#pressing the ‘follow’ button again feels mortifying

[a-dream-deferred]

accidentally unfollowing a mutual is one of the worst things that could happen to a tumblr user

[satorusugurugurl]

My Wedding Date is an Escort!

Summary: When invited to your best friend's wedding, you panic. One of the groomsmen, Toji Fushiguro, is your ex-fiancè. Not wanting to deal with probing questions and the embarrassment of being single, your friend Haibara recommends using an Escort! Taking a leap of faith, you book one my, the hottest one. Gojo Satoru is hot, sweet, and funny! The package deal! Men and Women pay thousands to go on a date with him (even more, which he doesn't do often). So when your request comes in, the desperation and pleading tone of your voice. Gojo’s heartthrobs, even more so when you tell him you don't want to have sex.

Pairing: Escort!Gojo x FAB Reader

Word Count: 4,673

Warning: dirty talk, cursing, smutty things, oral sex, fingering

A/N: LEEEET’S GOOOOO!!! Here we go; things are getting spicy and interesting!! If you want to be included in the tag list, YOU MUST HAVE AGE LISTED! Thank you!!

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight

Satoru’s ab’s clenched under the graze of your fingers. His eyes followed those graceful fingers to the button of his jeans. His breath caught in his throat as you unbuttoned them.

“Toru, take me to our room.”

Satoru grabbed your wrist, dragging you out of the kitchen. The dessert you had promised him was long forgotten; the prospect of having you was a million times sweeter. The second you made it to the room, Satoru kicked the door close with his shoe. In a flash of white, Satoru had you pinned to the door, his lips slotting against yours in a hungry, desperate kiss.

One hand gripped your wrists, pinning them about your head, holding them firmly against the door. Satoru groaned against your mouth. His tongue flicked at your bottom lip, eagerly asking for your permission. You obliged, opening your mouth and allowing his tongue to slide against yours.

The faint sweetness of sugar. The traces of vanilla washed over your tongue as you kissed. It was an intoxicating taste; you felt yourself slowly becoming addicted to it. You wanted more. To taste Satoru, all of him.

You gasped as his knee slid between your legs, his thigh pressing up against your throbbing sex. The sensation of being touched like this again, after not being with anyone, had you dizzy and eager for more. Fighting against your hesitation, you rolled your hips over his thigh, pressing your aching sex firmly against him. Your soft whine flooded Satoru’s mouth, making him smirk against your lips as he pulled back.

”Does my thigh feel good, baby?” You nodded as he gripped your hip in his free hand, massaging the skin as he trailed kisses down your cheek. “I fuckin’ knew it. When I kissed you like this back at the bar, your hips twitched when I slid my knee between them. You wanted to grind yourself against my thigh, didn’t you? To use me as your toy, to make yourself cum.”His words hit you like blows to the stomach. Only they weren’t painful. They had your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing. “Ah ha, there it is.”

”T-There what?”

Satoru took your earlobe between his teeth, gently nibbling on it before he trailed the tip of his tongue over the bite. “You clenched.” Feeling mortified was a bit of an understatement. If you could cover your face with your hands, you would have been. Instead, you made a groaning sound as your cheeks burned. “Hey now,” Satoru’s hot breath fanned over your sensitive ear, “there’s no need to be shy about it; knowing you’re feeling good makes my cock hard.” He rolled his hips, eagerly showing you the growing erection in his pants.

”F-Fuck, y-you’re hard.”

“Mhmm and it’s only half hard.” H-Half hard? He was only half hard, and he was already so big?! “So why don’t you keep rocking those hips for me? Let’s see if you can get me to the point my cock is so hard it hurts.”

Responding to his flirtatious dirty words was something you weren’t capable of doing, at least not yet. So, you instead rocked your hips against his thigh, pressing down a little harder this time. Your clit twitched happily, feeling some friction that wasn’t a toy or your hand for the first time in over a year. The pleasurable sensation had you crying out softly, sending our head rocking back to rest against the wall as you repeated the momentum.

Satoru growled, kissing and nipping at your neck, leaving hickeys in his wake. You let out the cutest little gasps and moans as your hips rocked against him. With each roll of your hips, the more confident you grow. Tentative gentle movements became more focused and centered around your pleasure. Watching how your chest rose and fell, how your skin flushed with the growing arousal, it was enough to have him nearly going feral.

You rocked your hips faster; the seam in your pants was in the perfect place, giving you additional friction over your throbbing clit. You were so wet you could feel your arousal soaking into your panties, and if you kept going at the pace you were, it would take no time at all for you to soak through your pants. Maybe you’d leave a wet spot on Satoru’s pants. Thinking about leaving a mark on him didn’t leave you embarrassed at the prospect, but it urged you to move faster instead.

”Oh, you’re feeling it now, aren’t you?” Satoru cooed and trailed the hand that had firmly been massaging your hips up your body. “You’re such a good girl, rocking against my thigh like this, using me to get off.”

The need to cum all over his thigh was burning at your core, fanning the kindling lust blooming at your core. However, you didn’t want just his thigh. You wanted more of him. To feel his hands on your bare skin, you longed to trail kisses over him like he had done to you. His thigh was just the beginning of you wanting to lose yourself in everything Gojo Satoru was willing to offer.

You were yanked out of your lustful fantasy as Satoru grabbed a handful of your breasts. His fingers gently kneaded the flesh, sending your head rocking forward, your half-lidded eyes drawn to his touch, watching as he groped you. Your nipples hardened under his touch, letting him know just how turned on you were. He hummed, feeling the hardening bud against the palm of his hand. At that moment, feeling you grinding against his leg, groping the soft flesh of your breast, something suddenly hit Satoru like a train.

“Hey, sweetheart,” your hazy eyes met him, “I think we’re wearing far too much clothing.” He released his iron grip on your wrists, and both his hands trailed down your body, toying with the hem of your shirt. “What do you say we make ourselves more comfortable?” his hot fingers dipped under the hem, teasingly rubbing over your bare skin.

No verbal response was given. You instead moved your hands towards his shirt. You slid them down, slowly unbuttoning each button with precise need. The slow, deliberate action had Satoru’s hips rocking forward, cock twitching in excitement. Your perfect fingers hadn’t even touched his skin, graced him with your touch, and he was already panting. Watching you move further and further down his chest, revealing his toned, beautiful ivory skin, was like foreplay.

The kind of foreplay that made him lose his mind.

Satoru growled, pushing your shirt up over your perfect breasts. Your skin was the most beautiful color he’d ever seen, so soft and delicate. His hands ran over your stomach, groaning at the way you jerked under the warmth of his hands. You were getting into it, slowly loosening your grip on your self-control. Witnessing you coming undone was something Satoru longed to see. It was also something he was determined to witness by the time he was through with you.

His long fingers grabbed the fabric of your bra, pushing it up over your breasts. Your breasts bounced, jiggling at the sudden loss of support. The sight had Satoru’s mouth watering. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning down, trailing the tip of his tongue over the curves of your breasts, tasting the sweet saltiness of your skin. You inhaled sharply, watching the white tufts of hair move as he placed open-mouthed kisses up your breasts before he took your erect nipple into his mouth.

”Ah fuck!” You cried out as his expert tongue lapped and swirled around the sensitive bud. “T-Toru~” Hearing that sweet nickname pass breathlessly through your lips had him growling. The vibrations of that had you crying out louder. “F-Feels good.”

Your fingers ran through his hair, gripping the soft strands, tugging him closer to your breasts, silently begging him for more. Picking up on what you wanted, Satour sealed his lips around the bud and sucked hard. You yelped, body hunching over him, your hips pathetically jerking against his leg. While his mouth continued its strategic attack on your nipples, his other hand groped and pinched the other.

”Satoru, oh my god.” The room felt like it was spinning from the amount of pleasure he was giving you. Your legs were beginning to tremble, knees buckling. “T-Toru, bed, l-let’s get on the bed.”

Satoru hummed happily at your request, popping off of your nipple. “I thought you’d never ask.” He walked backward, his hands never once leaving your body.

“God, your hands are so hot, so warm.” You both sank onto the futon before Satoru grabbed your shirt and bra, tugging it over your head. Leaving you bare-chested as he shrugged his shirt off, tossing it to the side

”If you think my hands feel good, wait until I show you what else my mouth can do.”

”Confident, are we?”

Satoru snickered, pushing you back against the bedding. “I promise you, I’m going to make you cum so hard, you’ll see your life flash before your eyes.” His promise had you swallowing dryly at your throat as he trailed his hands over the curves of your body. “You’re so goddamn beautiful, sweetheart.” He whispered as his fingers worked at the button of your jeans. “And your tits.” He learned back over your mounds, eyeing them closely as if he were trying to pick which one to give his undivided attention to.

”What about my tits?”

”They’re fucking perfect.” His tongue lolled out, running the flat over it over your nipple that was only pinched earlier. “They’re so soft, the perfect size for me, god I can’t get enough of them.”

