni, you feel a pressure to at least feign a smile lest he overcompensate by actually fake-laughing.

You suffer down the interaction with as few words as you can get away with before bidding the man a goodnight.

“I hope he crashes,” you sneer, flipping open the silver cap of your change dispenser and confirming your coins can go a little longer before being filled.

Laios hums halfheartedly -- long now used to your aggro behavior towards customers you don’t like, and no longer prone to bouts of wide-eyed horror. His head is turned towards the doors, gaze lazily flicking over self-checkout to assess if anyone that way needs assistance.

You take the moment to assess him. Neck stretched and lashes beating his cheeks with every heavy blink. His lips are pressed firm, likely subconscious, and from the quirk in his hip you can tell he’s got a leg crossed over the other.

Breaking you from the study, Laios bellows another exhausted huff.

Before you can cast a cursory glance towards the clock on your screen, your supervisor is chirping from beside you, “Last break!”

So it must be nine.

God, two more hours of this? Laios sounds ready to collapse.

After signing off in order for Kabru to hop onto the register, you slip between the little gap where checkout lanes end and SCO begins. Opening one of the grab-n-go fridges with trepidation.

Does he even like energy drinks?

You’re almost certain you’ve seen him mull over them at least once… before ultimately deciding to not buy one…

He definitely doesn’t like coffee. You recall him telling Kabru the bitter taste was off-putting enough, never mind how it devastated his gut (which was entirely too much information, but it made you laugh).

Gatorade makes him think of his high school gym class, and you take that as a negative considering he nearly shivered upon just remembering the period.

Ugh. He needs the energy and there’s a three for five deal on the Monster anyway. You snatch three of the flavors that look most appealing from a Laios-point-of-view and rush to self-checkout.

“Plan on being up all night?” one of the attendants, Toshiro, warily approaches.

“No, uhm, it’s… It’s three for five! That’s like, 1.50 each!”

Mithrun, the other SCO cashier, is staring down a woman that frequently attempts walking out without paying, “I thought you didn’t like Monster.”

“The fruit punches are okay.”

“You didn’t buy fruit punch.”

“Go fuck yourself, Mithrun.”

He blinks at you slowly, “Okay.”

With an agitated scoff, you strut back to register six and saddle up by Laios, loudly clinking sweaty drinks against the faux wood surface. Kabru hurriedly checks the time, to which you interrupt,

“I’m not going to the break room, I’ll just sit here for ten minutes.”

Visibly restraining himself from pointing out you’re not supposed to do that, Kabru nods and clears his throat to greet a couple pulling in. His eye twitches with the urge to remind them loads of less than five items should go to self-checkout rather than a register. One day, you’re sure, he’ll crack -- and you desperately want to be there when he does.

“So,” you case your hands around the drinks so Laios doesn’t accidentally bag one for the couple, “Do you like Monsters?”

He frowns at you, lips flapping vapidly. Internally struggling between asking if you’re serious or if you’re being mean on purpose.

Picking up his turmoil, you blurt, “The drink! I know you like monsters. Do you like Monsters?”

“The fruit punch ones are good.”

You shouldn’t like his answer as much as you do, “I like them, too. But, uh, I didn’t get it…”

Kabru sighs as both of you go without greeting or thanking the customers before they leave.

“Oh, trying new ones?”

“No, not really. I got them for you? Kind of…”

Kabru’s icy stare pierces you, annoyance replaced with interest. You’re reminded of why he stays at this job despite hating it: drama.

“I thought, maybe, you’d want one since you’re super tired. And they were three for five, so I basically had to buy them.”

Laios silently looks at where your hands cage the cans, when you realize he’s waiting to see the flavors you pull away like you’ve been pinched. He leans on his elbows to better read each can, sleeves on his shirt riding up to expose more skin.

Laios likes orange juice so you got Ultra Sunrise. Laios likes cheesecake so you got Orange Creamsicle because they’re both sweets. And Laios supports his sister’s lesbian relationship, so you got Ultra Violet because that’s basically lavender.

His brows furrow down at the lineup before he reaches out and tips the middle one into his palm: Orange Creamsicle.

“You should have the other ones, I’d feel bad taking them too,” Laios admits, cracking open the drink, “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” when you notice Kabru hasn’t blinked since the interaction started, you jerk your head towards him, “Want one, mister manager?”

“Assistant front end manager,” Kabru sours, judging how your eyes repeatedly fall to Ultra Sunrise before taking Violet, “I don’t even have real power.”

“You’re basically a real manager, I don’t see Yaad or Thistle out here. Like ever. Even Delgal doesn’t come out of the office!”

To avoid accepting flattery, he scrounges around the cabinet beneath your receipt printer for ‘PAID’ stickers to slap on each drink.

Laios, meanwhile, sinks into his own head. The distress he felt when you asked if he liked monsters was downright alarming. He wonders if he would’ve felt that level of despair if it were anyone else asking.

Logically, he knows it’d be more hurtful because you and him are friend-ish and talk often, naturally meaning you hear about his interests quite a bit. Deeper down, past a thudding chest and into his churning gut he can tell it's more than that.

And from how hypnotizing he finds the sight of your throat bobbing around swigs of carbonated caffeine, he’s certain there’s more to his feelings than that.

But in all his years as a trusted courtesy clerk at his local branch of a large corporation grocery store, he’s seen many people fall victim to the allure of workplace incest. Subsequently, he’s seen many people quit over those fallouts.

Laios sips from his drink, trying to distract from such thoughts by taming a cringe at its bubbly stabbing on his tongue.

How could he even assume you felt that way about him? He can’t be sure you’re available for mingling.

“Are you single?” he asks, without much thought. That’s a casual topic, right? Lots of people are concerned with dating at your shared age.

