#is it because you actually got to know him first

[rin-may-1103]

Aspiring Escape Artist

(DCxDP) | Masterpost | Next

"Alright, Mr. Fenton," his newest social worker started, turning in her seat so she might actually get him to look at her. Danny continued looking out the window and up at the gigantic building they were parked in front of.

"This is your last chance before the system declares you unfit for foster homes and sends you off to juvie. And before you get all uppitty about it, know this is as much your fault as it is the system's."

Danny rolled his eyes, watching as shadows rushed past windows too tinted to actually see into. Another shadow darted past a lower one, dragging his eyes down and toward the door. The shadow was quickly followed by three more, one of them waving something over their head.

Allowing his hearing to spread out from its usual range, Danny listened as muffled shouts filled the air, quickly turning into clear words.

"GET THE MASK, GET THE MASK!"

"SHIT!" fallowed by a thump and the sound of a large piece of furniture tipping backward and landing.

"I GOT IT!" another voice cried.

"HEY, I HAd that, you little shit-"

Danny quickly pulled his hearing back, not wanting to listen anymore. He already knew he was going to hate it here.

"Now, Mr. Wayne has taken in a lot of kids and has been very gracious to open his home to you. Make no mistakes, young man. You will listen to what he tells you, and so help me, if you cause this man any trouble whatsoever, you will regret it. Stay in the car until I tell you you can get out. I need to go over your file with Mr. Wayne first."

She was acting like Danny was some delinquent picked up fresh from a gang fight. He was half tempted to act like it just to spite her, but bit his tongue and continued looking around the place.

The large garden surrounding the building was obviously well taken care of, the green hummed happily as the (what Danny's gathered) rare sunlight and clear sky.

His control over plants still needs work, but he's gotten good enough to connect to the green and get the general feelings. Like how the man who just walked out the front doors was greatly loved by the plants, which meant he was the one taking care of them.

"Are you even listening to me?" the lady huffed, unbuckling herself and shoving the car door open. She was already standing and greating the old man before Danny could respond.

"Hello, Mr. Pennyworth, was it? Hi, I'm Ms. Clance, I'm Danny's social worker. Is Mr. Wayne home?" she slammed the door shut and held her hand out for a handshake.

The older man eyed her hand but otherwise ignored it, instead turning to look at Danny, who was still in the car. "That is correct, Ms. Clance. Master Wayne is in his study; he'll be down in a moment to discuss any last minute things you need to cover. Now, why don't we get Mr. fenton inside and aquanted with the others?"

"Hold on for just a moment," Ms. Clance cut in, sending Danny a nervous glance. Danny raised his brow, but continued to pretend he couldn't hear a word they were saying, 'waiting' for her signal to get out of the car.

The front door opened behind them, three heads popping out in an obvious attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation. There was an older guy, maybe in his mid to late twenties, a blond girl, still in her teens, and a guy with eyebags. Though Danny's were definitely worse, he might have Tucker beat. which was worrying, because what could this guy possibly need to pull three all-nighters for?

"I would like to speak with Mr. Wayne before letting the kid settle in. No offence, but I want to make sure Mr. Wayne is serious in wanting to house the kid. We've already had three other families agree to take him on and then drop him in less than a month."

"I see," Mr. Pennyworth hummed, studying Danny with a sharp eye. Danny studied him back; he had good posture, and his graying hair was slicked back. He had a mustache but no other facial hair, so he obviously kept himself well-maintained. Jazz said people like that were more likely to be well-disciplined and lean toward being blunt and honest.

His stance didn't lean toward classic butler, though; it leaned toward fighting and alert. He had experience in the army or something then, which meant Danny would have to keep an eye on this guy. he probably was the one running the house when Mr. Wayne wasn't around. which meant he'd be the one watching Danny the most.

"I still believe the young man should come inside, master wayne doesn't go back on his word, and he'll unlikely do so now."

Ms. Clance warily glanced at Danny, then back at Mr. Pennyworth, a fake smile plastered on her face, before one of the three spying on the cut in," yeah! I want to meet the little guy!"

The door swung open, allowing even more people to crowd around and watch the scene in front of them.

"And you will," Ms. Clance agreed, turning to face the growing group. "Once I speak to Mr. Wayne. We have to go over a few things in Daniel's file before I can sign off on all of this."

"Like, what?" the blond one asked, her eyes meeting danny's as she skipped down the stairs. Danny could just tell she'd be down for all sorts of chaos. And he could also tell she'd be glued to his side until her interest died, which would take only clockwork knows how long.

Instinctively, Danny reached out and grabbed the door, just as someone tried opening it. Glancing up and to the side, Danny met gray eyes. It was the other girl he had spotted wandering the garden a few minutes before.

She stared at him for a moment before smiling and stepping back. 'You can come out,' she signed. Danny glanced back at Ms. Clance, then back to the girl before sighing and getting out.

Her eyes lit up once he closed the door and turned back to her.

"You know sign," she asked, her voice quiet but not obviously disused.

'absoltly not', danny signed just to be a little shit. Turning back, he stared at his social worker, who was watching them in confused frustration.

"Daniel, what did I say about staying in the car?" She looked ready to march over and smack him.

"I thought you decided I wasn't listening?" Danny pointed out, crossing his arms and leaning back against the car. If she wanted to waste time, then that was perfectly alright with him.

"Never mind," she huffed, turning back to the butler. (he had to be a butler; he looked just like the one at Sam's place or the one his parents employed when they had made that deal with the GIW. And the fact that he referred to Mr. Wayne as master wayne.)

"You never answered my question," Blondy cut in, smiling sweetly at the frustrated woman.

"Like the plethora of misdemeanors?" Danny asked, watching as everyone turned to look at him. (probably because he wasn't supposed to know what the question was, considering he was literally just in the car.) The gray-eyed girl had slowly made her way back to join the others, though she still looked happy for some reason.

"no," ms. Clance huffed, obviously starting to get overwhelmed for some reason. she needed to take a step back and breath, there was literally no reason for her to be this agitated.

"More like we need to go over how many times you snuck out, got seriously injured, seriously injured someone else, and sent your last foster parent to a mental facility."

"All classified as misdemeanors, so obviously not that bad," Danny waved off, rolling his eyes. "And Mr. Thompson deserved it."

"You drove that man insane!" she hissed, swatting a piece of her hair out of her face.

Danny blinked at her, tilting his head to the side in confusion, "He was already insane before I got there, though?" which was actually quite annoying. Danny's dealt with enough insane people at this point; he'd rather hug Vlad than deal with another one.

"He was not," Ms. Clance sniffed, trying to straighten herself out.

"he definitely was," Danny argued, pulling his backpack tighter against his back in annoyance. "The dude thought locking me in a room and feeding me white rice once a day was perfectly fine."

Danny ignored the sudden stilted silence at his words, choosing to instead focus on the man slowly making his way outside and over to them.

"Would you stop making things up already?" Ms. Clance huffed, "We've already gone over this. There wasn't a lock on your door, and there was plenty of food in the pantry."

Danny rolled his eyes, going back to studying the gray-eyed girl. The happy sparkle was gone, and she was making hand signals that the others around her were focused on. It wasn't a dialect of sign he knew, most likely a self-made code then.

"Don't need a lock to lock someone up," Danny grumbled, turning back to Ms. Clance, "and if that doesn't count as insane, then talking to the shadows on the wall and claiming to be immortal does. Do you know how many times that man tried jumping in front of cars or out of a window? Way too many. So yeah, he deserved to go to the mental institution, where he'll get some actual help."

"right," ms. clance waved off, turning to continue talking to Mr. pennyworth. danny cut in before she could, "so, do you guys make it a habit; lingering back and listening to conversations?"

The rest blinked, then turned to see who exactly he was talking to, their eyes following his as they finally spotted the man they were all waiting for.

"ah," mr. wayne chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, "sorry, I didn't want to interup. it sounded important."

"Right," Danny huffed, glaring at the man. Honestly, all the eavesdropping and being loud as hell was turning out to be a regular thing based on the fact that no one else was acting like it wasn't.

Yeah, he was going to hate it here if that was true.

Next

[jungwnies]

in your own lane | lando norris

୨ৎ : featuring : lando norris x equestrian!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @sonichkkaaascreams) : when you're never seen at lando’s races, people start to question your commitment. what they don’t see is that you're winning grand prixs of your own — just on horseback. while rumors swirl, lando defends the love no one else fully understands: two athletes, two worlds, one unshakable team.

୨ৎ : genre : romance ୨ৎ : word count : 717

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : this was such a lovely request, love architects and everything domestic

the whispers always came in waves.

sometimes, they were subtle. a side glance in the paddock. a harmless comment during a podcast. other times, it was louder. headlines in bold. “where is she? norris’ girlfriend absent again.”

it didn’t matter that you were halfway across the world, riding a 1.60m course in stuttgart while lando was racing in monza. it didn’t matter that both your schedules were booked to the hour. all anyone ever saw was absence.

you weren’t there.

and somehow, not being there translated to not caring.

you tried to laugh it off the first few times. “let them talk,” you told lando over facetime, helmet hair tucked messily into a braid, your horse munching hay in the background.

he didn’t laugh. “i hate that they don’t get it.”

“you don’t have to defend me,” you’d said, gently. “i know what we have. i’m not in this to prove anything to anyone.”

but it wore on you sometimes, in the quiet in-between moments. when you were icing your shoulder in the hotel room after a fall, and your phone buzzed with lando’s podium photo and a comment: “wish she cared enough to show up.” or when you saw another wag post a picture in the paddock with the caption “always supporting.”

you supported too. just from a different kind of saddle.

monza came and went without you again.

you had a nations cup qualifier the same weekend. there was no possible way to be in two places at once. not when your horse needed you, your team was counting on you, and this was your chance at olympic points.

but the questions kept coming.

the latest one was from a journalist who leaned forward like he was about to drop a bomb.

“she’s never around,” he said, his voice too casual, too smug. “are you sure she’s really invested in this relationship?”

the room went quiet.

lando blinked once. tilted his head. let out a soft laugh, but there was no warmth in it. “are you serious?”

the reporter froze. the air shifted.

“she’s probably winning a grand prix of her own right now. i don’t need her front row at mine to know how serious we are.”

“but doesn’t it bother you?” the reporter asked. “that she doesn’t come to your races?”

lando leaned forward.

“no. because i actually respect what she does. she’s a professional athlete. she has a full season, a whole circuit. and while people are wondering why she’s not at my side, she’s out there, fighting for her own podiums.”

there was a beat of silence.

“she’s not just my girlfriend. she’s her own person. she’s got her own goals. and i’m proud of her for chasing them.”

later that night, his phone buzzed with a voicemail.

you sounded breathless, wind in the mic, the unmistakable squeak of your saddle as you dismounted.

“knocked a rail but still went clear in the jump-off. placed top five. wish you were here, but i know you killed it too. love you. call when you can.”

he smiled down at the phone like it was you.

when you finally saw him again, it was during the rare off-weekend.

both your schedules lined up, and you met in monaco—his place, your quiet sanctuary.

you didn’t even get through the door before he pulled you into his arms.

“missed you,” he mumbled into your neck.

“i saw the clip,” you said softly. “what you said to that reporter.”

he shrugged. “it was nothing.”

“it meant everything,” you whispered.

you sat on the couch, legs tangled, both of you scrolling on your phones.

you were trending together now, side by side on social media: ‘she can’t watch my gps when she’s busy winning her own.’ ‘lando norris claps back at misogyny in the paddock.’

you showed him a photo from your last show: you in your navy jacket, horse mid-air, muscles taut, your form perfect.

he grinned. “god, you’re hot when you’re flying.”

you snorted. “you’re ridiculous.”

“maybe,” he said, tugging you closer, “but you're mine. and no matter where you are, i feel you with me.”

you kissed him then, slow and soft and certain.

you may not always be in the same place, but your hearts? same team. same race. same finish line.

always.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[artficlly]

read between the lines [one-shot]

college marvel au frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, tutoring, first kiss, college au, vague panic from reader, idk it's just kinda fun and cute :), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: hi this was for a request! so so cute, i wrote this so fast i didn't even think i would have it ready to post so quickly. idk anything about cheerleading or how college works in america, so forgive me. inspired by that willow song! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

I’ve been tutoring Bucky.

Well, James, technically. But he goes by Bucky. Says it’s a childhood nickname and it just stuck, and honestly? That’s kind of adorable. Like, who clings to a nickname that hard? Even the professors call him that, which should be cringe, but somehow it’s not? It just suits him. I literally don’t think I could call him James even if I tried. ‘Bucky’ feels right. It sounds warm. Familiar. Stupidly charming.

Ugh. Anyway.

He’s in one of those frats I usually stay far away from. The kind that smells like cheap beer and Axe body spray. Always yelling, always playing music way too loud, always shirtless for no reason. I swore I’d never waste my time on a guy like that. I really thought he was gonna be a cocky, arrogant douche when I first got assigned to tutor him.

But he’s not. Like… at all?

He’s actually really nice. Like, unfairly nice. That casual kind of nice that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed. He remembers stuff I say. Not the big stuff, the tiny stuff. Like how I chew my pen when I’m stressed, or how I like lemon Gatorade for cheerleading practice. And yesterday he brought me those sour gummy worms I mentioned ONE time. Just handed them over all casual like, ‘Thought you might want a little sugar after practice.’ Who does that?? Like… stop. That’s not fair.

But of course, he’s like that with everyone. That’s the worst part. He’s charming in this totally effortless way. Looks at you like you’re the most interesting person alive and then turns around and does the exact same thing to someone else. How am I supposed to know what’s real?

And GOD. He’s hot. Like, it’s actually rude. He laughs and it does something to me. Like full-on makes my brain stop working. And his ARMS?? Every time he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows I lose one year off my life. For real. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. (I mean, he’s not, but like… what if he is???) Sometimes I forget what I’m even explaining because he’s just sitting there smiling at me with those eyes and that stupid little smirk and suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him instead of confidence intervals. It’s not okay.

He’s on the football team. Scholarship guy. Big deal. Girls are obsessed with him. I’ve literally heard people talk about him in the locker room like he’s a celebrity. And me? I’m just… I don’t know. I’m me. I cheer and I study and I try not to let my GPA fall apart and I pretend I’m not crushing on someone completely out of my league.

So no. I’m not gonna say anything.

Because maybe I did catch him looking at me the other day when I tied my hair up. Maybe he does stay a little longer when we’re done. Maybe he leans in a little closer than necessary. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I want it too bad and I’m just reading into everything. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to get hurt.

So I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do. Help him pass stats. Smile when he brings me candy. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Pretend like my heart doesn’t skip a beat every time he says my name.

I’m just going to help him pass stats. That’s all this is. Right? God, I’m so dumb.

—

You were fucked. Well and truly screwed.

You couldn’t even focus during practice. Missed counts, off-beat claps, a completely botched dismount that nearly took you and the poor girl spotting you both out in one go. Natasha pulled you aside with that look—the one that said she was two seconds away from losing it—and muttered something about getting your shit together because the big game was in a week and this wasn’t the time to be spacing out.

But how were you supposed to focus? Your diary was missing.

Your actual, physical, spiral-bound diary filled with every unfiltered thought you’d been too scared to say out loud. The same one where you’d spent the last four pages gushing about Bucky freaking Barnes like some sad, delusional teenage cliché. You didn’t even want to think about what you wrote last night, something about his arms and the way he smiles and how you swore he looked at you differently when you tied your hair up. It was humiliating.

You never should’ve taken it out of your room. You knew it was a bad idea. But Yelena had been on one of her ‘I’m bored and nosy’ benders, and the last time you left anything out, she’d read your old poetry journal and quoted it back to you at breakfast. You weren’t about to risk that again. So, like a total idiot, you shoved your diary in your bag before heading to class, thinking you’d keep it safe with you.

The entire day had been chaos. You barely managed to scarf down lunch between lectures, and by the time your 3 p.m. class let out, you were already sprinting across campus to make it to Bucky’s place for tutoring. Not that you actually got much tutoring done. You never did, not when he looked at you with that stupid, easy grin, or leaned back in his chair like he owned the air around him. One second you were going over statistical formulas, and the next you were talking about childhood pets and favourite movies, laughing like you hadn’t just been drowning in assignments ten minutes earlier. Time always slipped away around him. You ended up bolting to cheer practice.

It wasn’t until hours later, back in your dorm with your bag dumped upside down on the floor, that you realised your diary was missing. Your diary. 