His words struck a particular chord inside of you. He was drunk off your breasts, losing himself in the feel of them, while you felt like you were losing yourself to every part of him. The feel of his bare skin against yours, how the warmth of his mouth had you arching into him, craving more. You couldn’t get enough of Satoru.

Your desire had you trailing a hand down his stomach, sliding over his crotch where his throbbing cock strained. Gojo jerked, feeling you gently rubbing those sinful fingers over his erection. He growled, melting into you, his mouth continuing to work on you while he humped his hips against your hand.

“You’re so hard.” You whined out as you grabbed the shaft, rubbing it a bit harder.

”W-what can I say? I have the world's most gorgeous woman underneath me.” He pulled away from your breast with a grin. “Everything about him is making me high off pleasure; of course, my cock’s going to get hard.” Your thumb rubs over the growing wet spot forming on his boxers. “A-And while I love the face you’re so interested in my cock, I will admit it’s hard to focus on you when you touch me.”

The grave sound of need and lust in his voice gave you a boost of confidence. “Then maybe I should focus on you for a little bit.” Sitting up, you turned, pushing Satoru back against the sheets. He propped himself on his elbows, grinning as you pulled his jeans down.

You swallowed hard as you tossed them to join the other clothes before you tugged down his boxers. Satoru hissed as the cool air hit his hot, twitching cock that smacked against his stomach. It was thick, fat, and long, throbbing eagerly as you stared at it in awe. The head was swollen and red, dribbling pre-cum onto his stomach. Seeing it and seeing the smug smirk on his face had you pressing your thighs together, trying to ease some of the throbbing between them.

”Like what you see?” His cocky tone had you giggling with a shake of your head.

”Yes, it’s such a pretty cock.” He hummed snarky in response. “I wanna taste it.” Your hand wrapped around him, gently squeezing him before you leaned over him, kitten-licking the seeping tip.

“Oh fuck!” Gojo threw his head back with a groan. “I-I wasn’t expecting you to start li-h-haaah!” He gritted his teeth as you took the tip into your mouth, gently sucking him.

His hand gently grabbed the back of your head, fisting your hair as you started bobbing your head up and down, taking more of him—inch by inch into your warm, wet mouth. Hearing him growling and groaning as you began bobbing your head faster, fuck, you were dripping wet. The man was not only handsome and had the prettiest cock you’d ever seen, but he also made the most panty-soaking sounds you’d ever heard.

His deep breaths, the groans and gasps that left his mouth made you want to push yourself, to push him closer to the edge. Satoru panted and groaned, arching his back off the bed, bucking his hips into your mouth as broken groans filled the room, drowning out the gagging wet sound emanating from you. His tip leaked thin dribbles of pre-cum on your tongue. The salty sweetness had you eagerly sucking and jerking him off with your hand.

“Haah, of fuck, oooh, that’s it, sweetheart, that’s it, sweetie, my cock just like that.” Satoru lifted his head, groaning as he watched you bob up and down, those gorgeous lips wrapped around him while your hand moved up and down, slowly but surely working him up to an orgasm. “S-Sweetie, would you be okay with playing with my balls a little?”

You pulled off of him, and a mixture of drool and pre-cum ran down the corners of your mouth. “I-I’ll do you one better.” You gasped out in between pants as you leaned down, taking one of his balls into your mouth, gently licking and sucking on it.

Satoru growled through gritted teeth, his hands fisting into the sheets, head lolling back as you worked on him with your mouth. His grunts and groans had you more and more confident with every teasing lick, suck, and stroke. He was enjoying himself just as much as you were enjoying it.

“S-Sweetheart, god fuck! Fuck you’re doing such a good job, feels good, feels so fucking good.” And he wholeheartedly meant every single word. He’s been with his fair share of people. He left a few beds, but none of his partners in the past came even remotely close to making him feel as good as you did. “I-If you keep this up much longer, I’m going to be coming like I’m sixteen again.”

You perked up and grinned against him, “Yeah? You going to cum?” His words were the extra confidence boost you needed to keep going. “Then cum Toru~” You slowly trailed your tongue over the underside of his cock, moving up the vein.

He saw it before your tongue even touched him. “W-Wait, sweetie! Hold on, don’t I—“The second your tongue ran over the vein, Satoru lost it. “Fuucck! Hnngh!” Cum spurt out of the tip, hitting the side of your face, your hand, and his stomach. After a single lick up his cock. “Oooh fuck, shit.” His head fell back as he panted heavily.

You sat up on your knees, looking at the mess on his stomach and your hand. You giggled triumphantly, reaching for your discarded shirt and wiping your hand and his stomach off. “That was so fucking hot.” You scooped the cum off your cheek before sticking your fingers in your mouth, sucking them clean. Satoru groaned weakly in response. “Are you okay, Toru?” You were giddy over his breathless form.

”Y-Yeah, no, I’m fucking great; I just saw heaven for a second.” He was still panting, trying to regain his breath. “I didn’t think you’d lick there, or I would have warned you that’s my weak spot. I’m sorry- kind of not sorry for cumming on your cheek.” He whined out with a content smile.

”Don’t apologize; it was fuckin’ hot.” You leaned in, kissing the tip of his dick.

“Nngh!” He gasped at your kiss, his still-hard cock throbbing. “S-Sensitive sweetie,” he groaned as a bead of leftover cum prerolled down the head. “I’m really sensitive there.”

You crawled up, lying down next to him. “It was hot, plus it’s nice to know I don’t suck.” Satoru grinned, rolling over, pinning you under him.

“You did suck my cock so fucking good. Your skills are superb.” His head leaned down, kissed, and nipped at your neck. “What kind of gentleman am I? Cumming before my girl even gets a chance.” His crystalline eyes burned into yours. “I guess I’m just going to have to make you cum twice as hard.”

Your cunt pulses at the promise of that. “O-Okay.” You relax against the bed, a smooth sigh leaving your lips.

Satoru purred against your skin as he kissed down your chest. He licked and nipped longingly at your stomach, all the way to your pants. He yanked them down, throwing them behind him. His large hands slid up the calves of your legs before he pushed at your knees, spreading your legs open. A harsh growl sounded from deep down in his throat as he saw the state your panties were in.

The thin fabric was soaked; a dark, wet spot had soaked through those cute panties. The sight nearly had him losing the restraint he had on himself. But after letting out a guttural groan, he slowly began kissing up your inner thighs as he laid on his stomach between your legs.

“God, you look so good, and you smell fucking delicious.” His tongue slowly slid up the wet spot on your panties.

“N-Nggh!” A needy, sharp gasp sounded from you.

“Mmmhmm.” Satoru nodded in approval. “I was right.” He tugged your panties to the side with a starved groan. “You’re are fuckin’ delicious.”

His mouth latches onto your pussy, tongue dipping between your folds, lapping your wet, slick folds. You screamed, your hands digging into his soft locks, tugging and pulling as the tip moved up to your clit. It moved slowly in circles while his hands grabbed your hips, pulling you firmly against his mouth. You cried out, eyes rolling into the back of your head as your hips jerked against his face.

Your cries of pleasure, the way your pussy twitched and clenched, had Satoru swirling his tongue faster. His eyes were locked on your face, watching you, drinking in the expressions that you made, the sounds that filled the room. He drank all of you in, just like you had done to him.

Satoru’s used one of his hands, pushing at your folds, exposing your clit. He lapped at you, from your entrance to your clit. When he reached your sensitive bud, he flicked at it. Hearing the whimpers and sharp intakes of air, Satoru repeated the pattern over and over again. Savoring the way your pussy got wetter and wetter with each flick and lap of his tongue. Not only was it from his spit, but most of it was from you.

You were in heaven, back arching, toes curling. All while your thighs trembled, clamping against Satoru’s head. But as you looked down, meeting those beautiful cerulean eyes, you could tell Satoru was enjoying this as much as you. His eyes were glazed over and dark with lust and need as he ate you out like you were his favorite treat.

You truly were becoming just that to him, too.

Satoru already liked you; he wanted to get to know you more. He’s been texting Suguru about how much fun he had been having with you and how he wanted him to meet you! He could see the two of you hanging out, spending time together. Now that you were hooking up, Satoru knew in his soul he couldn’t let this be a one-time thing.

Things were going a bit out of order, but he’d be damned if he didn’t take you out on a proper date. A real one! He would take you to the nicest restaurant in town. Maybe you could see a show or movie. After that, he’d take you home and eat your sweet pussy for dessert. The thought of just being with you, in a mundane way, had him grinding his lips into the futon.

Satoru wanted you in every way a person could.

“Oooh, ooh, fuck Toru.” You trashed your head back and forth, pulling him out of his fantasy. “T-Toru, I-I think I’m gonna cum.”

He pulled back an inch, “Yeah? Want me to finger you?” You nodded fast, sighing as he sealed his lips around your clit, before pushing two of his fingers inside of you. They curled up, finding your g-spot instantly.

“T-Toru! Toru!” Your body thrashed, legs tighter around his head as his fingers moved in a come hither motion. “Oooh! Fuck! Fuckin’ fuck!!”