Kabru signs out of the register as your break comes to a close, stubbornly lingering right behind to hear your response.

“Why?” a nervous chuckle bubbles out, you beat yourself for it, “You interested?”

Laios drinks again, shooting Kabru a pointed look.

Kabru can read it perfectly well, it’s a glare that reads: GO AWAY, GO AWAY, GO AWAY. Instead of listening, he cheerfully asks, “Ready for your last break too, Laios?”

“Yeah, I’ll take it right here. You should go away.”

“Oh!”

You snort, fastening a hand over your entire jaw as if to physically repress the sound.

“Oh,” Kabru repeats, quieter, “Someone has to bag, though…”

Laios steps back with a solemn nod, wiping his clammy hands against his uniform apron. Despite picking up on the dejected tone of Kabru’s voice, Laios’ only curiosity is if you thought he looked cool being so blunt, or did he come off as some dickhead tool?

(much less some dickhead tool that speaks harshly with a very polite, very friendly supervisor)

Both you and Kabru watch as Laios snakes through the seasonal aisles toward the break room. Once he’s out of sight, Kabru’s eyes stab into you, lip twitching, “So?”

“So, what?”

Kabru’s beams at you silently.

“Ew, do not look at me like that.”

“How long?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

“I'm a supervisor! I’m supposed to know what’s going on with my fleet.”

Before you can properly lecture him on referring to his coworkers as a ‘fleet’, a pair of potential teenagers slam thirty packs of sour beer onto your conveyor belt. Excitement to card them floods you.

Thankfully, Laios’ break seems to blow by -- he’s soon muttering an apology to Kabru and replacing him at the head of your lane.

“Back already?”

Laios hums, starkly avoiding your eyes. His sudden, almost uncharacteristic, shyness compels you to take forward charge,

“I’m single, by the way.”

“Me too,” he keep looking at you, then away, then at you, then away. Over and over again until eventually you’re craning to be forced in his sight.

“You asked for a reason, right?” you click your tongue and wink in good humor, “You want me to clean your belt, huh?”

Really, you should’ve known better than to try playing coy because all Laios does is shrug with a polite yeah, sure before backing away for you to spray down his smaller conveyor.

Oh. Oh, you can’t just not suck his dick.

“No, Laios, I have a proposition.”

…

Despite no promise of getting the favor returned, you don’t know if you’ve ever been so excited to clock out before. Scurrying out as soon as your legs could carry, barely managing to bid Kabru farewell before rounding the side of the building.

Laios is leaning against the bumpy wall, hands laced at his hips and thumbs circling.

“Hey, pervert,” you coo.

His face flushes, eyes widening, “You’re a pervert, too.”

When it comes to him, you don’t mind being labeled crass. Or even nasty. It’s why you’re so pliant to crash onto your knees while yanking his jeans apart and down his thighs. He hisses, honey gaze sweeping up towards the empty road through the thin line of trees.

Noticing his distraction, you intentionally scrape nails against his flesh when wrangling his boxers.

A soft, warm palm hesitantly cups the side of your head -- his concern somewhere between pulling you to stand and keeping your attention where it is. Though, he remains conflicted on how embarrassed he should be, especially given the way you’re biting your lip.

“Already?” you coo, teasing a finger along the hot underside of his cock, “I haven’t done anything to you yet.”

“You’re just… so pretty,” Laios huffs, praying you can’t make out the glisten of sweat across his forehead.

“Aw, thanks, big guy,” you chastely kiss his flushed tip, giggling quietly when it twitches into your welcoming pucker, “Not so bad yourself.”

He whines, raising a brow at you almost expectantly, though respectfully restraining his hips from jumping towards you. Deciding to put the man out of his suspended misery, you lave him with your tongue in a broad stroke before sucking him in.

Velveteen cheeks clamping around him as you squeeze around him, tongue pressing against smooth skin. He has no particular taste beyond ‘man’, but you hum and slide him deeper as if he’s sugary sweet. Laios lets out a muted moan, biting the hand not leisurely splayed along the side of your face.

Curling fingers beneath the bone of your jaw, he feels out the bulge plumping your cheek -- heart throbbing between his ribs at the recurring thought its his fault.

Obsessively, he mulls that point over and over until he’s unthinkingly bucking into your sodden mouth. A lewd slurp from you makes his head swivel sharply, as if someone would await this point before calling the cops.

Wiry, trimmed though not kempt, flaxen pubes tickle your nose. Laios coaxes you to bury him deeper in the cinch of your throat, and you’re content to comply. Gags and sputters are lulled from you, saliva gushing through the seam on your lips and wetting his pelvis. Drool rolling down your chin and ruining the black shirt and apron you’d thrown on before leaving.

“Aw,” he pants above you, swiping away the slick with his thumb pad, “you’re gonna ruin your shirt. It’s my favorite one, too.”

Liking the way he babbles, you pull back to hawk twah into your hand and playing his balls before slipping off his cock completely,

“Yeah, baby? You like it?”

Rolling your tongue around his tip and teasing him against your cheek, fluttering wet lashes up at him.

“Uhhh…” he whimpers, “Your arms look good in it, and I can see your collar bones…” his breath hitches, adam’s apple springing with desire, “I love when you wear that shirt.”

Laios plops free, smearing spit and pre against your hot skin. Before you can obsess over the admission too long, you’re moving to bite his hips. Fully intent on bruising him. Your hand sweeps up from his nuts to stroke him, fist blurring along his cock with soaking click, click, clicks.

With a hiss, his hand flies to the crown of your head -- not pushing either way, only grasping firm and needy. You bite harder, latching to suck the flesh swollen as you flick your wrist while jerking him off. His hips thrust against your hand, absolutely mewling.