You’d spent a solid hour panicking, then a full thirty minutes rummaging through the lost and found at the campus security office, practically elbow-deep in a box of mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases. The guy behind the desk eventually looked up from his screen, where he was rather obviously playing solitaire, and told you with the energy of someone who very much did not care that maybe it hadn’t been handed in.

You wanted to scream.

Now your most personal, most mortifying thoughts were just out there. Floating around. God only knew where or with who. And sure, maybe whoever found it wouldn’t read it. Maybe they’d be a decent human being and just turn it in without flipping through. But let’s be honest, if you found a diary with someone’s deepest secrets in it, you’d probably peek too.

You were going to be sick. Actually sick. And not because Natasha had you running suicides again like she was training you for the NFL, but because your life might genuinely be over. Because if he found it? What if you left it in his room? What if Bucky read even one word of what you wrote?

You didn’t even want to finish that thought.

No, you literally couldn’t even finish that thought because, as Natasha finally called for the end of the session and the team began their warm-down stretches, swapping tired smiles and gulping down water, you saw him.

Bucky.

Standing at the edge of the field in that stupid grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up, all smug and handsome like he hadn’t just shown up to ruin your entire existence. He had that lazy, charming smile on his face, the one that made people trust him too fast, the one that made you trust him too fast, and in his hand?

Glittery blue cover. Spiral binding. Your diary.

You were going to throw up. No, genuinely, you could feel your stomach lurch. This was it. This was how you died. Not in a blaze of glory or during a botched basket toss, but here, sweaty, humiliated, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the goddamn football field.

You didn’t even think. You just stormed over before anyone else could notice, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bleachers like it was a crime scene. Which it kind of was. A crime against your dignity.

Bucky didn’t protest. He followed easily, letting you pull him along like it was some sort of game. Of course he did. And of course, he was smiling the whole time, like you hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest ten feet away.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could barely speak. It rattled in your chest like a warning, like it knew this moment was about to go down in your personal hall of shame.

“Where…how…why do you have that?” you hissed, snatching at the diary, but he held it just out of reach, still annoyingly calm.

He raised a brow, like you’d just asked him what two plus two was. “You left it at my place. After tutoring. You were in a rush, remember?”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course, it had been his place. Of course.

“I—I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I just—” You were spiralling, words tumbling out too fast, too breathless, and your fingers were twitching like you might just snatch the book and sprint across campus. “Did you…Did you read it?”

A beat. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.

And then, God, he smiled. Not the cocky one, not the football-star grin. This one was softer. Slower. Dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

“I read enough,” he said.

You froze.

Your ears rang. Your mouth went dry. Your body just stopped.

“Enough?” you echoed, voice cracking halfway through. “Enough of what? Enough to—oh my God.”

You turned away instinctively, hand over your mouth like that could somehow keep your soul from escaping your body. Because what did that mean? What was ‘enough?’ Enough to ruin your life? Enough to laugh about it with his frat brothers? Enough to tell every girl on campus that the cheerleader who couldn’t even stick a full-out had a crush on him?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until Bucky gently caught your wrist.

“Hey. Relax,” he said, and his voice was way too steady for someone holding the social equivalent of a loaded weapon.

You yanked your arm back like his touch burned. “Relax? Bucky, that was private. It’s literally a diary! It’s not for reading, it's for… spiralling in silence!”

He tilted his head a little, watching you carefully, and if he was offended by your panic, he didn’t show it. “You left it on my bed. Open.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Please. Just kill me. Right here. Hide the body under the bleachers. I’m serious.”

Bucky chuckled—chuckled, like this was some kind of joke—and stepped closer. You could feel his presence even before you lowered your hands again. 

“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, quiet now. “If you felt that way.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Because I didn’t know if it meant anything! You’re nice to everyone. You flirt like it’s a reflex. You remember everyone’s drink orders, compliment their outfits, hold doors and say all the right things. I thought I was just another person you were… nice to.”

He didn’t answer your panicked rambling right away. Just looked at you for a long moment.

“Yeah, I’m nice to people. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way I feel about you.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, hating how small your voice sounded.

He held your gaze, completely serious now.

“Like I wanna kiss you every time you chew that damn pen cap. Like, I think about you even when I’m supposed to be studying. Like I can’t focus when you’re talking ‘cause all I do is stare at your damn lips.” He paused, and something almost like a laugh broke out of him, soft and self-conscious. “Like I’ve been trying to find a not-creepy way to tell you I like you since the second tutoring started, but you were always so focused and cool and out of my league.”

That last part made your head spin.

“Out of your league?” you repeated, eyes wide.

He smirked, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen yourself? You’re smart, you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous, and you’ve got this whole thing where you act like you don’t know you’re the coolest girl on campus. Of course, I was nervous.”

You blinked at him. “Bucky… are you flirting with me behind the bleachers while holding my diary hostage?”

He grinned. “Maybe. Depends. Is it working?”

You tried to snatch the diary out of his hand, but he was faster, effortlessly holding it just out of reach like it weighed nothing.

“God, I hate you,” you muttered through gritted teeth, bouncing up on your toes in a desperate attempt to grab it. All it earned you was the embarrassing realisation that you were now fully pressed against his chest, warm, broad, and stupidly solid.

“You really don’t, at least not according to this—” he said, low and smug.

“Bucky!” you warned, trying to reach again, but he shifted it higher.

“Give. It. Back,” you hissed, practically climbing him at this point.

“I will,” he said, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. “But only if you let me kiss you first.”

Your brain short-circuited. Completely and entirely. The words took a second to process. His voice had dropped, softer now, more serious, like he wasn’t just messing with you anymore.

You looked up at him, heart thudding so loudly against your ribs you swore he could hear it. His eyes searched yours, and for once, he didn’t look like the effortlessly confident guy everyone knew. He looked… nervous like he was the one waiting to be rejected.

“…Fine,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, but your smile gave you away. It was impossible to hide, giddy and crooked and ridiculous.

And then he kissed you.

He bent his head and closed the gap like he’d been waiting weeks for it—maybe he had. His mouth was warm and sure against yours, one arm still holding the diary hostage, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t help himself. You kissed him back without thinking, without doubting, like maybe this was the answer you’d been afraid to ask for all along.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and blinking at each other like idiots, he handed over the diary with a grin.

“Okay,” you whispered, still a little breathless. “That was… good.”

“Just good?” He smirked.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Don’t push it.”

He laughed softly, thumb still brushing your cheek. “So… does this mean I get to keep seeing you after stats is over? Or do I have to fail on purpose to keep you around?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right. You’d probably kill me.”

“More like definitely.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. He looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking. And for once, you didn’t feel like running from it.

You were so, so screwed.

But maybe… in the best way possible.

[spookysanta]

The Stack Effect. (1/3) (MBJ)

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: smut

listen. i know everyone likes smoke, okay? but there's something about that slick-mouthed stack that makes me (s)cream. anyway. part 2 will be out tomorrow.

She really thought she could handle it.

He’d told her what the look was going to be. She’d seen the early character mockups. Even helped him pick out which rings looked best under camera lighting.

But nothing prepared her for the real thing.

Nothing prepared her for Stack.

The moment she stepped on set, she knew she was in trouble. It wasn’t just the grills or the button-down or even the perfectly-tailored suit. It was the walk. The posture. The voice that turned every word into something that lingered too long in the air.

And the worst part? He hadn’t even looked at her yet.

He was finishing up a shot with Ryan, leaning against a vintage car like he belonged to another time. Gold tooth catching sunlight. Chain resting against his chest. A cigarette between his fingers that he didn’t even smoke, just held for the aesthetic. The way he moved — slow, confident, swaggering — made her skin prickle.

She was supposed to be dropping off lunch.

She forgot all about the food the second he laughed.

The sound hit her low in her gut. Dangerous. Like something out of a dream she’d forgotten to wake up from. Heat rose beneath her skin, her stomach fluttering as she tried to breathe past the ache blooming in her chest.

She lingered by the edge of set, trying to act unbothered. One of the costume assistants passed her and grinned knowingly.

“He’s in character today,” they said. “Deep. Like, don’t-even-call-him-Michael deep.”

Great.

She tried not to stare. She did. But then the crew wrapped the shot, and he turned. Eyes on her like he’d known she was there the whole time.

And that damn smile.

Gold teeth flashing. Dimples on low simmer.

He nodded once to the crew. Said something quiet to the director, then headed straight for her.

Her mouth went dry.

She tucked her phone into her bag, shifted her weight, did everything except run, because that’s what her body wanted to do.

He didn’t speak until they were close.

Closer.

Everyone else peeled away. The set crew thinned. It was just the two of them now.

And he was still in character.

“You bringin’ me somethin’, baby girl?” he asked, voice slow and Southern and laced with heat.

She swallowed. Hard.

“Lunch,” she croaked.

He tilted his head, took the bag from her hands without breaking eye contact.

“That so?”

“You said you were hungry,” she added quickly, trying to pull her composure together.

He leaned in, just a bit.

“I am hungry,” he murmured, glancing down her body before looking back up. “But not for food.”

Her breath caught. A shiver ran down her spine.

He smirked.

Then he turned and started walking.

She didn’t realize where they were going until she saw the trailer door swing open.

He held it for her.

“Ladies first.”

She stepped inside. He followed. The door clicked shut behind them.

Silence.

And then he was on her.

“You been starin’ at me like that since you got here,” he said, voice low, hands gripping her waist. “Like I ain’t yours. Like you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” she whispered.

He kissed her jaw, slow and messy, teeth scraping skin. “You sure? You actin’ real shy now. Where’s that mouth from this mornin’?”

“Michael—”

“Stack,” he snapped gently, tugging her closer. “When I look like this? You call me by my name.”

She whimpered. Actually whimpered.

And then he smiled. The kind that promised nothing good.

“Go on and get comfortable, darlin’,” he drawled, walking her backward until her knees hit the edge of the small couch inside the trailer. “I’m gon’ take my time with you.”

And he did.

Her back hit the cushions and his hands were everywhere — sliding beneath her blouse, tugging down the waistband of her pants, thumbing the insides of her thighs until she was gasping. The heat between her legs pulsed like a heartbeat. Every movement was deliberate, teasing, until her hips were arching off the couch in search of friction.

He took his time. Mouthing at her breasts, dragging his teeth over sensitive skin, licking a stripe down her center until she cried out his name — the wrong name.

“Stack,” she gasped, thighs trembling.

He grinned up at her, lips slick. “That’s more like it.”

For the rest of the lunch break, she forgot who she was. Forgot what day it was. Forgot her own name.

All she remembered was his voice in her ear.

And that gold tooth grinning down at her every time she moaned his.

[intromortal]

ꕥ MAKE YOU MINE ⸻ lee heeseung

lee heeseung doesn't do relationships or any of that 'labels' stuff, it's a known fact. yet when jay's gaze lingers too long on you, he can't help but leave his mark on you in one way or another

this work contains ⋆ smut. mdni. jealousy, p in v, creampie, no protection, manhandling, name calling, degradation!!! hair pulling, mean hee won't kiss you, kinda toxic situationship thing going on, Feelings, reader is kinda crazy but also i've had too much caffeine today So ⸻ rules ⋆ m.list

length ⋆ drabble ⸻ 1.8k words

Heeseung, all things considered, is a pretty chill and laid back guy. Not prone to big displays of jealousy, especially anywhere public.

Most of the time he's quietly laying back on a couch at a party across the room, watching you with a glint in his eyes as you reject yet another guy trying to sneak his way into your pants. There’s something about the way you so obediently glance his way every time someone tries to flirt you, how your expression ever so slightly shifts to something he would describe as needy when he slouches further into the soft brown cushions, legs spread almost as if to invite you over on his lap.

It’s been months since you started fucking, and as embarrassing for you as it feels to admit, you two haven't really put a label on what your... status actually is. You’re definitely more than friends—though you don't know if you would even consider Heeseung your friend in the first place—but you also don't believe you're anywhere close to being a thing yet. That litter sliver of something keeps you fucking hooked on Heeseung though, even when you know it's terrible for you.

And he enjoys every second of it. How you're so loyal to him even when he doesn't give you any reason to be.

He’s confident you'll follow him around everywhere like a little lost puppy as long as he keeps feeding you whatever crumb you need; a gentle brush of his hand whenever he greets you, a soft compliment whispered in your ear before leaving you to find something to drink, a sweet forehead kiss at the end of the night when you've both found your way between the bed sheets. I’ve got it under control, he thinks.

Yet he can't find any explanation—one that he’d make peace with, that is—for the scorching rage that overcomes him whenever he sees you and your bestie walking hand in hand around campus. The slightest twitch to his eye when he notices how bright you seem to be around Jay, how hard you laugh at his jokes and how touchy you are, shoving his shoulder away when he makes a stupid comment, yet letting your hand linger on the cotton of his shirt. There’s a different light coming from within you when he's around, and Heeseung fucking hates it with his entire being.

Mostly because he doesn't want to admit what it really is. Lee Heeseung is the furthest thing from a relationship-kind-of-guy you could possibly ever find, and it's always been this way, everyone knows.

To fuck with him is to make peace with the fact that you'll never be anything more than someone to warm his bed—or car backseats more often than not. And most are okay with that as long as they get their hands on a piece of him, no matter for how short. You were okay with that too, at the very start. It just doesn't help that lately he has fucked you like he loves and hates you at the same time, and while you try your best to not let his empty calculated affections tie you down to him too much, it's gotten harder and harder to escape the literal black hole Heeseung is.

You promised yourself to only orbit around him for a bit, then escape at the first pull you feel is too strong. But here you are, on the event horizon anyway.

His lingering stares whenever Jay is around don't go unnoticed by you, far from it actually. And maybe you even play into it a little too much, because here you are, underneath Heeseung, and for the first time in weeks he's fucking you like love is the furthest feeling possible from both his mind and heart.

It's funny, how he's tried to maintain his cool around you so desperately, and what finally breaks him is Jay staring way too long at your ass for it to be a mistake. There’s nothing Heeseung would have loved more than to beat him to a pulp, for looking at his girl like that.

Except you're not his girl—he hadn't even realized he really wanted you to possibly be until then—so he can't do that. But what he can do instead is take it out on your poor unsuspecting pussy.

"You are such a nasty slut," he whispers against your lips as he pistons into your weeping cunt, ignoring every attempt you make to kiss him, biting down on your bottom lip when you don't catch the hint. "Walking around in that tight black skirt, for what?" It feels like he's spitting venom at you, a primal edge to his tone unlike anything you've ever heard from him. Despite everything, you'd be lying if you said it didn't make your pussy clamp even harder around him, trying to milk his girth for all it’s worth.

You take too long to reply for his liking, his hand digging almost hurtfully into your cheeks to force you to look at him. "For. What?"

"I– fuck, i don't know."

He looks at you incredulously, like you must've gone dumb on his cock already, while his movements come to halt, despite your little cries and begs for him not to.

"Yes, you fucking do," he spits, grabbing your thighs and flipping you over onto your knees. A little scream rips out of you at the sudden motion as he manhandles you in whatever way he wants, paying no mind to any possible aching body part of yours or any discomfort you may feel. "Wore it to flaunt this ass around, didn't you? I know you did."

He lands a harsh smack on the skin of your bottom, kissing his teeth in annoyance when your entire body jerks forward, front collapsing on the bed. He eases his cock back into you in one thrust, setting a pace that is somehow faster and harsher than the one you could barely keep up with earlier. "Wanted  Jay to bend you over like this, huh?"

"N-no! I– ngh." Your rebuttal is cut short by his hips slamming into yours with a harsh thrust, his thick hand pushing your head against the sheets, uncaring of all the drool that's dripping from your mouth, your eyes rolling into your skull. He plants one of his feet into the soft mattress, the new angle helping him reach so much deeper inside you as the hold on your hips becomes nearly unbearable, sure to leave a flashy bruise.

Good, he thinks. Let everyone know I own you.

It doesn't matter that you two will still not put a label on whatever you have going on after this, Heeseung will find a way to mark you up with his actions instead. He'll fuck you so good even in the off chance you give Jay a chance all you'll think about is gonna be going back to him right after.

"Oh, shut the fuck up." He grabs some of your hair, using it as leverage to fuck into you even harder, the mix of pain and pleasure so unbelievably delicious you don’t even know what to do with yourself if not just lay there and take it all. "That’s all a slut like you is good for anyway, shut her mouth and let me use her pretty pussy as I please."

And it doesn't matter for you either you realize, a fucked out smile spreading on your face as he takes you like he has never done before, because to get a reaction out of the ever so collected Lee Heeseung, it means you have made him your bitch as much as he has made you his. He just doesn't know it yet.