“Cum~ cum for me.” Satoru moaned against your clit, sucking on it, nearly sending you off the bedding. “Good girl, make a mess, cum all over my face.”

His words, combined with his skillful tongue and fingers, sent you over the edge. You screamed his name as your back arched, eyes rolling into the back of your head. You came so hard you squirted all over Satoru’s perfect face, just like he had asked you to do. He growled eyebrows furrowed as he licked and sucked everything you offered him, not wanting to waste a single drop.

You were a wheezing, trembling mess of noodle limbs as Satoru’s fingers and mouth slowed their pace. He was easing you down from the most intense orgasm you’d ever had in your life. If that’s what he was able to do with just his fingers and tongue, what could he do with that fat dick of his?

Soft kisses trail back up your stomach and over your breasts before Satoru kisses you lazily. You kissed him back, your hands cupping his face as you both tasted each other. It was strangely and magically intimate, making you desperate for more.

“Sweetheart,” he hummed, brushing his thumb over your cheek, “are you okay? I didn’t send you to the pearly gates, did I?”

“No, I was just thinking.” He tilted his head, fingers gently brushing over your cheek.

“Thinkin’ about what?”

Your hand rested on top of his, your eyes half-lidded. “About how much I want to have sex with you.” Satoru’s back straightened as he choked on his breath. For the first time since you returned to the inn, his face shifted from flirtatious teasing into something more serious.

“Are you sure? You’re positive you want to do this?”

“I’m positive.” You kissed the palm of his hand. “I want to sleep with you.”

He breathed out a heavy sigh, pressing his forehead against yours. “Sweetie, just because I like you and that we did all this other stuff doesn’t mean we have to have sex.” The gentleness of his tone and sincerity had you melting into his touch. “I want to, god, I fuckin’ want it. But please know we don’t need to do it if you don’t want to.” Satoru had listened to you about how you didn’t need or want to have sex. He was taking your words to heart, which made your heart flutter.

“Toru, you may not need it, but I want it.”

“Okay, okay,” he groaned, kissing you desperately, “I need a condom. I-I—“ he gave an embarrassed chuckle, “I didn’t pack any since I didn’t think I needed one.”

You sat up, putting on his shirt, “Luckily for us, I got a party favor bag at the bachelorette party. One filled with all different kinds of condoms, penis candy, the whole works.” You tried to stand, only to be yanked down.

“I’ll get it. Where is it?” He yanked his shirt off of you. “Stay naked.”

“In the kitchen, it’s in my purse.”

Satoru slipped his boxers on and bolted out of the room. He returned two minutes later with your bag and a bowl of strawberries and whipped cream. He handed you the bowl before tossing his boxers off.

“I just thought we could use a snack!” He grinned, offering you a berry. “Keep our strength up.”

“Mhmm!” You took it, chewing it. “You’re so smart.”

“The strongest and the smartest!”

You opened your bag as you swallowed, and you froze as you stared inside of it. Seeing your reaction, Satoru cocked a bow as he held a strawberry between his teeth. His eyes followed yours, and the berry fell from his mouth. Inside your purse was money, lots and lots of money. Money you knew for a fact hadn’t been there a couple of hours before.

Satoru took the bag, pulling the stacks of money out while you searched the rest of your bag, ensuring your wallet and cards were still there. The entire time, Satoru was silent, his eyes darkening as he thumbed through the bills, counting them. You sighed in relief once you made sure everything you needed was still there before pulling your party favor bag out.

“Hey,” Satoru turned to you. You were met with a dark, unreadable expression. A look that you’d never seen before. “Why do you have ¥240,000 in cash?”

“I-I’m sorry?”

“¥240,000, you know, the same amount I charge for sex.” His voice was dark and full of pain. “Is this why you ‘want’ to have sex?” Grief flickered in his eyes as his jaw clenched.

You dropped the party bag, reaching for his hand and holding it. “T-Toru no! I-I wouldn’t do that! I wasn’t—” He yanked his hand away from you, rubbing it furiously over his undercut.

“Did you just want to fuck, to get over your trauma with some random guy? An escort? Pay me off like nothing happened?” He laughed coldly, his heartbreaking, shattering. “Because that’s my fucking job, so it’s okay.” He turned to watch you, see what you had to say.

“Satoru! I would never do that!” Your nose burned, and your eyes filled with tears as Satoru grabbed the money.

“Then why the fuck is the exact amount for a sex session with me in your purse? Tell me, why do you have this money?”

He waved it in front of your face. All you were capable of doing was looking between him and the money. You didn’t know what to say or how to respond. Which made you look guilty. Your silence had Satoru clenching his jaw as he ground his teeth together. He pushed himself off the bed, knocking the red berries over onto the white sheets as he put his clothes back on.

“I can’t fucking believe this.” He grabbed his cell phone, suitcase, and wallet. “Un-fucking-believable.”

You followed him, crushing some of the berries under your feet as you put your shirt on. “Satoru, wait!” He flung open the door to the room, rushing out as you slid on some shorts. “Toru!” You screamed, stumbling as you ran after him. “Satoru! Please, I didn’t do it!” You grabbed his arm, trying to stop him.

“Didn’t do what?!” He snapped back, yanking his arm away from you.”Didn’t put that much fuckin’ cash in your purse?! As if I believe that shit! I don’t even fucking know you! Like really know you! How do you expect me to believe you?!”

“I-I don’t know how it got there, Satoru! Please! Please believe me!”

He barked a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he stormed out. “Good luck with your stupid fucking wedding! Oh, and consider your orgasm as payment for the cancellation of my services!” You stood in the inn's corridor, tears running down your cheeks as you watched the best thing that ever happened to you walk away.

Life truly fucking hated you to the core.

Tag List: (AGE MUST BE IN BIO)

@arminloverlol @jamzywiththejam28 @gojoful @maskedpacific @ahseyy @kash77 @sadmonke @ari-maccha @sugurubabe @hyori2 @bluechocolatemint @itsinherited @dellappatca @therealestpussyeater @dead-at-tokyo @nvrgojover @drakenswifeyy @nealeart @yunho-leeknow @fire-child-kira kira @faeryminnyx @tqd4455 @harmonyflora @volkins181-blog @noukstmblr @lovley212 @stinkinstuffie @desihopelessromantic @witchbybirth @sonicsolos @lilbiguy @supsiii @rentheannihilator @bloopsstuff @pepepepepopopopo @pandoness @sw33cadav3r @rixo-19 19 @meguvmii @sxnkuna @mmeerraa @lemonintrovert01 @bunny-lily @kibananya

[cherryrikis]

ONE LESS LONELY GIRL - 002 ! inconveniently convenient

PAIRING idols riki x fem reader

SYNOPSIS fans always point out the chemistry between you and riki, and it only continues to grow after you become mc’s together on music bank. but as your feelings rise, so does the tension. and people begin to notice, so you try not to let riki know how you feel. but unbeknownst to you, he feels entirely the same way.

authors note im trying to update as often as i can bc i start school in 2 days😭

previous <> masterlist <> next

with the manager’s permission, you and minji left the dorm to walk together to the local convenience store.

“look, they have an enhypen lucky draw event here.” she pointed out as you both walked past it by the entrance.

“can we get one on the way out?” your eyes lit up at the mention of it, while you followed minji down the produce aisle. “sure, why not.”

the two of you picked out a few snacks and some drinks for the dorm until you began making your way to the cash register to check out. “would you like to buy a bag today for 500 won?” the clerk asked with a cheerful tone. “yes please.”

“your total is 35,500 won. also- i don’t mean to intrude. but i am a big fan. you guys did so good performing at music bank today!” she encouraged.

“aw, thank you so much!” minji smiled with a wave, paying for the groceries before following you to the lucky draw machine.

you each pressed the button once, flipping the photocards over so you couldn’t see who you got. on the count of three, you both turned it over, revealing your pulls. you had gotten sunghoon, and minji had pulled riki.

“oh, it’s your boyfriend. here, keep it.” she teased with a smirk. but as soon as minji slightly looked at the person behind you, her face fell.

“wow. he’s pretty handsome.” a voice from behind you called out.

you were mortified. as soon as you turned around, you were met with none other than-

“-riki! poor yn. you’re scaring her!” jungwon frowned, lightly slapping riki’s arm with the back of his hand. “sorry about that.” he apologized on the younger boy’s behalf.

“no worries. i’m sorry. you really caught me off guard.” you smiled.

“suddenly i feel underdressed.” minji joked as she gestured to jungwon, who still hadn’t changed out the stage outfit he wore on music bank.

“oh, not at all. if anything, i’m overdressed.” he waved. “normally i’d change as soon as we get home, but practice ran late. and this one here was hogging the shower as soon as he was first inside the dorm.” jungwon nudged riki’s stomach.

while they became immersed in their own conversations, riki moved closer to you, wanting to engage with you as well.

“hey, good job today at mubank. nice to know you find me.. charming.” he winked.

“gosh. if i hear someone say music bank one more time, i might just die. it was awful.” you groaned.

“i thought it was pretty cute.” he shrugged.