“Good boy,” you grin into his burning pelvis, “Fuck my fist, Laios. You wanna cum for me?” he nods, mouth only capable of leaking choked versions of your name, “Wanna cum in my mouth?”

He cannot hide his gasp, jerking in your grasp.

Your hand slows, much to his pathetic displeasure, “Speak then, Laios. Good boys speak.”

“Please!” he barks, entirely uncaring if anyone around the corner could hear, “I want to cum in your mouth, can I cum in your mouth? I want to bad.”

Resuming your previous speed, you nod (though not without a “Good boy, Laios, very good.”) before flattening your tongue beneath his weeping tip. Laios digs his shoulders against the wall, fervently pistoning his cock through the cramped hole of your first and toward your mouth. Sliding along the buds of your tongue. Pitchy moans and huffs overpower the drone of faraway cars.

With a hushed grunt and “fuck” from overhead, Laios is splattering -- drowning your palette. Warm and thick, you barely scrape the salty taste before shucking it down with an instinctual gulp.

“Ah!” Laios makes a quiet hack of protest, then sighs, “You didn’t have to,” breathlessly adding, “I know some people hate the taste.”

Weirdly, you didn’t. You’re unsure if that’s something you should share, however.

Rather, you stumble onto your feet, wiping the back of your hand over your mouth in case of any… spillage. Then follows the sudden wave of shame -- regardless of Laios being a full consenting adult, and your previously steadfast attitude, you do feel like a pervert. You feel like he’s going to look down on you. You feel like-

You’re nearly startled into the bushes when you look up, Laios’ eyes split open and gleaming in the moonlight with unsettling brightness. Fists clenched at his sides after what you’re sure is the world-record for pulling one’s pants back up.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks simply.

Or maybe he’s just as into you as you are him.

[luveline]

—you meet Spencer again after losing out on the BAU job. he comforts you while you do your best not to flirt. bombshell!reader, 0.9k

You lose out on the BAU job to Elle Greenaway. It drives you crazy.

You work just as hard as Elle does, you’re professional no matter what Jason Gideon has to say about you, and you know you could do it. You have just as many successes as Elle does.

It makes you feel sick. You tried so, so hard.

I’m sorry, Hotch had said, and at least you’d had his support. He was kind enough to tell you in person. I can’t make the decision without Gideon, and if he thinks you aren’t right for it right now, we’ll have to wait.

Wait. As though Jason Gideon was ever going to change his mind about you.

You open your purse and take out the barrel of your sheer lipstick. Your compact is next. You hold the mirror up and angle your face in the sun, popping the lid off of the lipstick, and pressing its flat end to your bottom lip. The line you draw is perfectly precise. Your hand barely trembles.

You drop the mirror down and rub your lips together slowly. No matter what falls out of your control, you can present yourself to your liking. You can be immaculate. You—

“Hi.”

You look up from your rumination, startled. You’d been thinking so hard someone actually got the run up on you.

“Hi,” you say, tilting your head gently toward your shoulder.

Dr. Spencer Reid stands a polite three feet away from you. He’s suddenly changed. The last time you met him he was wearing his long hair in a side part. Now it’s split down the middle, just a touch shorter at the sides, and he’s wearing glasses.

(He’s wearing glasses!)

You’d thought he was pretty before.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” you say, tempted to call him baby, maybe sweetheart. He’s a sweet looking boy. His sweater vest makes you wanna hold his hand. “Thank you for asking. Why are you asking?”

You talk to him with no derision nor malice, just curiosity.

He frowns. It gives his eyes a sad shine. “I know you wanted the open position. You would’ve been great at it.”

“You think so?” you ask, surprised.

“I’ve seen some of your write ups. We’ve used your summaries in one of our profiles, do you… remember that?”

You send Hotch anything he wants to see.

“I don’t know why Gideon doesn’t like you… He’s so rarely wrong about people, but you’re…” He licks his lips nervously. “You’re– you’re smart. You’re inquisitive. I think you would be an asset to the team, and it’s a shame you didn’t get your chance.”

You’re making him nervous and it isn’t your intention. You put your hands in your lap and stop giving him the look, swapping your amicable smile for a proper friendly one. “Thank you. Is it okay if I call you Spencer? Dr. Spencer Reid is a lot to say at once.”

He laughs, still nervous. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Spencer, thank you for caring so much, but I’m okay. I think I might still have a chance one day, but with Elle gone, the sex crimes division is going to need me.” You lift your chin. If he’s sought you out to tell you he’s sorry, your premonitions about him when you met a few weeks ago were correct. He’s as kind as he is pretty. “I love your glasses. Are they for reading?”

“I always wore glasses when I was a kid, and then I started working here, and I thought it might make me seem less… childish, if I wore contacts, but they’re the worst.”

You laugh happily. He says it in such a pained voice. “The glasses suit you so much,” you say, shoving your things into your bag and standing. “Did you wanna go for coffee? I need a pick me up before I go back to the office.”

Spencer touches his wrist. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?” you ask, again, without a drop of malice. You’re not stupid, Spencer has all the nervousness of someone who’s been mistreated before, and heartily, and it’s easy to be soft with him not solely because of it, but because he seems so sweet. You could happily be his friend. “Do you like coffee? We could get those hot donuts from the cafeteria, have you tried those?”

You close the little gap between you both and raise your hand carefully to his face. Gentle, you try to pull a stray hair from the hinge of his glasses leg without snapping it.

“You can tell me all the stuff I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Spencer says.

“Come on, there has to be something.”

His mouth gives him away. “It’s not that you’re doing it wrong, you’re just– you– you’re not looking at things the…” Your fingertip brushes his cheek as you drop your hand. “…Right way, sometimes.”

“I wanted your recommendations.” You bump his elbow with yours. “I’ll buy you a coffee and you can write me a list. Cool?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Cool.”