The sudden thought is so euphoric it pushes you close to the edge instantly, your cunt clenching around him more and more while Heeseung is behind you wondering why he just heard a giggle leave your throat in the midst of it all.

"Is this some kind of fucking joke to you?" His voice is rough, but the hint of uneasiness behind the facade is easy to pick up on, it only spurs you to laugh more—as much as you can manage, because soon his thrusts get angrier and you don't know if you're laughing, crying or moaning anymore.

You taste the salty tears running straight into your open mouth, and you don't exactly know why you're crying because you have never felt lighter, even with the harsh, repeated press of Heeseung's hips against your red, marked up flesh.

Heeseung thinks you must've gone delirious on his cock, the proof being the very white ring you're leaving on the base of his cock, and while his chest blooms and tickles with something unfamiliar to him, he can't help but want even more. He wants to give you even more.

He doesn't recall when this punishment he's inflicting on you turned around to him chasing your approval so fucking bad, but he can't stop. He can't stop himself from gawking at your bent back littered in his marks, he can't stop himself from bending down to mouth at your neck when all he initially wanted to do was put you back in your place, he can't stop himself from letting his hand find your familiar little bundle of nerves to roll circles on it.

He tells himself it's not for you, it's for him, so he can hear all the divine noises you're making for just a little longer, just enough to reach his orgasm.

His lips brush your nape again, and he wishes he hadn't turned you over so he could taste your laugh right off your lips. He almost opens his mouth to say something he might regret, but he stops himself with a low, guttural moan and a stripe licked on your skin instead.

Neither of you last long after that, and you come with shudder around him, cunt milking him for all he has, all he is worth. He gives it all to you, filling you up so well it has you clawing the sweaty bed sheets beneath you.

You're glowing underneath him as he gets off of you, and Heeseung doesn't want to linger on the fact that his chest cavity, where his heart is supposed to be, glows just as much for you. It's a scary thought.

"You're mine," you whisper, like you've finally cracked the code to something you couldn't wrap your head around for the longest. You state it like a fact, like how you do when you say things commonly agreed upon—like the earth being round and Sim Jaeyun having the prettiest dick on campus.

You don't turn to Heeseung when he says nothing after and all that fills the room is the swooshing of his clothes being collected from the floor and your front door shutting with a soft thud.

It doesn't matter, because whether he likes it or now, you know he has nowhere to go if not back to you.

[kxsagi]

HIII!! love your writing 🙈 can i request bllk guys w an extremely pretty reader, i’m talking everywhere they go ppl are turning their heads to admire. (with karasu, rin, barou and whoever u can pick) feel free to ignore, thanks !!

“𝐬𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞”

a/n: thank you!!! omg this is me whenever i see my readers why are you guys so head-turning jaw droppingly gorgeous pls save some for the rest of us???

facial features perfect af, smiles beautiful af (pls go lip sync to maria by justin bieber in the mirror and bask in this confidence)

ft. karasu tabito, itoshi rin, barou shoei, itoshi sae, kaiser michael

karasu tabito

he thought he was ready. 

you’re his partner. you’re hot. he knew this. but the first time y’all go out in public together post-soft-launch? karasu realizes he is wildly underprepared. 

you walk into the mall and heads turn like you’ve got your own gravitational pull. dudes tripping over their own feet. girls side-eyeing you like you invented contour. an old man literally tips his hat. 

and karasu? karasu’s standing there like 💀 

“do i even exist right now,” he mutters. 

you sip your drink and go, “you’re just my silly little accessory.” 

he laughs. he can’t even be mad. 

but then someone asks you if you're a model and karasu panics. 

“yes, she is,” he cuts in, way too fast. “and she’s also very taken, thank you.” 

starts hovering behind you like a security guard with a minor superiority complex. 

"stop acting like my bodyguard," you say. 

"i'm not. i'm acting like your boyfriend who will throw hands at a 17-year-old if he stares at your ass one more time." 

itoshi rin

you are the bane of rin’s existence. and also the love of his life. 

he’s trying to go to the convenience store for ice cream and you’re there, looking like a runway model in joggers and a hoodie. 

you walk in and the store clerk drops his phone. 

"what flavor do you want?" you ask, oblivious. 

"the one that doesn't make people stare at you like you're the second coming of christ," rin snaps. 

he is not built for this level of social interaction. or this level of beauty-induced chaos. 

you think it’s cute when strangers compliment you. rin looks like he’s planning several hypothetical murders. 

and the worst part? 

every time he thinks he's gotten used to it, you smile at him. and it’s like the world goes silent. suddenly the stares don’t matter. 

"stop looking at me like that," he grumbles. 

you blink. "like what?” 

"like you actually like me or something." 

and you just grin. 

rin glares at the ground. he’s so done. he’s so whipped. he wants to scream. 

barou shoei

you’re a problem. an actual, walking, talking, heart-stopping problem. 

you show up in gym clothes and barou feels the earth shift. 

he already looks like a bouncer 24/7, so when people stare at you for more than three seconds, he’s automatically squaring up like he's in a street fighter game. someone whistles once and he growls. like. growls. 

you have to physically grab his face and say: “no mauling strangers today.” 

barou’s solution is just to glare at everyone. even babies. 

you’re like “babe. please. stop intimidating children.” 

“should’ve kept their eyes to themselves.” 

"he was a toddler." 

"he knew what he was doing.” 

but every time you reassure him – say you’re only his, kiss his cheek, sneak your hand into his – he softens. turns into a grumpy, silent puppy. still scary, but like… protective scary. 

you catch him staring and he just goes, “what.” 

“you’re looking at me again.” 

“i’m checking if you’re still real.” 

itoshi sae

you are his worst-kept secret. 

not because he wanted to keep you hidden, but because the second you step outside with him, everyone starts talking. he takes you to a match and it’s all “who’s that with sae???” on twitter within five minutes. 

he doesn’t mind, honestly. but when you’re in public and people won’t stop looking, he gives that look. you know the one. that dead-eyed, judgmental, “you’re beneath me” stare that says blink again and i’ll ruin your self-esteem. 

you’re like, “sae, they’re not doing anything.” 

“they’re breathing in your direction. that’s enough.” 

you laugh. he doesn’t. 

but he also spoils the hell out of you. treats you like you’re royalty. 

“you look good today,” you say. 

he shrugs. “i know. but you look better.” 

and the way he says it is so casual it knocks the air out of you. 

his love language is making everyone else feel inferior to you. 

michael kaiser

oh. he’s thriving. 

you’re pretty? you’re show-stopping, scenery-devouring, wreck-my-focus-on-the-pitch pretty? kaiser is the proudest man alive. 

walks beside you like you’re a trophy he won and he’s never giving back. 

“they’re all looking at you,” you whisper. 

he smirks. “and at me. by association. it’s perfect.” 

has zero shame, even when he doesn’t realize they’re not looking at him, they’re looking at you. 

"take a picture with me," he says mid-date. 

"why?" 

"so i can remind people i won the genetic lottery twice – once with my face, once with you." 

but oh, let someone try to flirt. he’ll go full drama mode. puts on his fake nice voice like, “hey man, great taste. but unfortunately, i got there first.” 

then stares at you like you hung the moon and sun. 

"you’re too hot for this world," he says. 

“so are you.” 

“i know. we’re gonna destroy mankind together.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[sexcnanami]

minors dni, 18+ content

imagine secretly dating collegejock!sukuna as you both agreed it would be less drama due to your opposite social circles. sukuna was well-in with the popular guys – especially considering he was known for being such an aggressive, cocky athlete. you, on the other hand, were an arts major with a bashful demeanor and absolutely hated getting tangled in drama. but everything changed the day you both met on accident; bumping into him with a full tray in the food hall on campus. you shyly apologized, swearing that it was an accident of course but, to your surprise, he wasn’t chill about it so you put him in his place, something that’s never happened to him before – let alone by a woman as small as yourself in comparison to him. since then, he was attached to your side until you decided it would be best to keep your relationship on the low. you didn’t want any part in the popular lifestyle and definitely didn’t want your business to be out there like that. sukuna was reluctant but agreed to your privacy until he had passed you one his way to his next class where he overheard your friends talking about how hot he was but the thing that made him stop in his tracks was when he heard you say, 

“I bet it’s not even worth it, his ego is probably bigger than his dick.” he wasn’t one bit mad at that and even found it funny – only jokingly mentioning it to you while you were choking on his cock that very same night. but what started to bother him was the fact that with no one knowing about your relationship, anyone could approach you at any moment. sukuna wasn’t the insecure type whatsoever, but just the idea that someone thought they could have you was enough to make his blood boil and his temper get the best of him. 

what officially set it off for him was when he overheard satoru in the team locker room saying he was planning to ask you out after tonight’s basketball game. at first, he wasn’t worried one bit and genuinely believed satoru wasn’t dumb enough to go through with it – even if he didn’t know you two were together. his irritation didn’t start until after they won the game, watching satoru jogging over to talk to you. sukuna assumed that you were going to turn him down, but little did he know the pressure you were actually under as satoru had asked for your number and your friends sitting next to you were every bit of excited for you because of it. but again, no one was supposed to know about your relationship. without even being given the time to make a decision, one of your friends takes your phone and gives it to satoru, who happily puts his number in your phone. but before he leaves, he smoothly grabs your hand and places a small peck on your knuckles, your face turning beet red at the gesture. when he quickly heads back to join in on the team’s debrief, sukuna had witnessed the entire thing and was not having it.

he immediately turned on his heel, harshly pacing in your direction and completely disregarding the calls for him to join the rest of the team. the moment you meet his gaze, you instantly freeze at his demeanor. had you gone too far with keeping your relationship a secret – yes, otherwise why else did he grip up your arm and take you back to his dorm, the entire walk being filled with your protests while he was silent the entire time. he didn’t look stressed, angry, or anything, just quiet which was something that made you even more fearful of what was going to come. as soon as he brought you back to his dorm, his lips immediately attach to yours in a hungry, almost angry kiss, making you shut up as he firmly pressed you against the back of the door. 

“why the fuck did you let him touch you?!” he damn near growls, his hand wrapped around your throat as he towered over you. “fucking gojo of all people.”

“wha-I swear I didn’t!” you retort, his roughness causing you to be flustered. “it wasn’t my fault my friends gave him my phone and I didn’t know he was going to-”

“that why you got all shy?” he asks, his hand tightening its grasp. “It looked like you were enjoying that attention, you blush that way for everyone who gives it to you? That why you want us to be a secret?!” 

“no ‘kuna, I promise!” you manage to say.

“fuck that, I’m going to make sure everyone knows you’re mine.” he barks, a wicked smirk on his lips.

the moment his lips make contact with your neck you almost immediately melt, his kisses carrying a much different weight than previous ones you’ve shared with him before. his lips and teeth take turns on the different marks they leave on your skin, the unique combination making your legs weak as light groans leave from the back of his throat. his hands wander along your curves while still pinning to the back of his door, his hands grabbing firmly onto the fat of your ass as his lips trailed lower to meet at your collarbone, his tongue grazing over the dark red marks left behind causing a shiver to run down your spine. his fingers shortly hook within the waistband of your pants, tugging roughly as a silent, yet impatient request before you oblige and help step out of them along with your panties – which to your surprise, he ends up pocketing.

without a warning, you’re lifted up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as his hefty bulge presses against your clothed heat and you swear you could feel him throb through his sweatpants. as he presses his hips against yours, his lips reattach to your own, his tongue shamelessly pushing into your mouth as if he owned the space – which he definitely did. your mind was already beginning to fog and he hasn’t even touched you where you’ve needed it the most from the second you both stepped in that room. his mouth was overpowering yours, practically claiming your breath as he harshly rocked his hips against you, increasing the friction between you both and causing for your quiet whimpers to pour out. he nearly scoffs at the sound, feeling as though you’re purposefully trying to be quiet when his main objective was to get you to scream out his name for everyone down the halls to hear; for everyone to know you’re his.

he tries something new, fully hoisting you up for you to sit on his shoulders as he was now brought face to face to your drenched heat. he boldly flicks out his tongue, the muscle immediately coated in your juices. a sharp yelp rushes out of you and a satisfied smirk is planted on his face as he vigorously devours your soaked cunt, his fingers digging deep into the plushness of your thighs as he held you up. his tongue traces along the unique, soft curves and creases of your pussy, lapping up your gushing arousal while your moans drown out the sound of his sloppy slurps, your hand coming down to grab onto his hair to keep yourself more grounded, the assault of his greedy mouth inching you closer and closer to your release. he can feel how close you are, your legs being jumpier at each harsh lick he made against your clit.  

before you could relish in the waves of your oncoming orgasm, he stops licking at your sensitive bud before he gently places you back down on the floor, where you instantly drop to your knees in front of him.

“aww does someone want to make it up to me?” he grins, his hand kneading through your hair as he looks down at you almost pitifully the moment you nod. “of course that’s the only way sluts like you know how to make things right, hm?” your cheeks flush again at his degrading words, unable to ignore the effect they had on you as you sat there with your pussy lips drooling at each harsh word. you pull down his shorts and he doesn’t waste a second at controlling the pace himself, immediately shoving his throbbing cock into the warm, wet cave of your inviting mouth, refusing to give you a moment to even adjust to the stretch he brings to your throat. you’re already choking, the tight walls of your throat clasping harshly around his thick length as he roughly rocks his hips into your mouth, his tip dribbling with pre-cum the moment he looks down at your teary-eyes. 

“too much?” he almost chuckles, still fucking your throat with ease as he expects an answer – only to be met with the slight gargling sound trailing your moans. “can’t talk when that whore mouth of yours gets stuffed full–fuck.” you can feel your arousal uncomfortably pool between your thighs, the floor beneath you forming the smallest puddle and you can’t help but feel dumbed at the humiliation of it on top of his words. he suddenly pulls out of your mouth, your pipes being finally filled with air as you cough before you’re pulled up to your feet only to be spun around and slammed against the door, your juices down your leg on full display for him while his angry, red tip pushes into your deprived cunt. he pulls at your hips, making you claw onto the back of his door for support but this was his exact plan; anyone who walked down that hall on the other side would hear you’re getting absolutely demolished. his pace is cruel, each thrust feeling heavier than the last as you cry out his name, practically begging for release as your body is overcome with pleasure as his grip on your hips becomes almost paralyzing.

the sound of his hips slapping against yours were the only sounds resonating in the room, the lewd noises being music to his ears as he felt himself get closer to his own release yet he wants to last even longer, wanting to stay submerged in you for much more than either of you could stand – especially when he started feeling your walls clench tightly around him.

“this pussy’s–ngh all fuckin’ mine.” he emphasizes each word with a powerful thrust. “now everyone can hear how much I own this.”

before you could even fathom it, your orgasm washes over you, your vision blurring from being kept on the edge for so long and you feel yourself shiver as his pace sped up, gliding effortlessly against your plush walls and taking full advantage of the slippery feeling your juices on his cock had brought. you were practically fucked dumb, your back arching further as the overstimulation of your pussy took place, the tears running down your cheeks the moment his hand reaches around to play with your clit as you rode out your orgasm before his hot ropes of cum paint your insides, feeling him throb as he leans over to bite down on your shoulder. when he slowly pulls himself out of you, he watches the cum sloppily emerge from the cave of your pussy, instinctively pushing his thumb in to keep it from drooling more as he wanted you to accept everything. but part of you just knew, he wasn’t going to be stopping there, especially not when his cock was still hard.

“you get two minutes then I’m fucking you until everyone on campus has heard you scream my name.” he says, already tracing your pussy lips with the head of his dick.

and no–he was not kidding.

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival part 9

Jazz has an itty bitty teeny weeny severe mental breakdown.

Credit once more to @keferon for starting this au.

———————————————————————

Jazz never thought he’d find himself deeply empathizing with the xenomorph from Alien, but here he was.

Doing freak shit.

A lone lifeform trapped on a spaceship with no idea how their technology works, no means of escape and no way to sustain themselves. Skittering across the ceiling and one wrong move away from murdering someone on contact.

Plus, I pop out of my mecha like an actual motherfucking chest burster. So I’m sure that’ll go over GREAT.

The parallels were compounding into existential crisis territory.

It got way too fucking close handling that checkup with the medic. Trying to keep his cool felt like he was trapped in an hours long quick time event. Every question had to be snap judged for the safest possible answer. Completely make shit up and risk getting caught in the act, don’t give away any information and they’ll know you’re hiding something.

Jazz juggled that damn Catch 22 like a professional. Thank you.

Case in point, while one of his mechas arms was still non functional, Jazz managed to maneuver his actual arm inside the cabin to grope around for some water to chug. Without disconnecting from the mecha.