“what are you guys doing here anyway?” you asked, changing the topic. “it’s pretty late.”

“oh. jungwon got the penalty to buy everyone food, since he was last to the dorms. but i came because he never knows where to find the japanese snacks. good thing i didn’t stay home though.” riki gestured to you who currently held his photocard in your card.

“sorry about today. i was really nervous..” you looked down, scratching the back of your neck.

he tilted his head in confusion, before using his hand to tilt your chin up. “yeah, no kidding. you were practically shaking the whole interview.” riki pouted.

you groaned as you suddenly felt shy yet again, beginning to bring your hand up to cover your face once more. only riki had held your wrist, bringing your arm down.

“stop avoiding me. it’s okay. we’re all like that at first.” he comforted.

and suddenly, you felt better.

“hey, we’re gonna go now.” jungwon informed. “let’s walk back together? i mean, we live in the same building anyway.”

surely, you were bound to be recognized. but you couldn’t bring yourself to care in the moment. you laughed freely as riki joked with you, walking shoulder to shoulder together as minji and jungwon were a bit more ahead.

“you know, i was pretty nervous too. at the interview. to think that i got to be next to you, let alone have the yoon yn stare at me whenever i spoke? dream come true.” he clutched his chest, faking a fainting motion.

“you’re just saying that to make me feel better.” you rolled your eyes playfully.

“no, really. i’m dead serious. why do you think i kept making eye contact with you?”

and suddenly the world stopped spinning once more. you smiled as you felt riki’s arm wrap around your upper half, securing you as you walked towards the entrance of the building together.

you screamed into the pillow yet again, but this time, not out of embarrassment or fear.

“what’s going on?” hanni asked, coming out the bathroom with a sheet mask on.

she took a seat next to you and hyein on her bed, while minji, danielle, and haerin stayed on danielle’s bed.

“when we went to the store, we ran into jungwon and riki. they were talking to each other the entire time. jungwon and i saw them literally making heart eyes.” minji’s lips curled into a smirk, as she took a spoonful from her pudding cup.

“no kidding.. check this out!” hyein called out, gesturing for everyone to gather around her as she held out her phone.

TAGLIST (italics = couldnt be tagged) @hannicorpse @luvvhaerin @itzningning @en-verse @ren2jay @choppedballoondetective @heartheejake @imanalien143 @istglevi-gotmesimping @yndairy @eleanorheartschishiya @lonelylandofan @gweoriz @jaemified @onlyhyunjin @softpia @frecklesbrownies @riksaes @wensurr @rikifordmiami @brideslit @ant-onie @yumilovesloona @aeminju @hoonics @catecita @clampclover @rei4sunoo @addictedtohobi @rikidaze @baekxo07 @xotyla @melancholy-z @rikisgeef @jung1w0n @tocupid @onlyseung @i03jae

[strawberrystepmom]

gojo x f!reader. reader and gojo are married, reader is wearing heels and earrings. a little bitty love note for my valentine. wc 1.3k | divider thanks to cafekitsune 💓

Tuesday nights have long been decreed to be designated date nights in the Gojo household.

Bearing in mind how busy the two of you tend to be, this standing appointment doesn’t always work out the way it was planned when you started the tradition and there have been several occasions where you and Satoru have had “dates” in the form of sharing meals from miles away via video chat but tonight, he is all yours. In the flesh, a day ahead of what is widely viewed as a romantic holiday, and wearing your favorite dress shirt with a smirk across his face.

“So, I’ve been thinkin’.” He announces from across your walk-in closet, fastening the buttons on either side of his wrists and walking in your direction. Raising your eyebrows while you fasten in your favorite pair of earrings, you hum at him, concealing a smile to the best of your ability.

“That can be a dangerous thing.”

Your husband chuckles and joins your side, leaning down to press his face against yours. He steals a glance at your reflections in the small mirror atop your standing jewelry box and puckers his lips, turning his head enough that he can kiss you before suggesting what is on his mind.

“Remember how we used to pretend to get engaged to get free dessert?”

Snorting, you nod, attempting to secure the back of your earring onto the post keeping it in your lobe. Satoru grabs the small piece of metal from you and takes over, leaning down as close as he can to you to get the job done.

“I recall.”

Of course you remember all of the times he pulled a fake ring out of his pocket for attention, applause, and a celebratory slice of cake he didn’t have to purchase despite absolutely being able to afford it. The first time you were mortified, hot cheeked and taken aback by the possibility he may have actually been proposing to you, but each time it became easier to react the way that would make people happiest for you. Keeping the absolute lack of romance in his actual proposal in mind, you’ve always held these fake ones close to your heart.

It feels like he spent years proposing to you culminating in the real thing - how romantic is that? Both of you insist that you aren’t romantics yet the way you love each other speaks for itself.

“Let’s do it again.”

“Oh you’re dastardly,” you tease with a half smile, your palms smoothing out any wrinkles in his dress shirt while fiddling with the buttons keeping it closed. “You really want to?”

“Duh, it’ll be fun.”

Despite yourself, you laugh at your husband’s antics and remove your palms from his chest to slip your ring off. Your lower lip dips out in a pout with each inch the golden band moves and Satoru’s heart squeezes in his chest watching it. Maybe he shouldn’t have suggested such a silly stunt, no matter the laughs that would be shared over it later.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Nodding, you grab his hand and face his palm upward, depositing your band in the smooth center of it, followed by the engagement ring you wear stacked with it. Your left finger is bare for the first time in years and you wiggle it with a giggle, shoving it upward in the direction of his face.

“For old times sake.”

It’s a very good thing the two of you picked a restaurant that deviates from your usual plans otherwise this entire little plot would fail spectacularly. Tadashi, the chef at your favorite place close to your home, would have spotted the two of you in a second and given you a wry smile and tutted at your dishonesty.

“Are you sure this is gonna work? We seem pretty, I dunno…married?” You question everything happening right now, unexpectedly feeling a little insecure about lying. The click of your heels on the sidewalk perfectly mingles with Satoru’s footsteps that he intentionally shortens when the two of you are together. There are so many subtleties that will give you away including the mere fact you are obsessively in love with each other and fail to hide it.

Your husband simply chuckles and shakes his head.

“Hopefully they’re giving out the good desserts tonight,” your husband mutters while weaving his fingers in between yours and swinging your joined hands between your bodies. He’s so effortlessly boyish sometimes you want to be annoyed but find it difficult to be when the stars are twinkling just right and the cool air nipping at his cheeks makes them a rosy pink.

If you loved him less, you’d be more frustrated. Adoration is a balm that soothes most of your frustration with him at any given time so you’re happily preparing to go along with all of this, smiling at the hostess standing at the front of the restaurant when you enter.

“Two for Gojo,” he proudly states to the woman who whisks the two of you off toward your reserved table. You smile at her the entire time but you notice her smile dim after she catches sight of your joined hands. With a nod, she moves so you can slide into your chair and he does the same and you hum to yourself.

“That was weird, right?”

Satoru just shrugs and you roll your eyes, picking up the menu and scanning over it once. Your waiter arrives with a polite half bow and immediately, your husband’s face lights up. It’s too late to tell him to stop whatever he’s planning now, his right hand dipping under the table to fish around in his pocket for your engagement ring.

“Are we celebrating anything tonight?”

The server’s words immediately make you panic and your eyes widen when Satoru pushes his chair out and stands, presenting a very familiar ring in his palm. Taking a deep breath, you gasp and do your best to feign shock and surprise, noticing the same horrified look on the server’s face when he glances at Gojo’s hands.

“Yes, we are. We are getting married!”

Glancing at his left hand, you immediately notice what the shock is about. Rather than fuss at him you rush to cover your mouth with your right hand and nod rapidly as though you are totally taken aback. Holding your left hand out, he slips your ring back onto its home finger. He beams at you with every movement, practically bursting with joy, and seats him back at the table across from you.

“You forgot to take your ring off,” you whisper-hiss out of the side of your mouth and your husband looks down at his left hand that grips the edge of the dinner table. Sure as anything, the golden band you slipped on the digit years ago glistens under the low restaurant lighting and you fight the urge to giggle and blow the entire operation wide open. The clearly uncomfortable server bows his head at each of you, filling your empty water glasses for the sake of having something to do, before scurrying away with his head pointed firmly toward the ground.

“He probably thinks I’m your mistress now.”

Satoru shrugs in response, tilting his head to the side.

“You are my wife, my mistress, and the love of my life, what can I say? The plan worked perfectly if he believed it.”

Rolling your eyes, you reach across the table and run your thumb over his fingers and the gold band adorning his ring finger.

“You’re such a romantic.”

He smirks and wraps your hand in his.

“But I’m your romantic.”

The two of you are so lost in your own little world you don’t realize the server and hostess off to the side discussing the married man proposing to another woman, gesturing wildly at each other. Fake proposal aside, you are excited to have an evening to enjoy with the man who shakes your world up at every opportunity and he glances at the menu for a scant moment before turning to look up at you, blue eyes narrowed.

“Do you think they’ll still give us dessert?”