You’re thinking it’ll be the start of a good friendship. You and Dr. Reid make quite a pair.

[despressoslatte]

not the zoey you wanted (three)

pairing: zach maclaren x female reader!

summary: you waited all weekend for your boyfriend, Zach, to call or text, anything, to explain why he had just went and ghosted you when you were supposed to go with him on a family ski trip to meet his parents, his sister Avery, and his cousin, Miles.

content warnings: angst; victims of catfishing; miscommunication trope

masterlist | < two

⟢a/n: if you want me to add you to the taglist for this fic, add yourself to this form: taglist

ᯓ⟢

When you get back to your on-campus apartment, you went straight into your room to take down the photos you had up of you and Zach, pulling a random old shipping box out from your recycled area to shove things into. 

The drive back to campus was pretty smooth. You blasted Gracie Abrams and Maisie Peters on repeat, and your mind went into autopilot. 

So, Zoey Miller was his girlfriend. That was pretty rich, considering you didn’t even realize when you stopped being his girlfriend. Didn’t even realize a guy as soft as Zach MacLaren had a mean bone in his body to be able to do something like this to you. You went to his house that morning half ready to give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe something came up, maybe he lost his phone, maybe last minute his parents decided for it to be a family-only trip and took his phone from him in the name of “reconnecting with nature” and so he was never given the chance to inform you.

But then his mother said those words, she said that Zoey Miller was Zach’s girlfriend.

You had pulled most of his sweaters that you’d had from your closet, throwing them into the box, by the time there was obnoxiously loud knocking at your front door. You had no plans, no one who was supposed to be coming over, so you paused for a moment to see if maybe your roommate, Bree, was home or not. When you didn’t hear any movement from her side of the apartment and the knocking persisted, you let out a frustrated sigh, walking over to the peephole.

You rolled your eyes at the sight of him. What, he felt bad that he got caught and drove himself all the way back to school to finally have that talk with you in person. Between the few moments it took for you to open the door, your mind raced with all the different cliche breakup lines he could give you.

“I’m sorry, I just wasn’t feeling the spark between us anymore.”

“Let me explain…”

“I didn’t mean for this to be how you found out.”

“It’s not what it looks like.” Yeah, as if his mother confirming that Zoey Miller was Zach’s girlfriend wasn’t exactly what it looked like.

And more and more, until you finally wrapped your hand around the doorknob, unlocking the top latch, and swinging it open to look at him. He towered over you, guilt etched into his face and a small cut on his lip where you could only imagine he had bit over and over as he contemplated how to let you down softly on his ride over.

You peered out into the hallway, half expecting Zoey Miller to be outside, looking at you with those same eyes of remorse, but you only saw Zach’s luggage by your door and redness under his blue eyes.

“What?” you asked, your voice coming out in a hushed, annoyed whisper, holding the door open just enough so that he can see you.

“Let me explain,” he pleaded, his voice raspy. So, we were going with the scripted breakup line number 2. 

He paused for a second, but when he saw that you weren’t going to step back to let him inside of your apartment, he locked eyes with you. One thing about Zach MacLaren? He was very good at making intense eye contact. He licked his lips and sighed, as if searching for what else to say with his excuse.

As you waited for his lips to continue moving, you thought of what he could say next.

“...it just sort of happened.”

“...I didn’t mean to fall for her.”

“...can we stay friends?”

But instead, what came out of his mouth was, “I got hit by a car.”

Your annoyed facial expressions dropped into a confused one, squinting at him in reaction to his words. Your chin moved closer to your neck as your head moved backwards in confusion. Your lips curled upwards, not in a smile, but in a bewildered grimace.

“I’m sorry, you got what by a what?” you asked, baffled.

He was staring back at you, so so so serious. He pulled a folded up paper out of his pocket, holding it out in your direction.

“My after visit summary from the emergency room on Friday,” he mumbled.

He got hit by a car on Friday? you thought to yourself, wondering how he was going to use his, “I got hit by a car” as reasoning for taking another girl as his girlfriend to a family ski trip that he had invited you on, first.

“Patient Zachary MacLaren is a 21 year old male who was brought in after a collision of a moving car with his bicycle occurred. At onset, he did lose consciousness for a few minutes, before regaining consciousness before the paramedics arrived. No sprains or broken limbs or joints have been sustained in the incident. Patient has some swelling to the left side of his skull. Tests and examinations are concurrent with a diagnosis of a concussion and anterograde amnesia.”

Anterograde amnesia, you learned that in one of her psychology courses last semester. Short term memory loss.

“Are you telling me you have amnesia?” you asked him, holding the paper up after you’re done reading it.

“Yes—No, had. I had amnesia,” he stuttered out while nodding his head.

“So you don’t have amnesia right now?” you asked to clarify.

He shook his head and rounded his lips in a pucker and put his hands behind his back, swaying a little. “No amnesia right now.”

You blink a few times, still lost on what and how this was connecting to him bringing a different girlfriend on his family ski trip.

“And did this amnesia make you lose your goddamn mind and bring some random girl with you to a ski trip?” you asked, trying to find the connection here.

Though, you do feel really bad he got hit by a freaking car, and then he got amnesia, that sucks. You wished you had been there to help him with that.

“No, no, see, what had happened,” he started to explain, putting his hands out to grab onto your upper arms and crouch a little down to your level so he could stare you in the eyes again. “I thought she was you.”

“Excuse me?” 

He licked his lips, turning his head to the side as if to say, “I know.” He sighed and continued with his story, “After I got hit with the car, she was there.”

“Zoey was there with you when you got hit by this car? Why was Zoey with you?” you questioned.

“She works at the bookstore.”

“The bookstore,” you repeat after him with a nod, trying to keep track of all the different ways this story was branching out. “The one with the book on Battletoads.”