That particular stunt felt like splitting his brain in half with a splintery wedge. The water was absolutely necessary, but the pressure inside his skull rang like an air horn zip-tied open.

Right now the only coherent thought he could form was the overwhelming animal desire to find a dark hidden hole and crawl up inside it. Then repeat that motion by disconnecting from his mecha, finding the most secure hiding spot inside that, and passing out for oh just a quick little 24 to 36 hours.

The pilot paused. Down the hall, mechas- giant alien robots- had noticed his disappearance. Even through the language barrier, Jazz would recognize the opening lyrics to his personal theme song anywhere: “Oh fuck where’d he go?”

Hidden behind rows of pipes, Jazz counted his inhalations until the thuds of metal feet passed him by.

Was the alien invader from The Thing scared? If it had finished building its spaceship would the Thing really have tried to take over the world? Or was it just desperate to go home?

Jazz was panting. Or maybe hyperventilating. He made a conscious effort to pull air through his grit teeth at an even flow. Even though he couldn’t actively feel his human body, the dull droning dread pressed through the disconnect to whisper “You’re running out of time.”

He didn’t know how long he had left before his stupid flesh sack would start giving out, but he needed to be somewhere safe when it happened. He’d make it. He’d make it because he had to to make it. He was the best goddamn pilot in the entire program and that was for one reason and one reason alone: Failure Was Not A Motherfucking Option.

If his options were do it the hard way or not at all, then the hard way was what the world got.

Once the guards passed, Jazz slunk along the wall, reaching upside down to fry another security pad, only for the door to open automatically.

Risking it, Jazz peaked into the room and not seeing or hearing anyone, slipped inside.

Once the door slid shut behind him, Jazz lowered himself to the ground one handed, scanning the room more thoroughly.

More screens, inactive. A chair and a couch. Miscellaneous wall kibbling, a table, cabinets. Windows.

Jazz gasped.

Glowing clouds of light, layered like sheets stretching into infinity. Star clusters like paint splatters on black velvet.

White and amber. A haze of something pink.

Unconsciously, Jazz moved towards the window, until he could lightly tap his visor against the glass. His field of view consumed by galaxies.

Back when they first launched him into space, Jazz had come to terms with the let down that all he’d get to see was a black slate and maybe a couple dots. The space station didn’t have many windows to start with, and all his space walks took place when the sun was “out”, so Jazz never really got to see as much of the Milky Way as his inner child hoped.

Now, the child was quiet. Face pressed against the glass, Jazz felt his throat closing up.

At least I got this. Even if I’ve got a half life, I got to see the stars the way they were meant to be.

He hovered. Wanting to find a song to match this moment, but couldn’t find anything more fitting than his own breathing. The rush of blood in his ears was still loud, but a white noise that could substitute for silence.

Like a marble rolling off a table, Jazz felt his stomach drop a moment before his conscious mind could follow.

“It’s wonderful isn’t it?”

Jazz had his arm cocked back to turn the poor fuckers face into a plate but locked himself mid swing at the last second. The mech had lifted a tablet to protect himself, and the move was such a Bullied Nerd cliche it stopped Jazz cold.

Now that his heart rate was breaking highway speed limits again, the angry radio static that was his racing thoughts drowned out any coherent thoughts of what to say.

The mech peeked out from behind the tablet and wow. That’s a guy. That’s just a straight up dude. Prowl and Elita were bulky enough that Jazz could at least imagine where a pilot could sit. But this guy? He looked like the only thing he could throw out was his back. Jazz didn’t even know “elderly twink” was a look possible for a giant robot.

Mystery Codger was staring at him. Jazz still had a fist raised.

Do something say something do something say something you fucked up you fucked up either kill him or start lying just do anything brain please.

“Could you help me find my glasses?”

Jazz faltered. “Wu- What?”

The mech uncurled from his brief defensive huddle. “My glasses? Spectacles? Ah, object-sight-improve-positive?”

The pistons in his arm faintly hissed as the tension released.

Maybe-

As if this was all normal, the mech gently set the tablet on the table, before squatting and squinting at the floor.

Maybe I just have actual brain damage.

Acting on mental autopilot, Jazz took the opening to behave like a normal person. Crouching and scanning the floor for giant alien robot spectacles.

“My name is Rung by the way. I actually don’t think we’ve met previously.” Rung said that last bit with an odd inflection Jazz didn’t have the brain power to think about.

“Jazz. We definitely haven’t met.” He couldn’t quite keep the exhaustion from making that last bit come out snippy.

Rung simply hummed and continued his search. For his part, Jazz was taking the moment to center himself, preparing the best mask he could on short notice.

How long could he keep faking it? Prowl had been with him since he woke up and he didn’t show any signs of needing to sleep. They had doctors. Prowl cared enough about his “health” to take him to one. If Jazz collapsed in front of anyone, they’d drag his sorry ass back to the medbay and it’d be game over. He couldn’t just ask for a place to crash or else he ran the risk of tipping them off he wasn’t one of them if they really didn’t sleep.

A faint tapping sound made him twitch in his stupor.

“Now where could the blasted thing have gone.” Rung was sat crossed legged on the ground.

With Jazz. Who’d vaguely crumbled into a kneeling ball under a table.

Jazz stared at Rung tapping his glasses against his chin. The orange mech made eye contact, and Jazz swore to god he caught him smile.

He reached out a hand, pointing, “Found ‘em.”

The smile came to fruition. Rung aha-ed and held his glasses before himself, inspecting them fondly.

“All that trouble for such a small problem. And all I needed was to ask for help.”

Jazz let himself sag slightly against the wall. Dully thudding the back of his head. “Okay. I’ll cop that was a good trick.”

“It did pull you out of your spiral didn’t it?” Rung said sounding way too smug. He pulled a cloth out from where-ever-the-fuck and cleaned his glasses with it.

He’d been seeing these mechs pull out and disappear objects all day like a bunch of Looney Toons characters. That kind of lapse in logic didn’t bode well for Jazz’s mental condition.

He let his eyes close, rationing his remaining focus.

“How’d you know that’d work?” He mumbled.

“You seemed afraid. You stalled out when you saw I was afraid.” Rung simply stated before he then asked rhetorically, “You’re a protector aren’t you?”

Jazz made a noncommittal sound. Lying was his first impulse, but he really didn’t feel like giving this guy more material to hook him with.

The mech laughed once anyways, “You are. Unorthodox too. I can see why you have such a hold over Prowl.”

That got his attention, “I do?”

“Oh yes.” He heard Rung shift into a more comfortable position on the floor. “Even if he can’t recognize the feeling anymore, I think you give him hope.”

Jazz wanted to laugh and he would if he had the energy.

Instead Jazz sighed. “I’m kinda at rock bottom right now man. And currently? Lil bit fresh outta hope myself.”

And ideas.

Jazz was of the opinion that any problem was solvable if you were willing to get crazy enough, but this was like trying to solve treading water a million miles from shore with only sharks for company. He either drown slowly or get torn apart the moment the sharks realized he was there.

“Hopeless mechs don’t stop to stare at the stars in wonder, Jazz.” When he opened his eyes, Jazz saw Rung staring him down like he was insulted. “To be hopeless is to let yourself die. Do you intend to die today?”

“No.” He challenged back, body minutely tensing.

“Are you willing to do absolutely anything to keep living?” Rung poked him in the chest.

“Yes.” He responded just as quickly, but there was a rasp to his voice. Something small and quiet. Not easily caught. Not easily killed.

“Even ask for help?” Rung quirked his head at him, shit eating grin growing by the second.

Jazz deflated, groaning loud enough for his mecha’s speakers to vibrate his bones.

“Look, I appreciate the therapy session doc, but asking for help is legitimately not an option for me right now.”

Rung leaned forward, resting his chin on a servo, “Alright then. List your current alternative options that you alone can accomplish, devoid of any assistance whatsoever.”

Jazz didn’t respond.

The silence continued to linger.

“Go on.” Rung gestured.

Cornered, Jazz could feel his horns pin back and a burning sensation in his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his visor even though it didn’t actually help.

“Where’s Prowl?”

Rung chuckled, victorious. The scrawny orange mech scooted out from under the table and stood, offering a servo to Jazz to do the same.

The brief rest left Jazz jelly limbed, which was evidently bad enough to translate to a faint tremble in his mecha. Despite that, Jazz didn’t take Rungs hand because there’s no way in hell that guy could support him if he fell. Elita’s threat over harming her crew was still fresh and shiny in his mind.

“You’ll find his office down that way.” Rung pointed out the direction. “Down the hall, turn left at the first junction, pass by two more doors, turn right at that junction and then keep walking until you reach the end of the hall. His office isn’t labeled but I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

Rung opened the door and then took a seat in the chair next to the couch. “I’d offer to have Prowl come to meet you here, but I have another appointment coming up shortly.”

Oh uh. He actually is a therapist.

Jazz laughed humorlessly, “Why not invite them to join the party? Make it a group session.”

Avoiding eye contact, Rung fiddled with a stylus, “Ah, that would not do I’m afraid. My next patient recently figured out how to “bite” people by quickly jabbing his helm forward and I’d rather that not be your first encounter with him.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Jazz simply nodded numbly.

He paused at the doorway, running the directions through his head again, before turning back slightly. “Hey Rung? Thanks.”

“It’s Rung, and you’re… welcome?” The mech trailed off, looking at Jazz with surprise as the door slid shut behind him.

Walking away, Jazz got about thirty feet before realizing he couldn’t turn his head too quickly or else he’d start seeing double. Feeling the countdown drop into double digits, Jazz hurried along Rungs path.

And nearly crashed into another mech.

It had a head like an old school security camera, a single yellow camera lense cycling down to a pinprick at his appearance. The chassis was crazy long and pointed. Out of habit, Jazz tried mapping out what the interior would look like. The pilot seat would need to be horizontal but it was pretty doable. The limbs were definitely on the skinny side but sharp and fast looking. Bonus points for what was definitely front mounted guns.

All in all, solid design. 7/10.

“Hey.” The mech rasped.

Oh fuck right, Alien.

“Sup.” Jazz replied eloquently.

The camera lense eye loosed, upgrading to a coin sized pupil and clearly looking him over.

“Empurata?” The mech said casually pointing to his legs and visor.

“Uh, sure.” Jazz shrugged.

“Same.” Nodded camera-head.

“Cool.”

The two of them awkwardly stood in the hall. Camera-head seemed content to block traffic and Jazz was mentally banging rocks together in hopes of getting a spark of intelligent thought.

“Can I peel off your visor with a knife?”

The mech held a dagger pinched between its crab claws and Jazz had to bite his tongue not to ask why it didn’t just use those.

Instead, the brain rocks came through.

“Rung lost his glasses.” Jazz threw up a thumb, gesturing over his shoulder. “Needs help. Now.”

Good job brain rocks.

“What? He does?” The mechs head popped up like some kind of fucked up goose, before shoving past Jazz, knocking him into the wall.

“HOLD ON DOC I’M COMING!”

The mech folded inside out into a mother fucking helicopter?! Charging down the hall in a whirlwind so strong Jazz could feel it through his mecha.

Jazz counted to five, and crawled back up into the safety of the ceiling pipes.

He blinks, and he’s staring down another hall. Left turn, two doors, right turn. . . Wait. Was that a right or left he just did? He’s upside down so everything should be reversed right?

He doesn’t remember blinking but the hall is at a different angle. New hall? Or did he just turn his head?

Jazz wants to press the heels of his palms into his eyes until everything holds still but he can’t. So he keeps moving. Keeps hiding.

And then he sees the most beautiful goddamn mech in the universe marching down the hall. Followed by half a dozen substantially less impressive mechs with guns drawn.

Stilling, Jazz remained hidden behind the pipes. Evidently alien robots had the same peripheral blindness to ceilings that human security guards did, as none of them noticed him.

Except for Prowl.

Through the gaps, Jazz watched as Prowl gave rapid fire orders to the armed soldiers behind him. Six mechs. Six guns. Three too many for Jazz to take in his current state. Prowl went silent and his wings twitched. Shivering, Jazz got the deeply uncanny sense he was being intimately observed.

The lights were ringing in a tinnitus B flat. He had the audio feed from his mecha dialed way too high but he couldn’t afford to miss any detail of what would happen next.

Whatever Prowl was said next, it must have been in his native language. Which Jazz found deeply unfair after all the work he’d put into learning Common.

The black and white mech turned to his cohort, waving them down the hall ahead of them. Prowl did not follow, wings still minutely shifting position. Once they were out of sight, Prowl turned on his heel back the way he came. Flicking a single piercing look to Jazz.

Silently. Shakily. Jazz skulked along the shadows after him.

He mental map was fucked. Every time he blinked, Jazz lost track of the most recent few seconds of his life. If Prowl wasn’t stopping every fifty feet to not-so-subtly check that Jazz was still following him, the human didn’t know where he’d end up.

Finally, Prowl reached a door at the end of a hall and entered without any delay. Jazz dropped, moving inside before the door could close again.

“Please don’t freak out.” Jazz cut him off before Prowl could set the tone of this conversation. The mech closed his mouth and after a moment’s consideration, assumed a tense but mostly neutral stance.

“I will not ‘freak out’.” Prowl looked like wanted to say more, but Jazz couldn’t afford that right now.

“Awesome! Because right now I’m freaking out and I won’t be able to keep it together if you start freaking out too.” He was pacing back and forth, not really seeing the mech beside him anymore. “.”

“Jazz.” A servo caught his elbow, stopping him in place. “Where have you been?”

“Oh you know. Here. There. Ceiling mostly. Shockingly unrelated, but I think a talking helicopter wants to wear my face as a hat.” Jazz nodded way too enthusiastically in a manner he hoped translated into an appropriately manic “Please god help me.” grit toothed grin.

Prowl was momentarily speechless before physically shaking off the latest deluge of confusion, “That sounds like Whirl. You would not have encountered them had you stayed in the med bay like you were supposed to. Now I’m asking you again: What are you doing and why are you doing it?”

Audibly cracking, Jazz tried to answer honestly but found his voice locked up. He couldn’t, why couldn’t he..? Why was talking suddenly so fucking hard?

Meanwhile, Prowl just looked defeated. He rubbed that spot between his eyes, not yet letting him go.

“If you cannot provide a reasonable explanation for your sudden shift in behavior, I will have to assume the worst. You leave me no choice but to-“

“I’M REALLY SHORT.” Great. Fantastic. Incredible work brain. Take five.

Prowls optics flickered. Brow furrowing as he looked up at Jazz’s clearly taller mecha.

“That’s not- I mean-.” Jazz clasped his head in his hands, switching back to English. “{I- I- don’t know if this is even real.}”

Something was gripping his arms. Black and white appeared in his vision. “Jazz, please. I can’t help you if I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Common was easy to learn but right now it felt like Jazz was playing Scrabble with a bad hand.

“Prowl, where do you go when you- when you change-body-shape?” He had to stop to breath midway.

Please, please, please this is the last chance for anything to make sense.

But instead the mech slowly shook his head in disbelief, “Where do I..? Nowhere Jazz, it’s still me, I’m not ‘going’ anywhere. My alt form is not a different person.”

The mech gently pulled Jazz’s hands off his head from where he’d been stressing the damage from earlier. “I understand if you’ve never seen an alt mode before but your behavior, your questions, they’re not making any sense.”

Prowl stopped. Optics going wide as placed his servos on Jazz’s wrists. “Jazz are you Crashing?!”

“What? What is that what you call a mental breakdown? Cause yeah I’m having one of those.” He said a little too breathlessly.

“Sit-“ Prowl pulled him down to the floor. “Sit down. I’m calling for a medic.”

“No!” Desperately, Jazz grabbed onto Prowl who was helpless but to join him on the floor. The floodgates opened and Jazz couldn’t stop.

“No no no no, please god no. They’re gonna find out. I need to to tell you. I need to tell you myself. Just, please I’m begging you don’t do it. Give me a chance. Just give me a chance to explain, I don’t want to wake up on a table, please Prowler.”

For his part, Prowl was handling the situation as well as to be expected. He didn’t try to leave again but did get into a more comfortable kneeling position next to the panicking mecha.

“Alright. Alright, I won’t leave. Speak.”

Jazz tried tapping an alternating rhythm on the floor, giving himself literally anything else to focus on. He swallowed back bile and his thrashing fight or flight instincts.

“I’m not-“ Jazz grit his teeth. Telling the truth felt like trying to pop a dislocation back into place. Actually no. Jazz had done that before and it had felt infinitely less unnatural than what he was trying to do now.

Prowl was patient. Bless his heart, motor, whatever he’s got in there. Remaining silent beside him.