Laughing, you shrug and squeeze his hand.

“I think we should probably plan on just buying one this time.”

[scarletttries]

NSFW Headcanon Request: Steven Grant (Moon Knight)

Steven Grant + Recording: (prompt list here)

(Part Two Here!!)

- When Steven Grant bought a little camcorder and stand a few years ago, he had very innocent reasons in mind. Yes, the stand was set up so the camera pointed straight at his bed, but it was to capture exactly why we woke up so exhausted from a night of tossing and turning alone, not for anything more fun than that.

- Naturally anytime you were coming over, he'd carefully stash the device away, not wanting to creep you out or do anything to risk making the most important person in his life uncomfortable. He knows just how lucky he is to be the man that gets to worship your body, and even though he'd die for the chance to relive every one of your intimate encounters, he thinks it's way too weird of a question to ask.

- That is until one night you surprise him at home, on your way back from a girl's night and missing your sweet, nerdy boyfriend. He's over the moon when he opens the door to your bright, smiling face, quickly surrendering to your hypnotic kiss as you lead him to the bed he was all but ready to settle into for the night alone.

- Your hands are pushing his shirt off his shoulders, while his hands slide up your dress, clawing at your thighs until they spread enough for him to fit between them, when you first notice the blinking red light.

"Steven, gorgeous, how long have you had a camera in your bedroom?" Instantly he's mortified, apologising and tripping over his own feet as he launches off the bed, practically crawling across his bedroom floor to turn off the device,

"I'm so sorry love, I didn't realise you were coming, and it's to help with my sleep walking, and I swear I always put it away whenever you're here, I'd never violate your privacy like that." He's struggling to take in breaths as each sentence catches in his throat, tears prickling the corners of his eyes as he watches you pull down your skirt and hop off the edge of his bed, picking him up off the floor and bringing your hands to softly cup his face.

"It's okay, I believe you. I trust you Steven, I was just surprised is all." Your gentle words slow his heart back to a steady pace, the tender press of your lips to his enough to reassure him that this isn't the breaking point he always assumes is right around the corner. Each kiss is quickly followed by another, Steven completely entranced by you, enough so that he doesn't notice as you press the record button again, throwing the camera a showy wink as you lead him back to bed again.

- It's not until a few days later, texting Steven from a hotel during a weekend away that you let him know about your little tape. He's desperately fighting the urge to plead over text for you to come home early, settling for telling you just how terribly he misses you, three little words hanging on the tip of his tongue, not quite bold enough to let them loose yet. You echo his longing sentiment, telling him just how much you miss the feel of his hands on your skin, his touch on every part of you, and tell him maybe he should check his camera before he takes himself to bed.

- He's sceptical as he takes his camcorder off his stand, flipping the little screen to face him and scrolling through the hours of footage until he recognises the night he last had you over. He has to cover his eyes with embarrassment as he watches himself tumble out of bed to stop the recording, but his eyes dart wide open when he watches you turn it straight back on, the playful look in your eye immediately flushing all his blood down his body.

- He realises he's holding his breath in his attempt to hear every single sound you make as the two of you step across the screen and climb back on to the bed he's now propped up in alone. He knows it was your decision, but he still feels voyeuristic and dirty as he watches your dress slide down your body on the screen, his free hand slipping into his pyjama bottoms as his on screen counterpart slides his hands over your chest, earning a happy moan that has him hardening at the first touch.

- His mouth hangs open and he watches intently as he settles between your legs, turning up the volume as high as he can as you start to pant and moan at the feel of his tongue exploring your centre. His hand has picked up its pace now, chest heaving as he watches your back arch off the bed, nipples hard in the cold night air.

- He almost loses it the first time he notices you smile right into the camera as you moan out his name, a private performance just for him that makes his heart throb almost as hard as the manhood he's now furiously rubbing. He can feel him cross the point of no return as he watched himself plunge deep inside you, your legs wrapping tightly around his hips leaving no room between your two bodies, his lips desperately chasing yours. His screen self lasts longer than lonely Steven does, spilling across the empty bed as you let out the needy high pitched whine you do every time he pulls out of you to change positions. He sits there, dick pulsing in his hand as he watches your ass bounce as he slams his hips against yours, finally both spent and collapsing alongside you.

- Feeling utterly beat he almost puts the camera away, until he notices you creep out of the bed towards the bathroom, stopping in front of the focused lens to mouth three little words to him before stopping the video. If the sensitive soul hadn't already been in bed, he would have immediately collapsed to the floor. Frantically he picks his phone back up, impatiently waiting through the rings until he can finally tell you that he loves you too.

[loki-is-my-kink-awakening]

WIP Wednesday

Lokius. Follow up to Loki and Mobius kissing for the first time in the archives.

It took them ages to get to the elevator, and Mobius was surprised they didn’t bump into the disapproving archivist (as much as he had tried to charm her into a smile with his wit, it had never worked). That was definitely a good thing, because who knows if she would allow him back down if she had.

Pressing the call button, Mobius looked over at Loki bouncing on their feet and trying to keep their hands by their sides. They kept breaking into a wide smile, their eyes bright and shining. Mobius wanted to kiss them so bad, but this damned elevator was taking so long. He pressed the button again, knowing it made no difference but doing it all the same.

Eventually, it opened and they both rushed to get inside, grabbing onto one another and crashing into the wall. Mobius heard himself giggle and he would be mortified, but Loki’s lips were on his again and that thought melted away.

He hummed into the kiss, walking backwards along the wall and pulling Loki with him. Their hands were everywhere—in his hair, on his shoulders, around his waist. Each touch felt like he was on fire, and he wanted to burn with it.

The ding of the elevator pulled them apart. Mobius rushed to the other corner, eyes downcast. He gave a weak cough and tapped his shoe on the wall, then looked up to see an office worker—one of the report carriers—look between him and Loki with her eyebrows raised. Behind her, the door closed and then the machinery whirred again and she turned around away from the two of them.

Loki was biting their lip, clearly wanting to say something, almost bursting out of their skin with the laugh they were holding in. It erupted out of them not five seconds after the doors opened and the office worker stepped out, glancing briefly at each of them. Mobius rubbed at his face. This was going to be the talk of the TVA.

But as Loki stalked across the space and stood in front of him, eyes filled with longing and want, Mobius cupped their face and pulled them back into a deep kiss.

Somehow, they managed to leave when the elevator reached their floor.

Tags below the cut

Tagged by the lovely @elodiah and @lokimobius 💕💕

Passing onto my fellow creatives @cha-melodius @starport-seven-five @dewdropreader @lgwilt @dreamycloud

@insert-witty-user-name-here @mirilyawrites @chaos-monkeyy

@kcscribbler @thosegayoldmen @mystic-voyager @impulsemuppet @peppermintkamz

@in-my-loki-feels @stillwanderingflame @kusakichan15 @boredintjqueen @silentxsymphony

@rins-love-wins @doomed-spectacles @devilbearingtrouble @fauxvvounds @andthekitchensinkao3

@loki-tree-of-life @sparrow-the-tired-lesbian @starrose17 @blackbirdofasgard @illiasha

@primewritessmut @ceeceetv @voulezvulcan @lettingtimepass @typewriterwolf

@fibvlaa @lumintsu @raynecreates @wolfpup026 @mobius-m-mobius

@asoeiki @natendo-art

[mockerycrow]

Undercover III (Soap x GN!Reader)

undercover series masterlist — previous | next

Summary: After your undercover op has been exposed, Soap has to record an interview of your account of everything, along with any sensitive information you’ve learned. You begin to sort through memories that drag you into a dark hole.

A/N: there is usage of scottish slang, such as bonnie. bonnie is a gender neutral term, i know it’s often used in fem! fics, but please note it’s not feminine specific. also, thank you so much for the love on this!! also i’m lowkey making this a slow burn on accident, my bad—

[WARNINGS: angst, flashbacks, panic attack, very vague unintentional self-harm, violence, vague descriptions of corpses - gore.]

“It is not the bruises on the body that hurt. It is the wounds of the heart and the scars on the mind.” -Aisha Mirza.

I keep my eyes on the pillow that’s across my torso and lap, feeling like if I move my eyes to anywhere else, my heart will fucking crawl out of my goddamn throat. I hear Soap shift in his seat ever so slightly, and I think he’s leaning forward because his breathing sounds ever so slightly closer than before. “We had six weeks to prepare our new lives, six weeks to adjust to our government assigned personalities, six weeks to move some personal belongings to different areas of Russia, six weeks to brush up on our Russian, as well as our Ukrainian.” My voice is quiet because I’m afraid if I talk any louder, it’ll tremble.

I have a hard time swallowing whatever spit has accumulated in my mouth, the entrance to my throat fluttering. “I.. I got on the next flight to Russia, said goodbye to my old unit. In the United States, I temporarily, well.. no longer existed. They had to make it look like I never existed in the first place.” I pause for a moment, remembering how much of a pain in the ass it will be to officially exist as a U.S. citizen again after living as a Russian one for a couple of years.