“Well, no,” he shook his head. “I had to get her to order me a book on Battletoads for Idiots because they didn’t have any in stock.” Then, he shook his head again when he realized you two were getting off track. He let go over her, using his hands to motion around and talk. “Point is, I left my credit card.” He points to his side to emphasize leaving his credit card. “She came outside to give it to me, I turned around to look at her,” and he mimicked how he looked at her, peering over his shoulder. “And a car didn’t see me, I didn’t see the car,” he pointed to himself and then down, before making a hitting motion with his palm, “and bam! I go flying onto the pavement.”

You’re just nodding along with his entire story, waiting for him to finally give you that missing puzzle piece that could make it all make sense.

“And then when I woke up, she was there crouching in front of me. My brain was all mushy,” he made circular motions around his head. “And I knew her name was Zoey, and I somehow could remember that I called you Zoey a few times… and I… uh…” he looked more sheepish as he got to this part of the story. “In my moment of anterograde amnesia—that means short term memory loss by the way—”

“I know,” you said, and if this was any other time, you may have laughed at the way he over pronounced “anterograde amnesia” and looked so proud of himself for knowing the term, a small smile on his face.

“—I may have thought she was.. you,” he trailed off as he said this part, looking guilty. “I just… I don’t know how,” he put his hands up and them down in exasperation, practically breathing out his words. “I don’t know how I thought she was you, baby, I don’t. But then you came to my parents’ house, and I saw you drive away, and it all… I knew she wasn’t you.”

You just nod as you process the information. This sounded like some cheaply made romance plot, that one look at you and his amnesia would wear off. There was a lot of information processing that was happening at this point.

You were pulled from your thoughts at the sound of footsteps, seeing a group of girls walking through the hallway, some of your various neighbors. They looked over at you and Zach, and you knew how this looked. The serious look on your face, the luggage, the pleading one on his. They probably thought they were watching a breakup between a tutor girl and the college’s soccer star. 

You opened the door wider, not wanting anyone to somehow overhear the conversation. You stepped aside for him. “Come in.”

He smiled, hopeful, and rolled his luggage and walked himself into your apartment.

You two went straight for the kitchen, him just following you as you said nothing back to his explanation. You went straight to the coffee machine, and as you brewed yourself some espresso, Zach went to your fridge, pulling out the creamer he knew was yours and not your roommates, you know, since he didn’t have amnesia anymore.

You stood there in silence for a little while, leaning against the kitchen counter as you sipped your latte, having made one for him after yours.

“So… you thought she was me…” you finally talk, and he’s standing across from you with a guilty nod. “Do we really look alike?”

“No! No! You’re like… a superstar, and she’s… not you,” he said with a nervous laugh, unable to insult Zoey Miller just to bring you up.

And that was fine with you. You didn’t need or want him insulting her. Just wanted to know if you two looked similar enough that he could mix you guys up in an amnesia concussion haze.

“So it was just because her first name is also my middle name?” you questioned.

“I know, it sounds stupid, I don’t… I don’t really know how to explain it.”

You nodded your lips forming a line.

“So… she just… pretended to be me?” you questioned, thinking about how insane that sounded. “For what? Revenge for hitting her in the end with that soccer ball?”

He laughed at your questions, the way you sounded so irritated at not being able to understand Zoey Miller.

You continued with your little rant, “I mean, I heard that girl is anti-romantic, so what? Did she have some secret crush on you or something? Had to strike while I wasn’t around, and you didn’t know any better?”

“She had a crush on Miles, actually,” he said with raised eyebrows. “Kissed him in the pool while I was sleeping and everything.”

Your eyes widened, and you let out an unbelievable laugh.

“And Miles just… let her? Thinking she was you girlfriend? And wait, what about Emily?” you asked, putting the cup down on the counter. Loving Zach was knowing about all of the people he loved, too, which meant knowing his cousin Miles was dating a nice girl named Emily. “Sorry, but your cousin’s an asshole! Cheating on her with the girl he thought was cheating on you while she was pretending to be me!”

Your voice kept raising as you got riled up on his behalf, and he couldn’t help but let a small smile stay on his face because of it.

The more information you got, the more insane this whole story sounded. But he smiled at your reaction, the way your facial features were showing less and less that you were mad at him. He really hoped you weren’t mad at him.

“Apparently, they’re poly.”

“Doesn’t mean you are,” you retort back, walking to where he was to stand next to him.

You let out a deep exhale, leaning your head against his arm as you two stood against the kitchen island. 

“It felt wrong, the entire time,” he said softly, squatting down a little bit so he could lean his head on top of yours as well. “Like I knew deep down she didn’t really like me. Like she didn’t even know me, and that I didn’t really know her. She said she was a computer science major and that made no sense to me, since we met because you were my English tutor. She had all these hobbies I don’t remember you ever liking. Wouldn’t let me hold her hand, spent most of her time with Miles instead of me since they could go out on the slopes and I couldn’t because, ya know, mushy brains,” he sighed. “And then, she found out about Emily and got mad at him. Then, she finally spent the day with me.”

Despite being upset that some other girl went on the MacLaren ski trip instead of you, you couldn’t help but feel bad that Zach spent the entire weekend with an inkling feeling that his girlfriend—or who he thought was his girlfriend—didn’t even like him.

He keeps talking, just expressing how the weekend felt and how things had gone.

“And it was sad coming back, you know?” he sighed. “I mean, I spent all of yesterday thinking I was having so much fun re-getting to know her, feeling like we were finally having a connection, feeling really good about it… just for it all to be a lie.”

You frowned and took your head off of his arm, making him move straight as well.

“You felt like you and Zoey had a connection?” you asked softly.

His face contorted in concern at his misstep.

“Wha—No. No, baby, no,” he moved to turn in front of you, his arms going to hold yours. “It wasn’t real. It’s not real.”