The pilot forced himself to take complete breaths, “l. Am not. The same. As you.” One, one two, one two, one two, Jazz counted in time.

“I noticed.” Prowl stated flatly, then softening his expression, “You hadn’t realized you were an alien until now, didn’t you?”

Jazz laughed a little too hysterically, “No, no I Fraggin’ did not. Please don’t freak out.”

“Jazz, you are hardly the first alien species I’ve ever encountered. At least you actually look like a person.”

The pilot got very, very quiet.

“Prowl, what do you think of organics.” Resolutely, Jazz stared down the floor panels, refusing to look anywhere else.

Momentarily, Prowl opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. He shifted to kneel in front of Jazz. Sharp optics darting across his frame. Lightly, Jazz could feel him trace something along his undamaged shoulder. He shivered against his will.

“Jazz.” Prowl got down to where he had to look at him. He spoke so, so softly, “Were you created by organics?”

Well, when a mommy human and a daddy human love each other very much…

“You could say that.” Jazz rasped instead.

He hadn’t even moved, but the energy in the air just went burning cold. Prowl went from soft to deathly serious so fast Jazz visibly flinched.

“Listen to me. You do not have to go back. You do not ever have to go back. I swear on everything I stand for I will not let another one of those things anywhere near you again.” Unintentionally, Prowl was crowding into his space.

Despite himself, Jazz just kept drawing himself in smaller and smaller as Prowl closed in.

“No no no no you don’t get it, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I am!” He started quiet and steadily grew in volume.

Prowl wasn’t getting it. Instead, raising his voice to match, “No you are wrong! You have a choice now! You aren’t just your function and you aren’t just something they made to die!”

He grabbed Prowl by the shoulders, shaking him, “I DID CHOSE THIS. I KNOW I’M GONNA DIE, BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M FUCKING TALKING ABOUT.”

“Then what ARE you talking about?!” He shouted back.

“I’M ONE OF THEM.” His microphone peaked, and his voice broke.

The quiet hurt. Anything that wasn’t numb hurt. He gulped down air and couldn’t keep more than one eyelid up at a time.

Prowl ground his jaw tightly, practically steaming from reeling back a sense of calm by force, “You are not shorter than me. You are not thinking straight. And You. Are not. An organic.”

Jazz only semi involuntarily rolled his eyes.

“Fuck it.”

He disconnected, and everything hit at once.

Vision went and came back out of focus and way too close. His ears were ringing too badly to hear the sound of his mecha’s chest plates opening, though he knew that they were.

Every fiber of muscle in his body was torn and screaming, he’d throw up later if he had the strength. Jazz did not so much stand as he did lift off the pilot seat and then buckle forward. The hard shell of his pilot suit saved his knee from getting gouged by the corner of the platform he was slipping off of.

That’s fine. He’d land on the steps.

Except, his mecha had been leaning forward hadn’t it?

Like a rag doll, over the edge he went. A huge and blurry and black shape rushing to meet him.

———————————————————————

Is Jazz capable of telling the truth when it’s to save his life? No.

Will he do it out of spite just to prove someone wrong? Yes.

Also, secret props to @somerandomcockroach for showing how fun Rung is to write.

Bonus bit, Prowl finally let his EM field loose far enough for Jazz to notice! It was bad.

-SSTP

[sparkplug02]

It’s also showcasing the reality of trying and failing to do something. Why do you need survivors? Why do you need people to keep going and carry on? Because they learned the lessons. Other people paid the price for those lessons, but if you don’t remember them and factor them into your next try, you’ll make he same mistakes, you won’t move forward, and you won’t be better.

IF Haymitch had died in the arena when he meant to, IF Plutarch and Mags and Wiress and Beetee hadn’t gone through the terrible things that mutilated them to what we know them to be in the original trilogy, we don’t have their expertise to rely on. Not just because they’d be dead, but because Snow was actively and successfully rewriting the story to leave out those details. If they hadn’t survived, who would have been able to recount the truth? Probably no one.

Yes, that doesn’t make the mutilation itself good or ‘worth it.’ I know that, and I know Snow tortured them and none of that was necessary or right.

So you know that when Snow told Plutarch that the new Quarter Quell would reap tributes of victors, he started gambling with the idea that this could be a new chance to break the machine. He needs Beetee. He’s broken the arena twice, and they need it a third and final time. Learn from the mistakes of the past, figure out how to make it unsalvageable. Give him the biggest bomb you can think of and all the tools to make it happen.

He needs Wiress. Wiress, who’s smart enough to figure out the machine of the arena and who has a gut good enough to guide her to safety. Wiress, who can’t communicate properly and who has been hurt beyond sanity, but who is still in there enough to help. She does. It takes a while for everyone else to catch on, but she figures it out first.

He needs Mags. Mags who has seen two Quarter Quells to date. Mags who helped him with the rebellion for a long time since and who knows how these things end and what it takes for the rebellion to keep going. She either needs to be a mentor or a tribute, but she ends up being both in a way. She is an archive, she has the memory. A shame she can’t tell those memories anymore, but they’re still there and they’re still valuable and she can protect these young tributes far better inside the arena than outside.

He needs Haymitch. Haymitch, who lost everything AND himself during the last quarter quell, the last big plan to break the machine. He failed, but not completely. Haymitch showed them just how adept Snow was at twisting the story, at hiding the rot within. The rebellion all but killed him, but Plutarch needs him back. He was the face of rebellion, he was the Songbird and the Snake before Katniss and Peeta fell into that mantle. He learned the lessons they will need the hard way.

I’m willing to bet it was a damn miracle that Plutarch got Haymitch on board for Catching Fire. He has these two little ducklings that he cares about whether he wants to or not, and Plutarch is asking him to risk them and himself all over again for a plan that failed the last time it was enacted. He agrees, we know that, but Katniss doesn’t ever know about the rebellion until afterwards, and I’m don’t think Peeta does either.

I’m guessing that was Haymitch’s idea. After having all the pressure on him during his Quarter Quell, he’s not willing to put that on either Katniss or Peeta. They are both smart enough and stubborn enough to say the right things and play the part without realizing their role in all this. They want the Quell to end regardless of their knowledge of a greater rebellion. Haymitch steps in as the buffer between them and Plutarch because they trust Haymitch and he knows how hard it is to trust Plutarch. PLUTARCH knows how hard it is to trust Plutarch.

…actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t know that Plutarch would have been able to convince Haymitch. Not after last time. He’s not willing to put those kids through that. He spent so much time trying to protect them from it, I’m not sure he would cave unless he didn’t have a choice.

Was Peeta’s name ever in the bowl for the reaping of the Quell? Could Plutarch have pulled that string to get Haymitch’s name in the bowl twice?

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is they learned from those failures and the failed rebellions were just as important as the successful ones because they wouldn’t have been possible without the lessons learned from past attempts.

SotR is a realisation. A realisation that the rebellion didn’t start with Katniss. That all the people we see supporting her or helping her have all been wanting to fight but they’ve been failing. That there weren’t merely “rumours” of a revolution but there were many active plans playing out and failing.

It’s a reminder that the perfect Hunger Games we saw in the first hg book was an illusion because we had Katniss as our narrator. We didn’t have Haymitch, hell, we didn’t even have someone like Peeta because these people played the games. Katniss didn’t.

Katniss was introduced to us as a mad, simple, naive girl who literally only survived because of others. She didn’t know how much her taking Prim’s place mattered because she didn’t realise what it meant to everyone who came before her. To everyone who had heard rumours of how the last District 12 victor actually fought his games. No, Katniss had just kept her head down, hunting and providing for her family.

See, she grew up way before the Games got to her. She’d already lived through her dad’s death and watched it destroy her once lively mom. Haymitch didn’t have to go through that. Lucy Gray didn’t have to go through that. They were both angry, yes, but at the Capitol. Katniss? She was first and foremost angry at her mom. At her dad. She knew who was to blame but she had too much to do and deal with to think about that. She was already jaded in a way that the Games couldn’t touch.

Peeta? He was Haymitch. He knew what he was getting into and realised he was just on a chess board with no control. So, he adapted. He played the knight, the rook, the king, the pawn. Katniss? She just… did. Changing directions, not playing the piece she was assigned because she didn’t realise that’s what was going on. Remember her surprise at the crown twisting into two after the Games?? She was so oblivious. Until Catching Fire where everything caught up to her. Where everything so many other people had been waiting and working for caught up to her.

SotR is a history book. Rewritten and edited and published as a piece of fact. SotR is a mirror and it’s a reflection of what actually happens vs what ends up being shown. SotR is the playbook of those in control of any and every kind of media that we come in touch with. SotR is a wake up call and I truly don’t know how many will see it as such.

[spaceyaemonds]

pairing: dr. jack abbot x reader

sum.: jack says some things he doesn’t mean after meeting your neighbor. the two of you somehow manage to quickly make up, though

warnings: age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 23), unplanned pregnancy, jack is divorced, not a widower, slight angst, they argue (LIGHT term LOL), jack insecure and says some things he doesn’t mean out of jealousy, (probably poorly written) smut, unprotected sex (she’s already pregnant so 🤷🏻‍♀️), creampie, i think that’s all??? minors DNI.

notes: ahhh okay finally!!!! ugh sorry this took so long! there will be a slight timeskip between this part and the next part. i think i have this drafted where there will be 15 parts in the main story, as of this moment, with lots of side drabbles and future drabbles/one shots!! i am SO excited! unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: 1.4k

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The last thing Jack expects when he gets to your apartment is to find some guy standing in your doorway talking to you.

You’ve got a smile on your face that makes Jack almost stop in his tracks, an uneasy feeling creeping in his stomach.

He must catch your eye, because you look in his direction, and the smile on your face widens.

“Hey!”

He gives you a half smile before glancing back at your friend, who looks at him with furrowed brows.

“Oh! This is my neighbor's son. Jack, this is Dan. Dan this is Jack, my,” You pause briefly, “friend?”

It comes out a question, and he doesn’t have the right to get upset and he knows that, but it stings.

Dan glances at Jack, “Hey, man. She mentioned she was expecting company, so I was just leaving,”

Jack looks at you as Dan turns back to you, “If your computer keeps giving you a hard time, just shoot me a text or give me a call,”

Dan leaves with a wave, and Jack has no right to, but he feels out of place in the doorway of your apartment for the first time.

You don’t notice how quiet he’s being as he follows you into your apartment, talking animatedly as you tell him about your day.

He stops in the entryway to the kitchen, still silent as you put your oven mitts on to take whatever you have baking in the oven out.

“But anyway,” You sigh, setting the pie you made on the counter, “How was your day?”

You look at him, slightly taken aback by the look on his face.

“Jack, are you okay?”

Brown eyes finally meet yours, “Who was that guy?”

You frown, “Dan? He’s my neighbor’s son, like I said. They helped me get the desk up here, and he offered to just help me get it put together since he didn’t have anything to do this afternoon. I took him up on his offer, since I figured you would be really tired after a long day,”

He looks at you, half amazed you would even consider that, but half annoyed that you assume he’d be too tired to help you.

“I wouldn’t have offered if it was going to be any sort of issue,”

A pout forms on your lips, “Well, I know that, but I just,” You sigh, picking at your fingernails, “I hated the thought of you working all day and then coming here and dealing with all that mess,” You gesture with your hands towards your office

He sighs, feeling like an asshole, “I’m sorry. I had a hard day and…” He trails off, not sure what exactly to say.

You smile softly, “No worries,”

He gives you a half smile, “Do you know your neighbor well?”

You bite your lip in thought, “Well, I’ve known Carl since I moved in. But I didn’t meet Dan until almost a year ago,” You laugh to yourself, “He used to work in Philadelphia, but moved back here to take care of his dad. Carl actually did try to set us up once,”

Jack tenses up again, “He did?”

You nod, moving to plate the pasta you made, “Yeah, right after my ex and I broke up actually,” You frown at the thought for a brief moment, then shake the thought away, “but I wasn’t ready to date. And Dan isn’t really my type anyway,”

The statement makes Jack feel slightly better, but his mouth moves quicker than his head before he can stop himself, “So, just a dad that tried to set you guys up? Nothing else?”

You frown at his tone, at what he’s implying, gently setting the plate of pasta down and turning your whole body towards him, “Yes? What would make you think there was more to it than that?”

He looks away from you, “Don’t know. Jus’ felt like I should ask,”

All of a sudden you’re angry, “We’ve already had this conversation. And I already told you. You were the first guy I slept with in almost a year,”

He knows he shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t let this blow up, “Well, I don’t know. You could’ve lied for all I know,”

The anger leaves your eyes as quickly as it appeared, hurt being the only thing remaining.

“I think you should leave,” You try to keep your voice firm. Steady. But all that comes out is a whisper.

He instantly regrets it, but to avoid upsetting you further, he leaves. He stops at the front door, mind screaming at him to turn around.

He closes the door quietly behind him.

Two hours later, you’ve finally finished cleaning your apartment. Between the mess with the desk, piled up laundry, and the dinner you didn’t even eat, the place needed a good clean.

Just as you're about to go to bed, there’s a knock at the door.

Sighing, you answer it without checking, shocked to find Jack there, hands in his pockets.

“I’m sorry,” His eyes don’t leave yours, “I don’t know what came over me earlier. I-“

He sighs, cutting himself off, “I don’t have any right, or claim on you, to act like that. I know this situation isn’t ideal for either of us but,” He shoves his hands in his pockets, “I think we have this connection, outside of the obvious,” head tilting towards your stomach, “But we don’t know each other, and I, fuck I don’t know,”

You’re softer and kinder than he deserves, “You got jealous?”

He huffs out a laugh, “I’m too old for that shit,”

You open the door wider, allowing him to come in, “You don’t deny it, though,”

He sighs as the two of you make your way to the couch, “The thought of you being pregnant but us never meeting again has been really eating at me. The idea of you, somewhere out there, pregnant with my baby, raising my baby, alone or with some other guy,” A pitiful chuckle leaves his mouth, “it makes me sick to my fucking stomach.”

You hum, fingers moving to his curls, scratching at his scalp. He closes his eyes at the sensation.

“You never said anything,”

He opens one eye and huffs out a laugh, “We’ve just started getting to know each other. This is a delicate situation. Plus,” He sighs, hand grabbing your wrist, “I don’t want to make you more uncomfortable than you might already be.”

Now it’s your turn to huff out a laugh, “If I was uncomfortable with any of this, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

He looks at you with both eyes open now, “Yeah?”

You just nod, causing him to let out a sigh of relief.

The two of you just sit there, looking at each other, for a few minutes.

Jack isn’t sure who moves first, but the next thing he knows, your mouth is on his with your hands in his hair. One of his hands cradles the back of your head while the other finds purchase on your hip, pulling you closer to him.

He groans into your mouth when you tug at his hair. His tongue licks the seam of your lips, begging for you to open them.

You comply, and he moans at the taste of cherries as your tongue tries to fight his for dominance of this moment.

He pulls you into his lap as you begin to tug at his shirt, begging him oh so sweetly to please take it off.

Who is he to deny you.

Clothes are removed quickly. Next thing you know, his pants are pulled down just enough to free his cock, and you’re down to just your bra.

You don’t even give him the chance to feel how wet you are, how badly you want him, before you sink down on him.

You both gasp into the kiss at the feeling of your cunt gripping his cock tightly.

Your hands fist his hair as his gently hold your waist, helping guide you up and down, hips thrusting up to meet you in the middle.

It would be embarrassing, how quickly you manage to make him cum, if you didn’t cum at the same time, a whiney whimper of his name leaving your lips as his fingernails dig almost too tightly into your hips as his seed paints your walls white.

There’s a lot, an obscene amount of him inside of you. He can feel it sliding out of you and dripping down his balls and onto your couch as you lay slumped against his chest.

Jack runs his hand up and down your spine, trying to catch his breath.

After a few minutes, you finally sit up straight, his cock still inside you.

“Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?”

He huffs out a laugh before nodding, grabbing your jaw and bringing your mouth back to his, fighting off a groan as you grind your hips against his when you start to deepen the kiss.

[yuujispinkhair]

Modern!Sukuna x Reader (female). Fluff. College AU. 1k words. Minors don't interact.

I wrote this drabble for New Year's Eve but forgot to post it lol. I just found it again and decided to share it now. I hope you can still feel the magic of a New Year's Eve kiss with Kuna even when it's already April ;) Divider @/.chilumitos

Sukuna kisses you for the first time on the rooftop of his dorm on New Year's Eve.