“I was no longer [Name] [Last Name], I was Zhenya Antonenko.” I take a deep breath and decide to risk it; I look over at Soap and he looks.. intrigued, troubled even. His finger twitches over the pause button before deciding against pressing it. “Was’it difficult to get into Makarov’s organization?” He asks, his left eyebrow eyebrow furrowing inwards like he’s hearing something he doesn’t want to—or maybe he feels bad. God. The last thing I want from anyone is pity. “A bit,” I glance at my fingernails to keep myself preoccupied. “He did, heh, ‘loyalty tests’.” My tone is a sneer, and my gut tightens at the memory of what I had to do to show my loyalty to the cause. There’s a heaviness to the air, the tension so thick you would need a meat cleaver and hack at it a couple of times to get through it. Soap is quiet and I reluctantly make eye contact with him, and we both know the unsaid question. ‘What did I do?’ I scan his face, his posture, his body language. Anything to tell me what he’s thinking.

Soap is certainly.. conflicted, like he knows he needs this information but he’s uncertain if it’s right to even ask. I close my eyes for a moment to regain my composure, but that was surely a big fuckin’ mistake because as soon as my eyelids closed, I see the blood of an innocent person spilled, dripping onto the floor, painting a horrifying picture behind my eyes of the different bodies—the different families I’ve torn apart and mangled. I jolt and my eyelids snap open as my heart skips a beat and settles into an unsteady rhythm underneath my rib cage, my heart monitor following along to the inconsistency. Fuck, fuck, why can I smell it?— that mortifying, dreadful smell of metal, licking at my nostrils. I phase out the beeping of the machines, fuck, my chest—it hurts, can’t breathe, I’m sorry, I had to, don’t you fucking understand?? I had to kill them, the world’s fate was on my fucking shoulders!!-

I grab at my chest as my lips part for air, my need for air following into an unsettling similar, inconsistent rhythm like my heart rate. Fuck. I have the sudden need to bolt, so I yank my handcuffed hand, and I barely feel the sharp pain of the metal digging into my palmaris longus muscle, the way it’s slicing through my skin, fucking unlock it, please, just—“Let me gO!”

Warm and callused hands on me—don’t touch me—I think I yell, but I can’t tell, numb, numbnumbnumbnumb—gunpowder, shit-

I form a fist with my free hand and I use all of the strength I can muster—I don’t punch, but I use that strength in my forearm to push them away, hopefully making them stagger. Just fucking leave me alone, please—!

“…amin’ bloody hell, bonnie, breathe!”

Soap’s voice manages to cut through the sheer panic that’s overflowing everywhere around me—his hands are on my face?? Why is he touching my face, don’t fUcking touch my—One of his hands leaves my face and returns with something fucking ICE COLD, sending a shock through my system. “wHa-“ I cough and try to push him away again but I hear a muffled, soft apology before the cold thing moves from my face to the back of my neck. The shock.. feels like my system got reset in a way. I blink rapidly as I pant, my vision flooding back to me, along with my hearing. I have this fucking ugly, heavy feeling deep in my stomach.

My eyes remain unfocused as I look at the man next to me and his proximity makes me jolt; Soap is right up next to my bed but on the other side this time, one hand holding my handcuffed arm and the other holding.. I think an ice cold hand towel? His face comes in and out of focus, and I catch glimpses of worry and concern. “Back wit’me now?” Soap’s voice is a low, raspy murmur as he speaks, like I’ll bolt any second. I nod and shakily take a deep breath to control my breathing completely, and he nods in response. “Good, there ya are.. Take another one, yeah?” I follow his instructions and repeat my last deep breath, the oxygen flooding my lungs, flooding my veins.. Now that my chest no longer aches, or at least ache in the way it does when you have a panic attack there’s this.. stinging pain lining my wrist. I wince with a hiss and look down and the metal ring of the cuff around my wrist is lined with blood, dripping down onto the blanket. “Goddamnit.” I whisper, my voice hoarse. I go to turn my wrist to see if I’m able to view how much I fucked up my skin and joint, but Soap’s hold on my arm tightens and he makes a quick tsk sound. “Don’t’cha move that, maybe it’s a better idea t’let the nurse take a look.” I mumble “maybe” and I try to rest my wrist, but I can’t. No matter what I do, it fucking hurts. Soap stands up which makes me look at him and he reaches over to a button pad near my pillows and presses the big red button, a soft alarm going off down the hall. He situates himself back in his seat.

I make eye contact with him and his gaze is so.. intense. So many questions, his eyes searching mine for.. something. I don’t know what that ‘something’ is though, and it’s bothering me. “We can continue the report tomorrow,” Soap’s hand gently lets go of my arm—which I completely forgot he was holding—but he keeps his other hand holding the small hand towel to the back of my neck to keep me calm and grounded. “I honestly dinnae ken ta’reason why they’ve decided to do this shite so early.” I blink as I try to make out what he’s saying because his accent is thick, but luckily I’ve spent some time around some Scots in my lifetime to give me a head start. “Early?” I repeat back to him in a question. Too early to.. get the report?? Of course they’re going to want the information as soon as possible, it’s fucking Makarov! “Early.” Soap confirms back to me. “You’ve barely been awake enough to properly process this.” My eyebrows furrow together; why is this random guy concerned about that? His only job is to literally make sure I don’t try to do some stupid shit before my evaluation. Like kill myself or someone else, something like that. Before I’m able to retaliate what I’m able to sense in his voice, a middle aged man wearing this green scrub outfit. He gives me a wide and fake, polite smile. I fucking hate this. “Hi, I’m Mr. Sutton, one of your nurses for the day. What is going on?” His tone is laced with faux-politeness, and I can see the corners of his smile are tight, like there’s strings pulling his lips into something that isn’t a snarl. I feel my muscles tense and suddenly I feel lighter—but my heart rate monitor picks up a skipped heartbeat and I can’t feel my fingertips again.

Oh.

Sutton immediately eyes my monitor and furrows his eyebrows, looking back at me. “Are you feeling alright?”

I don’t answer, I can’t.

It’s like I’m fucking stuck in that godforsaken chair again, waiting for Makarov to come up with a new attempt to beat the fucking shit out of me, to wring out my plans.

The adrenaline.

Soap calls me by my name but I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes trained on Sutton.

Fuck, I can barely think.

Why am I suddenly like this? Why is it this particular nurse?

“Maybe it’s best if a different nurse treats ‘em.” Soap suggests to Sutton, his tone laced with a warning.

Yeah, thanks for stating the obvious, captain.

My eyelids flutter open and I stare at the ceiling as I wake up—my wrist was disinfected bandaged, and handcuffed one again. There’s no noise besides the faint beeping of my machines. I was given medicine so I could sleep, I really wish they hadn’t given me that stuff because now I’m laying here with the image of a mutilated body burned into my memory. Her name was Anya Kozlova. She didn’t do anything, yet Makarov had me slaughter her and leave her remains out like I was a poacher. My fingers twitch as I feel discomfort around my abdomen, which is where some of my surgery stitches are, so my pain medicine is probably wearing off. I stare at the fluorescent lights of my room until I can feel the dull pain of looking at a bright light source for too long settling in my eyes. I blink harshly to “reset” my eyes, my free hand coming up to rub my eyes gently, then going up to my eyebrow muscles and apply pressure, rubbing in slow, firm circles to relax the muscle. I freeze for a moment because this is a habit that developed after I successfully got into the organization—a clear sign of stress.

My thought process is interrupted by a loud snore, making my skeleton nearly fucking jump out of my skin. I quickly look to my right side and.. It’s Soap?? He’s still here??

He’s leaned back into the chair in a position that cannot be comfortable—these are the chairs that have squishy padding as a seat until you sit in it for ten minutes and then your ass goes numb. His legs are spread out in front of him in a manspreading kind of way, one of his hands on his chest and other on his lap which is holding a.. book of some kind? Maybe a sketchbook? Looks like it. His head is limp and is resting against his left shoulder, his lips parted with a line of drool, soaking into his shirt. The corner of my mouth twitches. I notice a pencil behind his ear, which he must’ve been using for his notebook, er sketchbook… Maybe. I feel my muscles slowly untense and honestly, I barely noticed how tense I was a few moments ago, how paranoid I felt when I thought I was alone. I glance at the door and then back at Soap’s his snore dying down into a soft rhythm as he adjusts his head’s position in his sleep. I wonder about the story surrounding that chin scar? The scar runs deep into the skin there, so it must’ve been something nasty. My eyes trace the way his nose is shaped, how the beginning of his eyebrows are furrowed inwards. His long eyelashes flutter ever so slightly which I take as my cue to look away, dragging my eyes across the room to scan for anything new, which of course there isn’t.