“But a part of you really liked getting to spend time with her,” you point out softly, looking away. “So much so that it was disappointing when you came home and it was… me that’s your girlfriend, and not her.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Zach said softly, shaking his head, trying to lead down closer to you to get you to look at him. “I’m not disappointed that I came home and there was you.”

“But you were disappointed that your weekend with Zoey was built on a fake premise,” you said back. “And not entirely because she lied to you, but because you felt a connection to her.”

“No!”

“Zach.”

“Okay, fine, yes. I admit that I was… feeling something towards her on this trip, but baby, I thought she was my girlfriend.”

“So, you’d date her?” you hated yourself for somehow twisting it the way you were, but a part of you was just hurt that this happened, hurt to know he spent the weekend falling for someone else, regardless of why and how. “In a different world where I don’t exist to you, you’d fall for her. Because you did. This weekend.”

A permanent frown etched into his face at your words.

“But you do exist in this world,” he whispered, pleading. 

“Did you kiss her?”

It’s not fair, you know it’s not fair to be jealous or upset. Zoey practically catfished and scammed and lied and pretended to be someone she wasn’t. But she didn’t pretend to be you in the sense of your personality. Zach said it himself, she sounded so unlike you, with a different major, different personality, different hobbies. And despite that, he liked her. 

“I thought she was you,” he reiterated, saying “yes” to your question without the word itself.

“You thought she was your girlfriend, not that she was me,” you denied, shaking your head and moving from your spot trapped between Zach and the kitchen island. 

The pleading in his eyes could haunt you.

“You didn’t think she was me personally. You just thought you were with her. And you liked being with her, for her personality and her hobbies and just her,” you said softly.

Every part of you was screaming at you to take your words back, to stop yourself from talking. You knew it was irrational to be upset at him for something he had no control over. He had amnesia for crying out loud. But there was no rationalizing this situation. 

There was no rulebook telling you how to react and respond to finding out some girl pretended to be your amnesia patient of a boyfriend’s girlfriend. There was no guide on how to take in and process him openly admitting that while she was so drastically different from you, he was starting to really like her.

“I’m sorry this happened, Zach,” you said softly, your bottom lip wobbling. “It’s not fair, and it really really sucks.”

He just stared at you, tears forming in his eyes as if he knew what you were about to say. His chin wobbled, and it pushed you over the edge, too. A string of tears fell from your own eyes.

“But I’m really hurt right now, and I don’t mean to be upset with you because I know… I know it’s not your fault. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen,” you admit, wiping your tears on the back of your wrists. 

He steps forward to try and comfort you. You step back.

“But I need time to…” you suck in a breathe and lick your lips as you try to figure out what it was that you needed from him. “I need time to process this all… process that you were starting to fall for someone else.”

“Baby…” he begged you not to do this with one single word.

“Please,” you pleaded back. “Just… please.”

And how could he deny you, the one he loved so much, the one thing you were asking of him right now?

“Okay,” he whispered and nodded, a singular tear falling down his face as he forced himself to listen to you. 

And that look on his face really felt like it could haunt you.

ᯓ⟢

four >

a/n: so i realized i have messed up the movie’s timeline, remembering that it started on valentine’s day, not december LOL, but soccer season for college is august-november for actual competitions and spring time for non-competition training and games… and I’m also from California so while I knew some schools have like “ski week” breaks in february (we always just called it president’s week break), it absolutely skipped my mind that that is a thing LOL. in this story it is a few weeks before holiday break lol.

taglist: @ursogorgeous13 @khiatonsx

[moonstruckme]

hi, my love! i hope you’re doing okay!

i’d be really interested to see the protectiveness of the marauders and how it plays out in a poly!marauders dynamic. say something happens to r (can be as minor or as severe as you prefer). how would each marauder react and how would their dynamics bounce off each other? would it make the situation better or worse?

I find it funny picturing r attempting to wrangle all three of her boys from throwing hands (especially if it was a mistake or a miscommunication between r and the “offender”) and they’re bouncing off each other and riling themselves up more and she’s just like, ffs I’m so sorry and tries her best to manhandle her three boyfriends away for a stern talking to. Like, thank you guys for protecting me and all that but a) t’was a mistake / miscommunication, and b) i can sort my own shit and will ask if i need back up (Sirius in the back like no need to ask, i’m ready to go bby). Everyone’s like wtf Remus?! because he’s usually the chill one and it’s just a cluserfuck of misplaced angst and fluffy humour.

this might overlap with some other requests you’ve written, so feel free to ignore or tweak as you see fit! no idea if this makes any sense but hope it’s fun to write if you decide to!

Hi lovely! I've done a couple fics with protective marauders before, so I wanted to try something a little different based on your prompt. I had a different vision in my head than how it turned out, but I hope you like it <3

cw: alcohol, sexual assault, violence

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.7k words

You’ve been known to be a…somewhat short-fused drunk. It’s not that you’ll get angry with anyone for anything, only that the sort of behavior that you might normally try to ignore, you…don’t. This is usually the behavior of men. 

It’s one of those nights where the club is made up of about forty percent young girls and sixty percent older, eagle-eyed men. You’re glad for your boyfriends, who ward off the other men like a force field around you. You feel lucky to have it and disgusted to need it. 

James’ laughter is loud and bright as you spin him around after he does you. You echo it, pleased at having inspired such a sound. With his large, sturdy build, it’s rare for James to get very drunk, but he’s about where you are now. Which is to say, you’ve been sloppily dancing and giggling with each other for the last hour. 

Remus rolls his eyes fondly when James nearly spins himself out of balance, steadying him with a hand on his back. 

“I’m gonna go take a piss,” Sirius shouts. 