He's had his eyes on you for a while but never acted on it because you are his little brother's friend, and Sukuna knew he would get into trouble with the brat if he fucked you. So he kept his hands to himself.

Yeah, sure, Sukuna flirted with you anytime he ran into you during the last few months when you were over at his dorm to visit his brother. But that's just the way Sukuna is: always smirking and always saying something suggestive. Most of the time, he doesn't even mean it. But with you, it's different.

Sukuna likes how you laugh about the shit he says and how you flirt back, just as playful as he is. And damn, he likes how you ask him seemingly genuine questions about his nerdy little hobbies, like reading history books and collecting Heian-era documentaries, something that most other people never seem to ask him about.

And somehow, at some point during the last few months, Sukuna actually started to look forward to seeing you. And somehow, he lost interest in fucking someone new every other night. It even got to a point where his brother asked him if he was sick because there were no new hickeys on Sukuna's neck. And somehow, Sukuna didn't even flirt with others anymore, but saved all his charm only for you.

Two months ago, Sukuna finally realized he had a problem because all he could think about was you.

It's crazy. He never intended to like you that much. And it's not just crazy, but also scary because Sukuna isn't used to feeling these kinds of things. It makes him feel so... vulnerable. As if he could lose something he doesn't even have yet. As if he could truly get hurt.

Plus, you are such a good girl, so kind and sweet, and Sukuna is that troublemaking bad boy, and he low-key feared he wouldn't be good for you. So he held himself back all this time.

But now it's a few seconds before midnight on New Year's Eve, and you are standing before Sukuna, looking so pretty in your red glittery dress as you look at the night sky, excited for the fireworks. And fuck it, Sukuna doesn't want to hold back anymore.

Especially not when he sees that white-haired Gojo brat standing next to you, watching you over the rim of those stupid sunglasses that he even wears at night while slowly leaning closer, apparently trying to get lucky and steal a kiss when the clock strikes midnight.

Sukuna has to do something. He takes a step closer to you, bumping into your back, and you look over your shoulder, eyes becoming big when you see who it is, and for a moment, Sukuna feels a strange fluttery feeling in his stomach that almost makes him turn around again and run.

But then you smile warmly at him and say his name, or at least that's what Sukuna can read off your lips because the crowd around you starts to cheer loudly at that moment, starting the countdown to the New Year, swallowing your words.

But it's enough for Sukuna, and he smirks at you, reaching out to wrap his muscular arms around you from behind and lean down to murmur into your ear, "Happy New Year, princess. I bet you've been wishing for me to be your New Year's kiss, huh?"

He sounds playful and confident, but his pulse is racing and his chest feels too tight. Sukuna realizes he is nervous. Big bad Sukuna, who is never nervous, but somehow standing behind you a few seconds before the clock strikes midnight on New Year's Eve, with his arms loosely wrapped around you and his low voice saying things he wishes were actually true, is making him feel outright scared.

Sukuna doesn't even know, though, if he is scared that you will push him away, or if he is more scared that you will let him kiss you and make him fall even more for you.

You laugh, turning around in Sukuna's arms, tilting your head to look up at him, wishing him a Happy New Year, too, looking a bit sheepish and shy as you tentatively wrap your arms around Sukuna, too.

You gaze deeply into his eyes, your lips parted slightly, your breath coming out in little puffs in the chilly air as you look at Sukuna, a bit nervous but also hopeful. As if you are starting to believe in New Year's wishes coming true.

Sukuna is the one who brushes his lips over yours first. It's a tentative and gentle kiss, something that surprises him because he usually isn't like that. But it feels right to be this gentle with you.

You don't push him away, but instead sigh and kiss him back, your hands clinging tightly to Sukuna's hoodie, as if you are scared he will leave again. But Sukuna doesn't plan on leaving anytime soon. Not when your lips feel so good against his. Not when he has been thinking about this for months.

The kiss is much too long for a Happy New Year kiss. You miss the whole fireworks, but neither of you cares, and you just keep kissing as if you are drunk on each other's lips.

Sukuna groans softly when he pushes his tongue into your warm mouth, and you lick it slowly, playing with his tongue piercing while your smaller body presses tightly against him. Sukuna cups your jaw with one of his large tattooed hands, his thumb absentmindedly caressing your cheek, lost in your kiss, in your sweetness, much better than any drug he ever tried.

And you are on your tiptoes, leaning against Sukuna, kissing him back eagerly, clearly as lost in him as he is in you. Your hands slip under Sukuna's hoodie, maybe just to warm your cold hands, or maybe because you need him even closer, just like he needs you.

You caress his skin right where his tattoos are, making Sukuna grin into the kiss because he knows all those times he decided to walk shirtless into the living room while you were over visiting Yuuji paid off. You seem to know exactly where his tats are. You probably have been craving to trace them with your fingers for months. Just like Sukuna has been craving to wrap you in his arms and trace your soft lips with his tongue.

Well, how lucky you are because Sukuna plans to let you explore every single one of his tattoos in the New Year. And how lucky Sukuna is because he is kissing the only girl he ever wanted to make his girlfriend.

Sukuna smiles against your lips. He knows exactly what his New Year's resolution is.

I NEED HIM 😭😭 Writing this made me swoon and sigh and YEARN like crazy. I am happy I found this drabble again! I hope you enjoyed it even though New Year's Eve is far away.

Reblogs and comments would be very sweet 💗

[reidrum]

i think he knows

A/N: more doctor!reader!!!!!!! can you tell i love them. if you have requests for them please send them my way thank you <3

summary: in which spencer and reader try to find time for each other to have their first date

cw: doctor!reader, fluff, spencer being a flirt, medical talk

wc: 2.5k

A month passes before Spencer gets to see you again. A long, long month.

He stayed in the hospital for observation for another two days after meeting you, which were entirely medically necessary but don’t ask Spencer how his chest pain stopped the moment he signed the discharge papers because they just couldn’t keep him any longer. He knows it’s illogical, and a bit immoral, to fake symptoms for his personal gain. But who could blame him, had they seen you?

You didn’t make it any easier on him either, the times you’d check on him you’d leave him red for hours. Morgan had gotten suspicious seeing him be surprisingly high in spirits for someone who just got shot. You’d even talked to the nurses to get him extra jello, a love language in its own.

But his daydream was soon shattered upon his discharge, where he couldn’t just lay in a hospital bed and wait for you to come to him. He was to be sent to exile (home) to finish out the rest of his sentence (recovery), while he so agonizingly waits for the next chance to see you again.

The first day back home was already enough to send him into house fever, and he couldn’t even freely pace off the nervous energy because of his leg. You had given him your number, which meant he had to text you. It was a lot of pressure. He knew his assignment and yet couldn’t figure out what the right thing to start off this conversation with you should be.

Should he be formal and hit you with a simple Hello. Or give a bit of a flirty edge and add a heart emoji—one that Penelope taught him how to do, thank you very much. No, he should probably introduce himself since you don’t have his number. So you don’t think a random freak is trying to message you.

He types out a message and sends it before he can second guess himself anymore.

Spencer: Hey there, this is Spencer. Room 207?

Spencer flips his phone face down so he doesn’t manically check the notifications for your reply. You’re busy, you could be in surgery or doing rounds, or sleeping on a break or—Ding!

Or typing out a reply to him, perhaps.

You: Hi Spencer ☺️ how are you feeling? Spencer: Better now, how are you? You: Better now ;)

Oh, you’re everything to him.

Spencer: Are you on a break or am I bothering you? You: Lying down in an on call room bed! I love when you bother me please don’t stop

He actually giggles aloud, thank god he lives alone.

Spencer: Good, because I was running out of medical emergencies to fake just to get to see you again. You: Gasp, faking? Sweet talking works well on me, don’t get me wrong, but I might have to report you to the medical board. Spencer: I’m not that kind of doctor so I don’t think they’ll care, plus I think once they see you were my doctor they’ll side with me. You: Flattery will get you everywhere Spencer Reid be careful. Spencer: I’m sure hoping it does.

It goes on like that for a few weeks, to Spencer’s delight. Back and forth texting, the blatant flirting on both ends and his poor but endearing attempts to match it. He wants to get to know every part of you, and thankfully you’re just as curious as he is, so every waking minute either of you aren’t working ends up being spent by talking with each other.

Not just the casual things like where you grew up or where you went to school. No, he’s learned what your go to coffee shop order is, what latent hobbies you have hidden under your belt, what your favorite movie is and the specific line that makes it your favorite.

He’s told you about his favorite Doctor Who episodes—which you made him promise to show you someday, showed you pictures of his mom and his godson, his go to Indian food order for the place down from the office.

While Spencer loves talking to you, it’s simply not enough. He has to see you soon or he might combust spontaneously. He might do that anyway but it’s much more noble to have a good and valid reason to perish in such a way, like being in your presence.

Spencer: Hey, can I ask you something? You: Uh oh, I don’t like the sound of that. Spencer: Nothing bad, pinky promise. You: Ugh, the most sacred of promises <3 Okay, let’s hear it. Spencer: Are you free this Friday? You: AH I thought you’d never ask!! I am so free this friday night doctor, setting out my best dress just for you ;) Spencer: I’m sure everything you wear is beautiful, but I’m looking forward to seeing you again :) I’ll pick you up at 7? You: I’ll be waiting <333

He asks you out officially on Monday, and he spends the rest of the week praying to whatever unsub or case gods that are out there watching to calm down this week so they don’t get whisked away on a case. Tuesday through Wednesday only consisted of paperwork, and it gives him hope he might actually make it to Friday and finally get to see you. Even Morgan and Emily’s teasing of his suddenly happy mood can’t bring him down.

Thursday night comes around and he’s about ready to jump for joy as he finishes packing up his things. JJ walks by and he’s about to say goodbye to her when she waves a manila folder in the air, “Sorry Spence, conference room in 5.”

He deflates. So close.

Spencer lets his satchel slide off his shoulder and reluctantly pulls his phone out to open his message thread with you.

Spencer: Hi, I’m really sorry to do this but we just got called on a case. Do you think we could reschedule dinner? You: Hi handsome, don’t worry I understand. The world needs you crime fighters :) I’m free next friday?

He tries to ignore the way his heart stutters reading ‘handsome’ and types.

Spencer: I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Next Friday sounds great.  You: Be safe out there please Spencer: Always am. You: Need I remind you we met because you got shot on the job Spencer: That was one time, and I told the guy to shoot me. You: Yeah, that’s not making me feel better. Spencer: I’ll be safe, getting to see you next week will be my motivation to be extra careful. You: I’d hope you’re being careful regardless but whatever works for you, handsome <3 Spencer: Got a pretty girl waiting for me, I have to take extra precautions. You: Oooh that was good, you’re getting better at this Dr. Reid. Spencer: What can I say, you make it really easy. Spencer: Okay I have to go for the briefing, talk to you soon. You: Bye handsome 💞

The case comes and goes, an easy solve but it took a few more days than the team would like to admit for a case of this caliber. They return back only a week later and it’s another Thursday night where he’s hoping nothing steps in to prevent him from seeing you. He’s lucky in the sense that nothing is stepping in to prevent him from seeing you, FBI mandated break and all after a long case.

He’s not so lucky when you regretfully tell him you’re scheduled for surgery all day on Friday. You’re entirely too apologetic for his liking, for someone who flaked on you initially and had to alter your schedule to his. Especially for someone who, of all people, understands the busy lifestyles you both lead. He reassures you a thousand times over that it’s okay and that you can reschedule.

Spencer: Please stop apologizing, it’s okay I promise You: I just feel soooo bad. I was really looking forward to seeing you. Spencer: I know. But we’ll see each other soon. You: Promise? Spencer: Pinky. Did you eat anything? You: No I wasn’t hungry, too sad about not seeing your face. Spencer: A poor reason to starve yourself, I’m ordering food for you. Are you at the hospital? You: I’m at home but you don’t have to do that. Spencer: Okay but I want to, are you going to give me your address or will I have to find it myself? You: How are you going to do that? Spencer: I have my ways. You: It’s your tech analyst friend isn’t it Spencer: Maybe. You: So if I share your address it’s a HIPPA violation but when you do it no one bats an eye. Spencer: It’s for a worthy cause. Please let me do this. You: Fiiine. 1563 Rock Lakes blvd. What are you getting? Spencer: Thank you, honey. Pad thai with chicken satay. You: Ugh, you know me so well <3

To yours and Spencer’s dismay, this pattern continues on for another few weeks. Whenever your schedule finally clears, he gets dragged away on a case. When his schedule is clear you have back to back surgeries or consults. It’s like you just can’t get the timing right, no matter how hard you pine for each other.

The doubt travels and festers in both of your heads, the blatant evidence showing you that this may not work between you. Thing is, you both love your jobs too much to even try to accommodate the other. You’re both so busy you can’t even find time for one evening alone together.

Then George Foyet happened. The Haley Hotchner of it all, happened.

It hit the entire team hard, watching a colleague they viewed as family lose someone they loved so deeply and in such a torturous way. Spencer forced himself to take a step back and really evaluate what he was doing—was he willing to subject someone he cared about to the world he lives in? To the horrors they become exposed to? He still thinks about the heart attack he had when the Fisher King sent his mom a key after being in the same facility with her for some time. He’s not sure he can handle that kind of fear again.

Spencer knows he doesn’t have to do this, it’s so early in whatever this is between you both. You haven’t even had time to go on a date. Maybe your lives are just incompatible. Maybe he can save you before he ever even puts you in danger’s way—the ultimate act of valiant efforts in the form of preemptive measures. 

What you don’t know can’t hurt you, literally.

Ding!

But then you go and do something like this, where he gets to flip his phone over and blush red in the face at your name on the notification. That he gets to open his messages and be met with the beautiful sight of your face, smiling in a picture you took just for him showing off the coffee you got on your break and reading the book he recommended to you a few weeks ago.

And he’s just not sure if he can imagine a world where he doesn’t meet you and immediately fall in love with you.

Another week, another attempt at finally being able to take you on a date. Except this time fate has stepped in on both ends and sent Spencer on another case and you scheduled for surgery. Lovely.

The case goes fine again, save for the unsub with an overt penchant for clipping FBI agents aiming their guns at him. Enough damage to send him to the ER needing stitches on his forehead and a concussion evaluation.

The doctor seeing him was a good doctor, but he wasn’t you. It was a man who, no offense to him and his medical training, definitely did not have hands as soft as yours stitching him up. He sighs out loud in the ER as he waits for a nurse to come by and discharge him. God, he wishes it was you. 

“Seeing other doctors behind my back? I thought we had something special, Dr. Reid.”

He has half a mind to look up at the sky and mouth God?, as he feels his prayers have been answered in the most literal way.

“What are you doing here?” he asks incredulously, fully in disbelief at the sight of you in front of him.

You smile and step towards him, closing the curtain behind you, “I told you, I had surgery.”

“In Maryland?”

“In Maryland,” you nod, “They needed someone with my background to help out so I flew out.”

God, you’re so smart it physically hurts him how attractive it is.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“I didn’t, I was looking at the patient log to see if they needed help in the ER when I saw an S. Reid age 27 in bed 4 and thought to myself ‘This couldn’t be a coincidence.’”

He chuckles softly, “Well, you found me.”

“That I did,” you lean in to inspect his cuts, “I thought I told you to be careful, handsome.”

The blood rushes to his face, “I know, maybe I just knew I’d get to see you this way.”

You gently readjust the butterfly bandage on his forehead, securing it more tightly. “You could have called me if you missed me, Spence.” you whisper.

“You were busy.”

“So were you.”

Spencer pauses, “Are you busy now?”

You step back and look at his face, his borderline puppy eyes doing the most to convince you to say yes when you were about to ask him the same thing in about another minute if he hadn’t. 

You grin widely and check your watch, “I clock out in an hour. Wait for me?”

“Always.”

It makes all the missed connections and unaligned schedules entirely worth it when he gets to finally pick you up from your hotel room for your date turned into a weekend getaway. Spencer doesn’t even bat an eye when Morgan teases him about the mystery lady he’s staying back in Maryland for, or when Hotch gives him a multilayered nod of approval when he asks for a few personal days.

It’s entirely worth it and more when you and Spencer drive up to a lake house to spend the weekend together, and you joke about how your first date ended up being your first trip as a couple. Spencer doesn’t even stumble when you refer to yourselves as a couple, just tightening his arm around your shoulder and kissing the crook of your neck softly.

It’s the most worth it when, even after you said you were a couple, on the last night after staying up watching Doctor Who reruns post other activities, Spencer curls his arm around your body tugging you closer to his and whispers into your hair, “You will be my girlfriend, right?”

To which you simply beam up at him and whisper into his neck, “Of course, handsome.”