This is the reason why I hate being stuck in one room for a long time. Of course, the familiarity is somewhat comforting, you don’t have to stare frantically search for something that may be different, a weapon, a bomb, something, but at the same time? It gets me antsy. I’d much rather be able to get up and leave this room, but one, I don’t think anyone would let me—even if I managed to get myself out of these cuffs—and two, I’m not sure if I can stand. Fuck. My chest tightens at that thought; I’m not sure if I can stand. I can’t help but think back to Makarov and what he did to me, how he found out I was not born Russian. A part of me wants to resent Soap and whoever the fuck was in that room, and trust me, a little part of me does because they did a piss poor job at basically slapping a couple of bandaids on my wounds and then decided to try to waterboard information out of me?? If I didn’t say anything to Makarov, what did these fucks think they’d get out of me? I take a deep breath, feeling my chest expand as my lungs fight to make room for the oxygen. I hold it for a couple of seconds and slowly exhale through my lips. I need to calm down.

The door swings open to my room, making my heart rate spike again, my fingers instinctively grabbing the pillow on my front. Dr. Erikson and Mutton-Chops enter the room, and I don’t feel any better. Their eyes land on me and I can see the surprise stretched across their faces, at the fact that I’m awake, but I have a hard stare and I keep it. My shoulders ache as my muscles lock up once again. The door opening jolted Soap awake, my eyes flickering to him once I hear his sharp inhale from being startled. His head is turned and his eyes are also on whoever entered the room—scanned the room like a soldier. I hold back a quiet chuckle because of fucking course he woke up from that, he is a soldier. “You’re awake, [Name].” Dr. Erikson points out as he walks over, holding a clipboard. I don’t respond; my throat feels tight. He pauses at the fact that I don’t respond and he glances at Soap, then Mutton-Chops, then back at me. Dr. Erikson’s hand gestures to Mutton-Chops. “This is Captain John Price. We know you are having some trouble.. recounting what happened on your end, so Hudson thought it might be helpful for Price for catch you up to speed on his, considering you both have similar goals.”

Soap’s groggy yet loud voice cuts in. “What?” His tone is incredulous as he properly sits up in his chair, closing the notebook sketchbook thing in his lap. Mutton-Chops—the man who now has a proper name, Price—shoots Soap a look, like it holds so many words unsaid. Whatever his look said is enough to get Soap to quiet down. My fingers grip the pillowcase again because the silent, unspoken communication causes this weird fucking anxiety to flare up in my stomach. I don’t like it. I don’t respond again. Dr. Erikson approaches the IV machine—an infusion pump I think it’s called?—and presses a few buttons. I panic and I grab his wrist and yank it away because what if he’s sent by Makarov to finish me off, what if—“He’s just adjustin’ yer meds, bonnie.” Soap’s voice is low but close and I don’t bother to look at him, but I slowly let go of the doctor’s wrist. Dr. Erikson’s face has a troubled expression before he writes something down and takes his leave through the swinging door he came through in. That leads me to look at Price, as I’m left alone with him and Soap. He comes over to the other side, opposite of where Soap is sitting. I keep eye contact with the man and I must be unintentionally glaring at him because he’s looking back down at me with a challenging gaze. Gaze that screams ‘you have a couple of loose screws, don’t you?’

I can’t tell if I’m imagining it or not anymore, especially when he finally speaks. Price’s voice is rough, like gravel, yet incredibly soft. Which I hate because I feel like he’s treating me like a ‘civ.

“We need to get your head on straight.”

🏷️; @glitterypirateduck @darling006 @elowynnlane @hardnutpost @boycigs @wolfyland07

[harveyassblog]

I just checked and I found out I had 1.3k followers. Hi. This is I think one of the first posts I’ve made on this blog in almost five years but I’m feeling down at the moment so I thought I’d reminisce.

Stardew Valley was the first game in which I romanced a male character. Yes, it was Harvey. I was eighteen years old, freshly out to myself and I was dipping my toes into the idea that I could get into a relationship with another man.

I had so much shame about it all then. I couldn’t speak, even to my queer friends about my feelings, like the words in my brain were censored before they even reached my throat. All things personal to me, all the aspects of myself felt embarrassing and wrong, fodder to be humiliated for. The thrill of a video game romance, the concept of openly wanting and being openly wanted, was exciting and mortifying.

The escapism of this imagined bucolic setting and of love and nearness to others, where being open and vulnerable is as simple as giving gifts and with a press of a button having something to say to someone. In life I struggled with my words, with relationships and being open with people. Even now talking about myself often feels like my innards are on display and I will be laughed at for it. I’m working on it.

Five years goes so fast and so slow. Forays into dating have left me hurt and confused. Coming out left some bruises. And in times of change like these, where people and friends who I wished would stay close forever have to move on and out into their lives, I think it’s easy for me to feel disheartened and stagnant. Like everyone’s caught in some big autumn but leaves me right where I’ve always been, a green leaf.

But I have changed. I came out to all the people I wanted to be out to, from whom I risked rejection. I’ve grappled with religion, with existential dread, with dating, even after I’ve been hurt. It sucks to have to go out there and meet new people and start over fresh when it feels like it takes me years to be myself around others. But those years have to start somewhere. My closest friend now I only really got to know five years ago. Who knows what five years more will look like.

I know that making a comparison between a real life concept with one that appears in a video game is sometimes seen as silly, but as this is a Stardew Valley blog it seems a fitting way to end. This is my year one again, with the sometimes cold people and the first flower dance. Even if I’m geographically in the same place, I’ll start fresh and there’ll be plenty of characters to know. One frantic day at a time.

I should learn to fish.

[totallyshattered]

5-Star Ride

Alison's plane touched down, and she was so relieved to finally be home!

She trudged off the plane, still in the button-down blouse, pencil skirt and heels she'd been wearing in Chicago. In the rush to get out of her hotel room that morning, Alison had forgotten to pack her duffel bag with a change of clothes for the flight. She hadn't realized the mistake until after she checked her suitcase. and the uncomfortable clothes just added to her weariness.

The whole trip had been exhausting. Well, less of a trip, more of a tour. Alison hadn't been home in almost 3 months. She worked as an aide and layout designer to an advertising executive, Mr. Alexander Tennyson, and they'd been doing a cross country campaign for a new pharmaceutical product line.

She’d been transferred under Mr. Tennyson specifically for the campaign and had spent nearly every waking moment of the previous six months with him. He was a tall, Oxford-educated man of African descent with impeccable taste and skill at their business. His deep voice, chiseled features, well-pressed suits, and almost imperial manner had enamored Alison the entire time.

Alison had been at his beck and call, working on the project itself, running errands, getting food, and doing everything Mr. Tennyson and the firm had needed. She’d gotten PAID, but 12-hour days had been the norm, they were in a new city every few days, and then there had been that little incident where she'd gotten drunk and fucked Mr. Tennyson two weeks before the end of the tour.

She shivered, thinking about it. It had been incredible. She'd fantasized about him since she was transferred under him, and when they'd finally hooked up, he was so manly and masterful, he took complete control of the night, and she had let him do things she'd never have dreamed.

But, in the cold light of day, she'd been mortified that she'd given in to her lusts and had rejected him far too harshly the next morning when Mr. Tennyson had tried to broach the subject. The hurt in his eyes haunted her, and the cold deadness that followed had made her cry in her lonely hotel room more than once since.

He hadn't mentioned it again, and he'd remained completely professional, but it was obvious that he was still upset and just going through the motions with her. Alison felt she didn't owe him anything, but she knew she'd handled it wrong and was ignoring all of her feelings from the last half-year.

Deep in her own thoughts, she wandered listlessly to baggage pickup, grabbed her suitcase, and headed to the exit while her regrets and snippets of their passionate night spiraled through her brain.

Not that it mattered anymore, she sighed to herself. He’d probably transfer her away soon now that the job was done.

As she neared the exit, Alison pulled out her phone to set up a ride-share home. She changed accounts to select the corporate account, so she didn't have to go through the pain in the ass of expensing it but was only half paying attention as she swiped through the options.

When she hit submit, her phone buzzed, and the app made a sound she hadn't heard before. She frowned and checked the status. It looked normal, scanning for rides, so she shrugged it off.

She exited the airport and was immediately hit by an icy blast that her light overcoat could not compensate for. Alison shrieked and ducked back into the relative shelter the building offered.

Alison asked one of the porters if she could sit inside and wait, but was told, no, all ride-share clients had to sit in the loading zone. She tried to give him the sad kitty face, but no go.

Finally, she trudged out, found a seat in the ride share waiting area, and hugged her arms around herself, shivering.

Then she waited.

And waited.

Aaaaaannnnd waited until, at some point, she dozed off on the bench despite the brisk wind.

Alison dreamed about Mr. Tennyson. Dreamed about begging forgiveness, dreamed about submitting to him again, and dreamed about servicing his every desire.

Sometime later, she was wrenched from her dreamers sleep by a firm shake.

"Hello, young lass, are you waiting for a ride?" Asked a nondescript, middle-aged man in a bomber jacket and newsboy cap. His voice had a slight brogue that she couldn’t identify in her bewildered state.

Alison shook her head, "...ride? Oh, yes! I'm sorry, I was waiting, and I must have dozed off!"

She tried to stand on shaky legs when the driver scolded her, "Sit down, you daft girl. Stay there and let me do my job."