James laughs again, planting a wet kiss on his cheek. “Classy, babe.” 

“Bugger off.” Sirius shoves him playfully into Remus’ chest. 

You dance with them both for a minute longer before leaning in to shout, “Okay if I go get more drinks?” 

Remus eyes you both for a second, but nods. “Alright. I’ll come with you.” 

“No, stay.” You set a hand on his chest. “Don’t let Jamie dance alone. I’ll be right back, yeah?” 

You don’t give him a chance to respond as you head for the bar. It’s crowded, but you’re not about to worm between some middle-aged men to get to the front. You stand up on your toes and wait to catch the bartender’s eye. 

“What’s your name?” Suddenly there’s a warm body pressed up behind yours, hands on your hips. 

Your blood, already warmed by alcohol, turns hot in an instant. You step forward, too quick for the man behind you to follow. Turn to look him in the eyes. 

“Don’t touch me,” you say firmly. 

“Okay.” The man raises his eyebrows at you. He looks nearly old enough to be your father—certainly old enough to be someone’s father—with waxy skin and thinning hair combed over the front of his head. He’s in a suit like he came here from work. “Sorry, relax. I just think you’re beautiful.” 

“I’m here with someone.” Someones, you could say, but you’ve learned it’s easier in some situations to make it sound like you only have one partner, for brevity’s sake. And there’s nothing you desire more than for this interaction to be brief. 

He gives a little laugh. “Don’t take things so seriously, I’m only complimenting you. Do you like to dance?” 

You give him a hard look. “Only with my boyfriend.” 

“You look like you dance.” His eyes skim down your frame, raptorial. “I can tell. You have the body for it.” 

No sooner does his large, meaty hand connect with your ass than you’re grabbing it by the wrist, your free hand balling and aiming for his face. 

His surprised grunt comes in sync with a “Woah!” from behind you. 

You turn to find Remus and James, looking like they’ve just broken through the crowd. James is staring at you with wide eyes. One of the men near you at the bar sets a hand on your shoulder, pulling you away from the creep and forcing you to drop his wrist, but Remus is there in an instant. 

“Oi.” He grabs you, removing the man’s hand and caging you in his arms. “She’s fine.” 

“She hit him!” the man accuses. The guy from before is leaning forward with a hand pressed over his face. 

James is incredulous. “Did you see what he did to her?” 

The other man looks between you like he’s realized he’s missing something, and Remus takes a couple of steps back from the crowd with you in his arms. Meanwhile, your attacker seems to be recovering from his shock. He lowers his hand to reveal a discolored mark on his jaw, gaping at you. 

“You fucking cunt!” 

James gives him a hard shove, and more shouting starts up around the bar, various other patrons either cheering the fight on or trying to break it up. Remus grabs James by his shirt, tugging him along as he herds you towards the exit. “Alright, we’re going, we’re going.” 

Your journey out of the building is hurried and difficult to follow in your addled state, but everything seems to catch up to you when the dark club gives way to glaring fluorescent streetlights. You bend over under a wave of nausea. 

“Hey.” James sounds more sober than he had a few minutes ago. He stoops to look at you, your eyes wet. “You okay?” 

Remus says something to him quietly, passing James the car keys. He unwinds his arm from around you and kisses your head. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says gently. “Go wait in the car, okay?” 

“Okay…” Your voice is hardly a whimper. “Where are you going?” 

But Remus is already gone, waving down the bouncer outside of the club. 

You turn to James. “Where is he going?” 

Tears blink out of your eyes as you ask. The corners of James’ mouth turn down sympathetically. 

“Oh, my girl.” He wraps a big arm around your shoulders, kissing your head as he leads you towards the car. “What’s wrong? Does your hand hurt?” 

You shake your head, though it does a little. Your knuckles and the tops of your fingers feel odd and sore, and there’s a throbbing that goes all the way down to your wrist. That’s not what’s bothering you, though. You’re not sure if you can pick what’s bothering you. The predatory stares you’ve endured all night; the sickening realization of the man’s body pressed up against yours; his easy, blithe laughter; your own white-hot anger, there and gone before you could take account of yourself—it’s all too much. 

“I can’t believe I hit him,” you admit tearfully. 

James lets out a little laugh. “I saw, baby.” He unlocks the car, opening the back door. 

“I didn’t mean to.” 

“I—oh, okay.” James doesn’t stop you when you don’t get in, instead sitting on the floor of the car with your feet on the gravel parking lot. He sits beside you. “It’s okay if you did. He deserved it.” 

You put your head in your hands. “I don’t hit people.” 

He makes a soft sound. A big hand lands between your shoulder blades, rubbing softly. “I know you don’t, sweetheart. It’s…I get that you wouldn’t usually, but I think this counts as a special circumstance. Rem, he saw what was happening, but we couldn’t get to you fast enough. I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself, you know?” 

You don’t reply, and he lets you sit in silence for a while, your weeping gradually stopping. When Remus comes back, it’s with Sirius in tow. 

“What the fuck happened?” Sirius asks tipsily. “I was looking for you!” 

“Did Remus not tell you?” James sounds excited to be the one to share the news. 

“Alright, dove?” Remus asks at a more reasonable volume, crouching in front of you. “Does your hand hurt? Can I see?” 

“No, he’s being bloody tight-lipped.” Sirius ruffles Remus’ hair. “Just said you had to go. Oi, you alright, lovely?” 

“She punched a guy in the face,” James says proudly. 

“She what?” Sirius’ mouth pops open. You shrink some under his gaze. “Baby, you what?” 

“I didn’t mean to!” you insist, though it’s hard to stay miserable when two of your boyfriends look so obviously delighted. 

Sirius shakes his head, awestruck. “What did I miss?” 