[hi-im-dazey]

If you are interested here's the paper I wrote (my IRL name is redacted, and since I wrote it while I was in school in the UK, it has UK spelling and whatnot, and in spots where it doesn't, please keep in mind I lost a point there. LOL) It's an examination of the power exchanges as shown by lighting, costume and camera angles, and may only be interesting to other film and animation students, but I would also like to brag that I got a first on it and in the class. (brag about your accomplishments, kiddos, be proud of yourself!) It's quite a wall of text, so it's below the cut.

Billy Wilder: The Art of Gendered Power Exchange; Some Like it Hot and The Apartment

These two films show us the power differences of gender energy. Wilder does this with the use of lighting, costume, and camera angles. Wilder had a very clear goal about showing gender power in these films. For example, when discussing the dynamics of the seduction scene in Some Like It Hot,

“Wilder points out that, if Joe were the aggressor in this scene and overpowered Sugar, it would be dirty. But if she is the aggressor and seduces him because she thinks he is impotent, it is funny.” p. 227 (PHILLIPS, 2010)

Fran in The Apartment comes to terms with the realization she’d been betrayed by Jeff. Sugar is in the position of sexual power during the seduction scene in Some Like It Hot. Male sexual power makes Fran’s world darker and more grim, Feminine sexual power makes Sugar’s world brighter and happier. This essay will examine the cinematic art Billy Wilder uses to show

us these dynamics.

Lighting

In The Apartment the lighting is evenly distributed in the office scenes. The screen is about half bright and half dark for these scenes. This aids in the ‘machinery’ feel. There are glaring rectangles of overhead light with fill to illuminate the actors. The light is sharp, defined, and functional. The apartment is shown with glowing pools of light. The lighting inside this set is designed to heighten the audiences’ understanding of the purpose the apartment serves. The first woman seen in the apartment is lit to accentuate her curves. The man is dressed in sharp lines and dark clothing, this lighting shows his suit is wrinkled, clearly having spent some time off him and on the floor.

The lighting is telling us all of this as it finds the edges of their clothing; here are a man and a woman, and here is what they did. The lighting in the first apartment interior scene also picks up the sharp element of the phonograph. Again, we have the highlight of a machine element. The other element picked out by the lighting in this scene is the bottle of alcohol and evidence of a meal. Again, we have rounded shapes picked out. The comfort items; the bottle the food, the woman, are all lit to accentuate roundness and warmth. The powerful items; the phonograph, the man, the fireplace, all lit for sharp edges and darker mass.

Early in the film, once we see Baxter in his apartment, the room is lit brighter. He holds no power in his own home, no masculine energy according to the lighting. When he is once again leaving his apartment to allow its use by another couple, the lighting dims. An exchange of power dynamic evidenced by the lighting. Fran’s first lighting arrangement is even toned, shades of grey with very little contrast. Her first scene is in the elevator she operates, she is metaphorically a part of the actual machinery of the building; the lighting reflects that.

One great ambient lighting example is the lighting in the hallway as Baxter escorts Mrs. MacDougal to his apartment, the hallway is on the bright side of neutral tones for the most part, except there is one ominous wedge of dark slanting over the door, and one behind them over the staircase. These slices of shadow loom around them like a scissor. The audience already knows Fran has OD’d. Will Baxter find her corpse in his room or be able to save her just in time?

In the final scene of the film, the frame is fully lit. Their future is bright. The shadows are

gone.

Some Like It Hot starts out dark, just enough light is used to define the elements and highlight faces. Since the film begins steeped in funeral imagery and gun fire, this seems fitting. The darkness in the opening scenes underscores the seriousness. They are broke, desperate and in danger. Wilder chose to use a true to life crime to spur their run to Florida, the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre,

"Before long we have edged into the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, a scene of straight- faced brio and cold carnage capped by the immaculately shod "Spats" Colombo (Raft) kicking a toothpick from the mouth of a well-ventilated corpse. The psychotic intensity of the backdrop throws the boisterous vulgarity of the blue humour into a kind of limbo between innocence and depravity." p.5 (McBride, 1970)

The trade into lightness in both lumens and tone are more marked because of this. The first burst of light comes at the train station, in the form of the light that catches Monroe’s face as she approaches the train car. Our powerful feminine energy has arrived, and now we are traveling away from the dark masculine power structures of the Chicago scenes. As the train approaches the destination, we get more light on the scene. Once we arrive in Florida the screen is bursting with light and sunshine, even the night scenes are brighter than anything filmed in Chicago.

‘We have arrived,’ the lighting tells us, ‘at the fun part.’ Costume

In The Apartment, costuming denotes varying degrees of armour and defence.

MacLaine’s gloves are an example of emotional protection. She is covered as much as possible, removing only the armour on her hands when she must. We never see her hair long, but through dialogue we quickly learn she’s recently cut it. This is another example of protecting herself from touching, Jeff liked her hair, probably touched it, removing it is an effective way to remove his touch. As Fran and Jeff leave the bar, she has a moment of struggle with her glove, she is fumbling to replace her armour as he convinces her to come back to the apartment with him.

The men in The Apartment wear dark suits, with sharp angles. This indicates a powerful male. Their costuming is standard for workplace films of this era. The most important costuming is Fran’s,

“During preproduction Wilder also conferred with the wardrobe department. He said that he did not want MacLaine outfitted in elegant costumes suitable for a movie star. Rather, she was to wear the inexpensive attire that her role as a working girl called for” p.235 (PHILLIPS, 2010)

She has no power in her situation, she is wearing the armour she can afford on an elevator girl’s salary. Fran (MacLaine) is shown covered up completely in plain, simple cuts, modest neck and hemlines, until the build up to the suicide attempt.

The moment she realizes Jeff cares nothing about her heart, the thing she is most desperate to protect with her armour, she takes off her gloves and starts to remove her coat. When she is found, she has only the protection of her dress and necklace. Her armour is reduced, she is vulnerable. Once Fran is resting, Baxter’s actions show that Fran is now without any of her armour. He hangs up her dress. She is now protected only by Baxter’s bedclothes.

It is also significant that her necklace is shown on the nightstand. While not explicit, contemporary audiences would have assumed this necklace was a gift from Jeff, it’s removal would have symbolized her release from Jeff. Jewellery gifts were a common gender power move; marking her as owned.

Converse to the theme of ownership, she is shown wrapped in Baxter’s robe once she is awake. This is an acceptance of Baxter’s protection. She wraps herself in his comfort, rather than putting her dress back on. She is no longer hiding behind her clothing, she is accepting someone’s care by wearing that robe. It is significant that she does not remove that robe until she must, when her brother in law arrives to remove her from the apartment. We do see the necklace once more, on New Year’s Eve. She toys with it as Jeff assumes they are starting their first New Year together. In the final scene she removes the last of her armour, by taking off her coat and revealing a pale gown in a wispy texture with no sleeves or gloves. She has returned to Baxter showing, through costume, a willingness to be open to him.

The dark into light theme with costuming for Some Like It Hot is like the lighting design.

Chicago is dark; dark suits and dark dresses for the most part. Joe’s overcoat being one exception, possibly to indicate his refusal to take anything seriously.

Monroe’s costumes, in direct opposition to MacLaine’s, show her as in charge of her gender and sexuality. Monroe holds the power, and she knows it. Her costumes are flirty and clinging. She has no need to wrap herself in armour. No man can hurt her. She is not presented as vulnerable via her wardrobe.

Orry-Kelly dressed her, and he won the only Oscar for the entire production for his talents. The costume that exemplifies Sugar’s position of power is the gown she is wearing while singing I Wanna Be Loved by You. She is presented in complete control of what she is doing and showing. She is in command of the male gaze and she knows it. She is also wearing and using the spotlight to her advantage and power.

For their alter egos, Josephine and Daphne, Orry-Kelly also provides Joe and Jerry with some interesting choices, but he plays to the themes at hand there,

"Joe exploits women's dress to heterosexual advantage, but Jerry camps up his role, giggling and shrieking like a slapstick drag queen" p.5 (McBride, 1970)

Daphne’s dresses are a little more flamboyant, Josephine is stylish, but modest.

Josephine’s goal is to gain a position of trust with Sugar, to exploit this trust and woo her. Daphne’s goal is to escape reality. Costuming reflects this in Josephine’s matronly styles and Daphne’s youthful looks. Osgood is dressed to match Daphne, they are both campy characters. Osgood’s suits are flamboyant compared to the other rich men at the resort. He is dressed and presented as Daphne’s perfect mate. This helps sell the audience on the relationship being viable. Without that grain of truth, the punchline at the end won’t work.

The costuming, both the empowered sex of Sugar, and the cross dressing of Josephine and Daphne helped to underscore another goal for Wilder,

“…by setting the film in the time of pre-Code Hollywood, Wilder pays homage to a period of filmmaking that enjoyed considerably more leeway in its portrayal of sexual relationships, while itself contributing to the noticeable erosion of the Production Code in the late 1950s.” p.103 (Gemünden, 2008)

The costuming, in effect saying,

‘We used to be able to do this sort of thing all the time, so why can’t we now?’ Camera Position

The Apartment uses camera angles to show who holds the power in a scene. Baxter is shown at his desk with the camera angling up. This highlights what he holds power over, his desk, his part small part of the machine. The squares of ceiling are oppressive from this angle, giving a juxtaposition to the power Baxter has from the camera angle. He has this much power, and no more.

Baxter and Sheldrake’s first scene shows a shift. Jeff is shot at angle to give him all the power, looking up at him; down onto Baxter. As the scene progresses, Sheldrake’s motivations become clear, the shot levels out. Towards the end of the scene there is a shift when the camera rises above them, they have both lost something in the exchange. Sheldrake has lost some integrity. Baxter has lost a night to nurse his head cold.

Consistently, Jeff is shown through camera angles and blocking to be in the power position over Fran. Baxter and Fran are almost always shot at eye level. This is the camera angle telling you to root for these two, they are evenly matched. The exception to this is when they try to revive Fran. Dreyfuss and Fran are shot from above; Baxter is shot from below. This gives the audience a feeling of being in the room, helping to revive Fran. The audience are now part of the rescue.

Angles in Some Like it Hot do not make as many shifts away from eye level as in The Apartment. This also shows a distribution of power. Everyone is lying a little bit, has some power over their situations, and each other.

There are interesting power shifts via camera movement and positioning during Sugar’s seduction of Junior. Once they are in the “Small Salon” dropping below eye level slightly; this shows off more of Sugar, underscoring her power in the situation. Once Junior is prone, the camera shifts a little more; ‘Sugar is in charge’ becomes a firm concept. Without the shifts in position, that she is being manipulated becomes uncomfortable for the viewer. Keeping her in the superior position and framing is important.

Conclusion

Wilder was a master at showing the exchanges of power that happen between male and female roles. Most of his films have a gender power exchange in some form or another, and these two are the best examples of that. Fran is terrified to hold her own sexual power; she needs and is given a less toxic ally in Baxter. Sugar does not fear her sexual power, and gets exactly what she wants, a man who does not fear her power either. The visual support Wilder gives through lighting, costuming, and angles, eases the audience through these exchanges that might, otherwise not work or come off as too shocking.

Works Cited

Gemünden, G., 2008. A Foreign Affair: Billy Wilder's American films. First ed. New York(New York): Berghahn Books Inc..

McBride, J. a. M. W., 1970. The Private Life of Billy Wilder. Film Quarterly, 23(4), p. pp. 2–9. PHILLIPS, G. D., 2010. Some Like It Wilder: The Life and Controversial Films of Billy Wilder.

Lexington(Kentucky): University Press of Kentucky.

Some Like It Hot (1959) dir. Billy Wilder

[godjustkys]

SYPNOSIS: teaching cas how to fuck, and of course, dean is the willing subject to be used!

CHARACTER: male reader x castiel x dean winchester

NOTE: this was originally gonna be another drabble (pt2) but i started writing and noticed how long it got, so full one shot. this is longer, as a thanks to 800 followers!! hell yeah!!

p.s. requests are always open!!

WC: 2.7k

WARNING: dom!reader,, switch!castiel,, sub!dean,, creampie,, unprotected sex,, spit as lube,, learning experience for cas,, double anal penetration,, praise,, pet names,, light shy!dean,,

castiel was watching every single move of yours with wide eyes, blown pupils and parted lips. the way you prepped dean seemed utterly filthy but he didn’t care. dean was whining for the first time in his life, an arm thrown over his eyes to try and keep his face hidden. he was naked on the bed, lying on his back.

once you approached castiel, he stiffened up visibly, trying to seem more composed as he closed his mouth and furrowed his eyebrows a bit. “remember what dean did?” castiel paused. “which part?” he said softly, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “when i told him we have no lube,” you cleared up. “..he..” castiel paused once more, the imagery flashing through his mind again. he’s sinning, he knows he is, but damn it if it doesn’t feel a weird type of good. “you wanna fuck him, right? you don’t wanna hurt him, i assume?” you asked castiel, your lips ghosting over the corner of his mouth. the angel’s breath hitched, almost tilting his head instinctively, ready to deepen the nonexistent kiss. “cas?” you cooed softly, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. castiel blinked dumbly, not even reciprocating the gesture. “uhm, yes. no.” he said breathlessly. “don’t want to.. hurt him.” his eyes flickered to dean, who was now propped up on his elbows, watching the two of you with a pouty face.

you noticed it, too. the look on dean’s face. “okay, he’s getting pouty. open your mouth.” you turned your attention back to castiel, bringing up a hand to his lips. his eyes flickered with a hint of uncertainty, but he listened nonetheless. castiel’s lips wrapped around your fingers as you pushed them into his mouth. his tongue, hesitant at first, laved over the digits, trying to mimick what dean had done. he only knew because you made dean do it with his mouth open so castiel could see. his saliva coated your fingers generously. his pretty blue eyes, wide and unsure, never left yours, so full of need that it made your stomach clench. “good boy,” you muttered, sliding your digits free with a soft pop, the wetness of them glistening under the dim light.

you reached down and freed castiel’s cock with your other hand, swiftly, your wet fingers wrapping around his length and giving a few slow pumps, slicking him up. castiel made a soft sound that obviously escaped him involuntarily, his hands getting clammy. eventually, you deemed him slick enough and you guided him to dean. “spread ‘em.” you told him as castiel watched intently. with a small grumble, dean complied, spreading his legs slightly. pushing the angel forward, you made him step between the hunter’s legs. dean shifted, his eyes locking onto castiel’s. “don’t look at me like that..” dean mumbled out, rubbing a hand over his face. “can’t believe i’m actually doing this..” you lined castiel’s cock up against dean’s entrance, feeling the angel shudder at the heat. this was actually a pleasant surprise; castiel’s cock was nice and thick. if only he knew how to use it..

“push in slow,” you instructed, lips brushing against the shell of castiel’s ear. “make him feel every inch of you.” the angel’s hands hesitantly landed just above dean’s hips, his large, gentle hands hot to the touch. “are— are you-” he started, but you cut him off. “c’mon. look at ‘im. he wants you, you can see it in his eyes. you can feel the lust.” you spoke, moving a hand to dean’s knee to push his legs wider apart. dean scrunched his face up, throwing an arm over his eyes once again. castiel obeyed your previous order with a stuttery sigh, inching forward slowly, the head of his cock breaching dean’s rim. he pussied out though, retracting his hips back, before he solemnly spoke up. “dean looks like—”

“cas. he’s not in pain.” you muttered against the side of his neck, subtly urging castiel. he decided to try again, his hands trailing down to dean’s thighs, touch light. dean almost instinctively bucked his hips up, the touch of the angel’s hands truly making him feel ecstatic. he pushed in again, this time to halfway. both of them were breathing heavily. castiel’s face was flushed while the tips of dean’s ears turned red. dean, of course, like the slut that he was, pressed his hips down in order to get castiel all the way in. you tutted disapprovingly at his actions. “don’t do that, sweetheart. let cas take his time.” you warned him, and in return, dean whimpered. the sound had a very obvious effect on castiel as he stilled. hearing dean make those sounds because of him made him twitch inside. “all the way in, cas. all the way in.” you coaxed him, pressing a hand to the angel’s lower back. castiel nodded once as you guided castiel’s hips, pressing forward, watching as his thick cock disappeared into dean’s body, slow and ruthless. inch by inch, his hole stretched obscenely around the angel, swallowing him down until castiel was fully sheathed, balls flush against dean’s ass. “good.” you muttered to castiel, your hand rubbing up and down his back in a soothing gesture. “stay deep,” you started, your lips ghosting the shell of castiel’s ear, making him shiver slightly; he didn’t know his vessel was ticklish.. “feel how tight he is around you? how he’s clenching? he loves being full like this.” you spoke, castiel’s eyes not once leaving dean’s pretty body. dean mewled, pushing back, clearly greedy.