James fills him in quickly while Remus prods at your hand, eventually commending you on a rather clean hit after he’s certain you didn’t break anything. Sirius can hardly keep his mouth shut while James talks, nor can James keep from using a series of vulgar names for the man who’d touched you, though he checks on you a couple of times to be sure his storytelling isn’t upsetting you. When he’s done, Sirius’ stare has darkened, his arms crossing as he leans against the side of the car. 

“Do we think he could perhaps use a matching bruise on the other side?” he muses, gaze flicking to the entrance of the club. “Maybe one of you could point him out to me.” 

“You’ll get to see him soon,” says Remus. You look at him questioningly, but he only gives you a small smile. Cryptic.

“Really, she’s already handled it rather well herself.” James slides his arm around your shoulders, planting a kiss on your head. “You should have seen it, I had no idea she could punch like that.” 

“Me neither,” you sigh. 

Just then, the door to the club bangs open. Two bouncers come out in their uniform black tees, hauling between them another man. 

“Alright, alright, leave off!” The creep from earlier struggles in their grasp. All three of your boyfriends tense. As he comes through the doorway, his discolored jaw catches the light. 

Sirius whistles. “Shit. That is bloody gorgeous.” 

You feel the beginnings of a smile tugging at your lips, but try to remain contrite. You catch Remus’ eye. 

“It was pretty impressive,” he says, also smiling. 

You chew your lip. “You don’t think it was wrong?” 

“What’s wrong about it?” Sirius asks. “He touched you, you touched him. I’d have done the same if I were there.” 

Remus rolls his eyes. “We know, love.” 

“I’m just saying, I could make it symmetrical…” 

“No,” Remus says sternly. He helps you up, ushering you into the backseat. “It’s time to go home.” 

James buckles in beside you while Remus gets into the driver’s seat. Sirius lingers outside the car. 

“He’s not gotten far yet, are we sure…” 

“Aw, baby, does your hand hurt?” James asks loudly. 

Sirius turns, crawling in to get a look. “Shit, did you bruise something? How’d you make a fist?” 

James reaches across him to shut the door, and Remus drives away.

[starryeyesmasc]

fuck it. thinking about a girl riding my strap when she figures out how desperate I am to cum just from fucking her.

her hips rock again and she stretches, slick and glistening, around the head of the strap. I whine as I watch her sink down fully, but I can’t move to touch her how I’d like. my hands are neatly tied to the headboard, courtesy of the girl on my lap right now. she laughs at the painfully turned on expression on my face.

“awww. what’s up, darling?” she coos, sighing as she works herself slowly up and down the length of silicone. “am I teasin’ you? is someone getting a little flustered down there?”

any answer I might’ve been able to give fizzles out when she props a hand on my chest to pick up her pace. I drop my head back against the duvet and groan as the orgasm I’d been rapidly nearing comes steaming back. we’ve been at this for at least an hour, and she’s already cum at least three times. all without letting me cum once. I’m struck wordless, desperate, by the sheer weight of my desire for her. so when she begins to lift again I shake my head and whine.

“no, please. please please please.”

she grins and shunts her hips back down fully, completely swallowing up the ruined strap. it’s the visual of her cum from two orgasms ago smearing into my boxers that makes me arch and jolt.

“fuck—oh fuck, I can’t—m’gonna—fuck—”

for one blessed moment, I think she’s going to finally let me cum. then she laughs again and I feel her teeth nip against my neck. “so fuckin’ eager to please, aren’t you? are you actually gonna cum just from this?”

something snaps above me. I don’t need to look up to know I broke the headboard; I felt the tension holding my hands loosen. but before I can move to touch her, a nimble hand pins my wrists above my head.

“ah-ah. no, darling. you look so good and pretty right now. I’m not done usin’ you yet. you just stay still and let me—oh, awww. are you crying? need to cum that badly, do you? fuck, babe. you’re so, so desperate to be good for me, aren’t you?”

I nod instantly; squirming against the euphoric precipice she had me balanced on.

“please,” I sob. “please, fuck, please.”

“well go on then.” she rolls her hips and the sound makes me moan. “be my good desperate slut. cum for me.”

there’s something missing, and she knows it too. she’s just waiting to drag the answer free and I’m too whiny to hold out. her smirk turns wicked and she gives my hands a little shove into the bed.

“but that’s right. you can’t, can you? you need to watch me fuck myself on you again, babe?”

even as she says it, her hips slide back into motion. up, down, languid, just how I like. I’m a horse in the gates, a pulse in the veins, raring to go. all I need is one last push. she pauses when she sinks to the bottom to roll her swollen clit under her fingertips and her head tilts back as her eyebrows furrow.

“mhmm. fuck, you fill me up so fucking much. I could sit right here for hours. c’mon, babe. I know I nearly have you. close those pretty eyes and give me what I want.” she starts into motion again, and this time it’s rough. chasing release. her hips slamming down into mine with slick, wet sounds. she lowers her mouth to my straining neck. “fucking give it to me. cum for me. cum for me.”

her words push me to breaking point, but it’s her low moan in my ear and the resulting wetness dripping into my boxers that sets me off like it always does. I finally hit that sunlit peak and I arch into the golden heat of it as everything in my body freezes in adoration of her. offering up my orgasm to the goddess above me. she can take it, I have no need for it. it’s all for her, every ounce of me. I come down from it slowly, twitching as I pant and whine underneath her. a hand slips over my cheek and her careful thumb strokes my cheekbone.

“there. hey, shhh. there we go. so good. oh, you just couldn’t hold on, could you? my poor girl. yeah, I got you. I’ve got you.”

I squirm again, trying to steal another orgasm while I’m still hazy from the first, but she tightens her grip and holds me steady.

“ah. where’re you goin’? that’s just one. I told you, I’m not done with you yet. I wanna see exactly how much I can make you cum without even touching you.”