“fuck him slow at first,” you ordered. “make him beg.”

you stayed close, hand on castiel’s lower back to steady him as the angel pulled back, slow and shaky, before thrusting forward again. dean groaned loudly, pressing a hand over his mouth, every slow roll of castiel’s hips earning little broken sounds out of him. you watched as castiel fucked into dean with steady building confidence — hips snapping just a tad bit harder, faster, small groans leaving the angel’s lips at the sensation. sweat slicked both of their bodies, dean’s cock untouched and leaking precum over his abdomen. “harder, cas. he can take it.” you said, enticing castiel. you moved to stand behind the angel, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. castiel obeyed your order with a small groan, pounding into dean with a quite brutal rhythm that made the bedframe rattle. such a fast learner.

————

castiel’s fingers were digging into dean’s thighs, his eyes wide. dean was propped up on his palms, on either side of the angel. dean felt wrecked already; he hasn’t slept with many men, and he never bottomed. now to take two cocks? yours and castiel’s? fuck. “look at cas, dean, he’s the one inside ya,” you taunted, rubbing your hands over his hips. dean was on all fours, castiel’s cock still buried deep inside dean’s hole. you lined yourself up, the anticipation making dean moan. castiel felt his heart flutter weirdly, lips parting at the noises dean keeps emitting. “are you alright?” castiel asked worriedly, moving his head to catch dean’s gaze. you smiled at the question, very very slowly pushing the tip of your cock in. dean gritted his teeth as he scrunched his face up, muttering a small curse word. “relax dean,” you murmured, leaning over him, your chest pressing to his back. “you’re doin’ real good, baby,” slowly and steadily you pushed in, the pressure immense, almost unbearable. dean sought some sort of way to ground himself, to bear the pain, so, he moved his hands to castiel’s shoulders, gripping tight. in a moment of vulnerability, dean pressed his forehead to castiel’s, panting heavily. “f—fuck, fuck fuck fuck..” he breathed out in a broken voice. castiel being castiel, moved both of his hands up and gently cradled dean’s face. ‘how cute.’ you thought.

“shhh..” you soothed dean, running a hand up his spine. “you’re doin’ so good, takin’ us both.” you continued softly. it was slow going, your cock sliding in alongside castiel’s, the stretch obscene. dean let out a whiny, broken sob, legs trembling. when you were finally fully inside dean, pressed so tightly against castiel you could feel his heartbeat through it, you let out a drawn out, low and guttural groan. castiel’s lips ghosted over dean’s, torn between wanting to kiss him and wanting to make sure he’s okay. eventually, castiel kissed dean roughly, the latter letting out a muffled moan against his mouth. dean was extremely tight, but it was only logical. to fit two cocks inside him was task enough. “move.. fuck, move.” dean gasped out against the angel’s mouth, rolling his hips albeit the action broken and stuttery. with a sigh, you comply, pulling back slowly, dragging your cock around dean’s tight, gummy walls, then thrust forward again, grinding castiel’s cock deeper into him at the same time. dean moaned out a half choked sound, shaking his head barely against castiel’s forehead. you set a rhythm with castiel, moving almost in sync — when you pulled out, he pushed in, and when you filled dean, castiel pulled back. it was relentless, overwhelming, every single thrust making dean feel like he was going to split apart and god, he loved it. castiel was making desperate, broken sounds too, right in dean’s ear, panting heavily.

dean clutched at castiel’s shoulders desperately, white-knuckled, his body caught between you and castiel — he felt used, stretched, filled so full that he could barely think. his cock dragged against castiel’s stomach with each painful thrust, leaking, twitching helplessly. “sonovabitch..” he sobbed against castiel’s skin. “you’re perfect, so perfect..” you praised, pressing opened mouth kisses against his shoulders, keeping the steady pace, savoring the filthy, obscene tightness of his hole. castiel’s cock kept twitching as he inhaled dean’s scent. he thought dean smelt so good that he moaned. castiel’s hands slid into dean’s hair, grasping lightly, his touch almost reverent. “you’re so beautiful.” he breathed out and dean let out the most pornographic moan he possibly could. he shoved his ass back, greedy for every thrust, for every wave of pleasure and pain that burned through him. dean was stuffed full, his walls stretching wide with every relentless drive of your hips. the heady squelch every time you would pull back was so lewd it turned you on even more.

“more, pretty?” you asked softly, hips grinding cruelly, deeper inside him. dean nodded, the action itself barely interpretable, body trembling violently. castiel’s thrusts were shorter, sharper. dean continued babbling pleas and nonsense, anything to keep both of you inside him. dean’s fingers were kneading castiel’s shoulders, continuously letting out slutty sounds. between the brutal pace and your filthy praise, dean was losing his goddamn mind. he came with a wrecked whimper, cock pulsing against castiel’s abdomen, hot ropes of cum painting the angel’s skin. in response, the one under dean moaned, hips stuttering. dean’s entire body clamped down, squeezing both of your cocks like a vice, and oh, the sensation dragged both you and castiel over the edge instantly. you cursed hoarsely, hips slamming forward as you came deep inside him, castiel doing the same with a loud, guttural whimper. dean shook from the force of his orgasm. he completely collapsed onto castiel, clinging to him.

the both of you slowly pulled out of dean and the hunter whined softly at the loss. cum leaked out of his hole and down his thighs. you rubbed the head of your cock against it, smearing the cum. the moment dean felt it, he grunted, nuzzling his face into castiel’s neck. with a grin on your face you took castiel’s cock, pumping him slowly and he immediately got hard again. castiel looked at you with a small frown, wondering what you were doing. “first lesson done,” you told the angel, sliding his cock back in dean again. “lesson’s two about takin’ it.” you said, settling yourself between castiel’s legs, pushing the tip against castiel’s rim. “not prepped, but,” you trailed off, looking at castiel as he gasped, feeling dean start moving on his own. “think you’ll do just fine..”

pushing your cock all the way in, albeit with slight resistance, castiel shifted, mouth open in another soundless gasp. the way you filled him, the way dean was leisurely riding his cock.. it felt so, so good. “c’mon, dean. you can do better than that.” you cooed, rubbing up and down against the side of dean’s thigh as you kept a steady rhythm, thrusting into castiel. dean sat up, propping himself by his palms, on castiel’s shoulders again. dean’s face was flushed, eyes glossy, sweat making his skin glisten, his hair stuck to his forehead. he had this dazed look on his face that made castiel clench and his cock twitch. “there ya go,” you muttered, pressing a kiss between dean’s shoulder blades. dean rolled his hips down harder this time, drawing a ragged groan out of castiel as he sank fully onto his cock. the stretch, the pressure of you steadily pounding into castiel, and now dean grinding down onto him — it was almost too much. castiel’s hands trembled where they gripped dean’s hips, fingertips digging into sweat-slick skin hard enough to leave bruises. “that’s it, baby,” you praised, your voice low and rough. “show him how much you want it.” dean whined under his breath, thighs trembling with effort. his pace picked up, messy and desperate, rolling and bouncing on castiel’s cock while you kept fucking into the angel with steady, brutal thrusts. each movement shoved castiel deeper into dean, the force jostling them both. castiel let his head fall back against the pillow, mouth open in a helpless moan, his hips jerking up to meet dean’s frantic rhythm. every time you slammed into him from behind, castiel’s cock speared up deeper into dean, making the hunter keen brokenly, tossing his head back. you slowed your thrusts just a little, savoring it — the way dean’s thighs shook with the obscure amount of effort to keep riding the angel, the wrecked little gasps he made every time castiel bottomed out inside him. “you look so pretty like this,” you murmured against dean’s sweaty back, dragging your tongue up to his earlobe. “fucked-out, desperate for it.”

dean whimpered, clenching helplessly around castiel’s cock, which in turn made castiel whine, nails biting into dean’s hips. dean’s body was trembling violently again, the pleasure almost unbearable, the steady rub of castiel’s cock against his sweet spot and your thick, relentless thrusts into castiel making him dizzy. “ca-can’t..” dean gasped, eyes squeezing shut. “gunna— gunna cum—” you wrapped a hand around his throat loosely, tugging him back against your chest, holding him upright as you fucked into Castiel — as castiel, trembling and panting, fucked up into him. “not yet,” you growled against the shell of his ear, tightening your grip just slightly. “not yet, dean.” dean whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut harder, biting his lip against the desperate pressure building in him. castiel whimpered too, overwhelmed, his body tensing underneath dean, his hands glowing just slightly. his grace. “dean—” castiel gasped, voice breaking. the hunter moaned loud, desperate, grinding down even harder, trying to chase it, needing it. you groaned low, feeling your own orgasm rising like a tide, your rhythm getting rougher, more erratic, hips slamming into castiel with a filthy, wet smack. “cum with me, cas,” you panted, nipping dean’s ear. “fill him up again. make him feel how much you want him.”

that was all it took.

castiel groaned loud, thrusting up deep and holding dean down on his cock as he came hard inside him. the heat of it, the twitch and pulse of castiel’s cock inside him, was too much for dean — he shattered apart with a broken sob, cock untouched, spilling across castiel’s chest as he came hard, muscles spasming. you fucked castiel through it, gritting your teeth as dean’s orgasm milked castiel’s cock; and the way castiel’s hole clenched around your cock dragged you under too, spilling deep inside the angel with a harsh groan. dean’s shaky arms gave out and he rested his forehead against castiel’s cheek, his body heaving with each breath he took. castiel laid boneless on the bed, trying to regulate his own breathing. you wrapped an arm around dean, pressing lazy, possessive kisses to his shoulder as your hand slid down to palm his hip.

“tired already?” you asked them both, eyes half lidded with lust. “we’re not finished yet,” you said with a small, breathy chuckle. “we’re just getting started.”

[clockwayswrites]

The Haunting of Danny Fenton Chapter 3, Part 1

masterpost, please no editing or concrit! This is a first draft only and it is a sleepy, headachy day.

Danny rung the doorbell (buzzer, whatever) on the monolithic side of Titans Tower.

Nothing happened, of course.

Danny glared at the spot where he though Flash might be. Approximately. It’s where the buzzing was at least.

“You're going to get me arrested,” Danny complained to thin air.

Somehow he was certain he'd gotten a little ‘go head' sort of motion back to his words. He couldn't see Flash still, not outside of seizures at least. It was more like how one knew someone was looking at them. It was a sense of movement.

Danny rang the bell again.

Then Danny pulled out a notebook, leaned against the building, and started sketching. He set a reoccurring timer to go off every two minutes. When it did, he rang the buzzer again. Then he got back to sketching.

Fifteen times into ringing the buzzer, some hidden speaker hummed to life.

“Dude, you know, there's a tip line you can use, right? And we don’t give autographs.”

Danny scrambled against his aching body to stand up straight and spun towards the door. “I, um, know. I saw the sign. But I don't have a tip, I have a message.”

The bored sounding person on the other side of the speaker sighed. It sounded like static. “What's the message?”

“It's from the Flash, I think,” Danny said. “And, trust me, I can't believe I'm saying this either, but he wants me to tell Nightwing that ‘he's a real dick’ but said, like, in a fond way.”

The silence was unbearably heavy.

“Okay then. Right. Please don't have me arrested, I'm just the messenger,” Danny said and started to back away.

The TV static of Flash hummed against his back.

“I tried, okay?” Danny hissed at him. “We’ll come up with another idea and—”

And one of the double doors to Titan’s Tower slammed open by a large green gorilla that quickly morphed into a small green man.

“What did you say?!?” Beastboy shouted breathlessly.

“Someone I'm, like, eighty percent sure is your guys’ Flash told me to tell Nightwing that he's a real dick.”

“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit,” Beastboy repeated, really drawing the words out. “Inside, now!”

Danny blinked at the sudden acceptance. “Not to arrest me, right?”

“What? No!” Beastboy exclaimed and started to basically pull Danny into the building. “We have to get Nightwing!”

“Okay.” Danny hoped that was true.

Danny got the feeling that Flash was right along with him as Beastboy herded him (literally as a sheep dog at one point) through the lobby, into the elevator, and up the tower. The room that they walked out into was clearly a personal space. There were abandoned cups, a smattering of plants, and several discarded pieces of clothing about the room.

The Titans lounging in front of a massive TV were pretty telling too.

“Gar…” the goth of the group asked as they stood. “…who is this?”

“This is—” Gar started enthusiastically and then deflated like a popped balloon. “Um, I don’t know actually? No, Raven, wait! No attacking! Just, dude, just tell them what you told me!”

Danny tried not to tense up at the dark power swirling around one of Raven’s hands. “Flash sent me to tell Nightwing that ‘he’s a real dick’, but Flash said it in a fond way.”

“Oh, fuck,” Raven breathed.

“Where is he?” Asked who could only be Cyborg.

“Here…ish,” Danny said with a gesture to where Flash was. “He said he’s trapped in the Speed Force. He’s not exactly on this plan of existence. Very small chance he’s dead, and I can only talk to him because he’s a ghost but Flash says he’s not but sometimes ghosts are like that?”

“…sometime ghosts are like that,” Raven repeated.

Danny scratched at the back of his neck. “Yeah… I’m kinda a psychopomp? But if it’s any comfort, Flash is really insistent that he’s not dead. He doesn’t feel like normal ghosts either. I think he’s actually right that he’s not dead, especially since he didn’t get any more clear when my heart stopped the other day.”

“When you’re heart what?!” Cyborg practically shouted.

It was a bit of an over the top reaction for hero, Danny thought. They put themselves in danger all the time.

“Yeah. So because Flash isn’t a normal ghost,” Danny said, slightly bewildered as Gar urged him over to the couch to sit down down, “I can’t see him or talk to him like I normally would. It’s been mostly seizures before, which wow I do not recommend, but a few days ago I too some tea to help my powers open up and the added ability to interact was too much for me I guess and my heart stopped.”

“Well,” Raven said with a little frown and a wave of her hand. “That explains the medical band.”

Danny blinked down at it. “Oh. I meant to take that off. Yeah, sorry, I sorta checked myself out against doctors orders to come here.”

“Dude, why?” Gar said, sitting down next to Danny. His face was incredibly expressive and Danny felt like those big, worried eyes might give him another heart attack.

“Because… because you deserve to know where your friend is,” Danny said honestly.

There was a long beat of silence before Cyborg slapped his hands against his leg with a clank. “Right. I’ve alerted Nightwing and the others. Gar, help…”

“Danny.”

“—help Danny settle in. Raven, watch Gar.”

“Hey!” Gar exclaimed with a pout.

[babyblankyerror]

You know when Stanford asks for his house and name back, Stanley actually seems pretty alright with it until a certain moment.

"You give me my house back" he just looks at Ford

"You give me my name back" And Stan gets angry. Why?

Because Ford made it sound like he wanted to take it in the first place. Because Stan couldn't believe that his brother truly thought he'd take his identity for all eternity, that he wouldn't return it. It's probably when Stanley realises that his brother truly thought that lowly of him that he wouldn't return the house of name without question... That he'd steal from his brother something that important despite fully knowing what it's like to not have a house and much less a name.

The whole reason he took his name to begin with, KILLED Stanley pines, was because it was the safest option probably. No weird gangs after him, no chance of being found, no threat of someone taking Stanford's house/lab and stuff because he was missing, the good Stan stays... List goes on.

Stanley probably never even expected it would take that long to bring him back, he most likely thought it'd be less than two years at most. So who would even care that that Stanford acted a little differently for a year or two? Guy is probably gokng through a midlife crisis!

But it wasn't that and Stan was stuck as Stanford. He never takes his name, if you noticed, he always goes by STAN... Out of the two, Stanley is probably the one that felt worse about taking Stanford's name.

The house? Yeah okay, makes sense. Stanley didn't seem that upset, he just had that <:( confused look, he probably had never even planned on KEEPING the house so when Ford asked for it back it probably made sense to him because it was Ford's house. Always had been...and he never planned on staying (unless his brother asked him to probably).

But the name? You really think that low of me that I would take my brother's name on purpose??

Of course he got angry. Stanley was HURT and hurt in Pines men means anger. Healthy Masculinity.

"As far as I'm concerned they're the only family I have left" because his family wouldn't think that low of Jim. They never did, not until they saw the evidence of his lies and Stan understands that.. but Ford? Ford didn't need evidence, he suspected Stan from breaking his project on purpose (rightfully so, Stan, why tf did you say it was a silverlining😭).