If she were more awake, she probably would have snapped back, but tired as she was, she obeyed his order.

The driver loaded her bags into a surprisingly nice town car and then opened the door, beckoning her inside. Alison was still a bit shaky when she stood, but she made it into the car before collapsing on the seat.

Oooo, she thought, it was so warm in the car, and the seats were even heated!

Now, wrapped in warmth, her sluggishness returned tenfold, and she smiled slightly as the driver got in and began the trip. He called himself Shane and told her he'd get her to her proper destination.

Shane did the normal driver shtick, asking her questions about herself, her trip, her job, etc. Allison answered the questions far less guarded than she would normally because she felt so warm, so drowsy, that she didn’t think to hold back. She only just managed to stop herself from describing her night with Mr. Tennyson.

Shane wasn't fooled, though. He zeroed in on her sudden silence, “Did something happen between you, and your boss?"

Allison flushed, "Um, that's not really your business, Shane."

"Sir," he corrected sharply.

The directness startled Allison, "Wait, what?"

"You should address men properly when they are leading you," he elaborated condescendingly. "I am leading you to your proper destination, you should address me with respect. You call Mr. Tennyson 'sir' when he directs you, don't you?"

Alison's bleary mind tried to latch onto a coherent response, but all that came out was, "Yes, sir."

"Good girl," he responded smugly.

Alison flushed.

"Now, tell me what happened?"

The story flowed out of Alison. Every detail.

Drinking a few too many cocktails at the client mixer.

Shamelessly making out with Mr. Tennyson after the client called it a night.

Grinding on his bulge on the dance floor.

Being ordered to come to his hotel room and practically creaming herself.

Actually cumming when he'd pulled her head down to suck his huge cock from the passenger seat of the rental.

His hidden fingers buried in her cunt from behind while she desperately tried not to make a sound during the seemingly endless elevator ride to his suite.

Being stripped and servicing him on her knees in the entryway of the room.

Giving and getting licked, sucked, and fucked on every surface in the room and in every position Mr. Tennyson twisted her pliable body into.

Feeling his bare rod fill her unprotected pussy with potent cum at least four times before they’d passed out.

Waking up to being taken and filled again during the night, and then falling asleep with his cock in her mouth when he ordered her to clean it with her mouth.

And finally, the shame, the panic she’d felt the next day, and her subsequent mistreatment of her boss.

Alison was mortified, beyond embarrassed, and almost impossibly turned on as she finished the story.

Shane, smirking, but saying nothing, offered her a drink that looked like a flavored sparkling water.

After that whole train wreck, a drink sounded good to her though she wished it was something stronger.  Shouldn’t she be home by now?

The liquid inside was a bright neon pink color, the kind she'd loved as a teen, but had tried to distance herself from as an adult. At that moment, the nostalgic feeling of pink was a comfort instead of an embarrassment.

Alison hesitantly took the bottle, but before she could open it, Shane reached back and grabbed her wrist firmly, but without pain.

"What do you say, girl?" He growled.

Despite her exhaustion, adrenaline spiked through her. Her mind searched for the answer while her eyes were locked with his harsh gaze. Finally, she sputtered out, “Thank you! Uh, sir. Thank you, sir!”

He smiled at her, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Better, but that’s twice. You’d better not forget yourself again on this ride.”

Rattled, Alison finally got the bottle opened and sipped the saccharine liquid, and to her surprise, the drink even tasted pink. She giggled and took another sip, trying to keep her dignity, but just ended up gulping it down, little rivulets of pink escaping her lips dripping on her black coat.

Alison finished the bottle in one long draught and felt a different kind of warmth pour through her. Goosebumps raced down her body as if she was being caressed with slender fingers. She gasped for air at the feeling and then began giggling again.

"Have another," Shane ordered her. Part of Alison tried to rebel against being commanded, but the Pink told her to be a good girl and have another.

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir,” said the Pink Ali.

Alison opened the second bottle and began to gulp the oversweet elixir down. The feelings intensified, and she felt the heat surge through her.

It was so hot, and it felt so good, but at the same time, she was so tired, all she could do was moan, giggle, and drift.

Shane’s voice cut through the haze, “Doesn’t it feel good when you do what you’re told?”

“Uh, um, what?” Mumbled Alison. She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think.

“I told you to take a drink, you did it, and then you felt good, right you stupid girl?” Asked Shane.

“Yes… but, the drink,” Alison tried to respond. She felt so strange. Were her clothes tighter? Did her tits always bulge out from her shirt like that?

“No,” he cut her off. “You already felt good when you obeyed, didn’t you?”

“…yes”

“And then when you obeyed again, and took another drink, and it felt even better, correct?”

“Yes…”

“So,” the sneering Shane concluded, “It feels good when you obey.”

“Yes.”

“Good girl, good girl.”

Pink Ali beamed. Yes, she was a good girl, she obeyed.

“It’s proper for a stupid lass like you to obey men.”

“No, not… not stupid,” Alison responded.

“Yes, you are stupid,” Shane confirmed, smirking. “You don’t respect men properly, you don’t have any manners and need instructions like a child, and you tell all of your personal business to perfect strangers. Only stupid girls do that.”

“Yes, yes I’m so stupid,” agreed Ali as Alison subsided again.

“You are a stupid girl. Stupid girls obey and respect men. You should always obey and respect men.”

“Yesss…,” Ali was getting stronger. Her skirt felt tight, her panties wedged between her big ass cheeks.

“It feels good to obey, and stupid girls need to obey men. Men like Mr. Tennyson,” continued Shane.

At the mention of Mr. Tennyson, Ali moaned, “Ohh, yessss…”

“It feels good to obey Mr. Tennyson. You always have to obey him like a servant, don’t you?”

Alison clawed her way back, “No… not always… not a servant… just a job…”

“Stupid girl!” Scolded Shane. Alison winced, tried to hold on. “It is your job to do whatever Mr. Tennyson says to do so he can do his work, yes?”

“Uh, uh, yes,” stammered Alison losing her grip.

“If you have to do whatever he tells you all the time, it means you always obey him, and obedience feels good.”

“Yessss,” Ali agreed, she started rubbing her plumping thighs. They were so smooth. Her nails were so cute and pink.

“You obey everything Mr. Tennyson says, obeying him feels good. Servants always obey, it’s their job. You are his servant.”

“I… I am… servant,” Ali wheezed, feeling so good.

“Good girl,” Shane rewarded Ali. Ali beamed, and her fingers slipped into her thong to rub her pussy.

Shane continued, “You are Mr. Tennyson’s servant. You love to obey him. It feels good. It makes your stupid girl cunt drip.”

“YES” Ali gushed, figuratively and literally.

“You take care of all his needs. Whatever he needs, you obey, right?”

Alison made a desperate surge. “No, not… not everything he needs… Not...  everything…” She was getting weaker and weaker. It felt so good to let Ali talk. It was easier. Felt so good. Why was she trying so hard?

“Yes, everything,” Shane reinforced. “Remember when you took care of his needs as a man. When he told you to follow, you followed. When he told you to suck, you sucked. When he told you to fuck, you fucked. When he told you to cum, you came.”

“Oh yes! Yes!” Ali groaned happily. She began stroking her other fingers across her cock sucking lips. They felt so good, they felt so much bigger, so much more sensitive, like she had another clit on her lips.

“Heehee, pussy mouth,” Ali giggled.

Shane rolled his eyes and continued, “So, obeying Mr. Tennyson doesn’t just feel good. It makes your pussy wet. Stupid girls like you get wet when they obey strong men like Mr. Tennyson.”

“I… I… “ Alison tried to deny it.

“You obey Mr. Tennyson. Obeying him makes your pussy wet. You are wet for Mr. Tennyson. Say it!”

“I get wet from Mr. Tennyson!” cried Ali, exultantly. Her fingers were buried in her pussy now. She pinched the nipple of one of her massive tits that had finally burst free of her blouse.

“If you obey Mr. Tennyson, and obeying makes you wet, and you do anything for him including taking care of his manly needs, you aren’t just a servant, you’re a slave.”

“Noooooo…,” wailed Alison weakly. There wasn’t much left of her.

“You are a stupid girl who only obeys him. Your only value is serving him and servicing him. You help him do his work. You drain his cock. It’s all you’re good for,” Shane grinned at her in his review mirror, enjoying her transformation. “You are his slave.”

“Yes! Yes, Ali is Mr. Tennyson’s slave!” Ali squealed happily. She wanted to cum so bad. She wanted to cum on Mr. Tennyson’s cock.

“Slaves don’t call their owners by their names,” Shane told her. “What do they call him?”

“Mmmmaasstteeerrrrr!!!” Ali exulted. It seemed Alison was gone.

“Good slave,” said Shane, his job done. “Now, don’t cum until your Master tells you. He would be very angry.”

Ali gasped, “Oh no, I’ll be a good girl, I won’t cum until Master says so!” It was so hard, she was so warm, so wet, so horny, she wanted to cummmm. But she had to obey!

Ali continued to edge, the rest of the world forgotten. She vaguely heard Shane talking, but not to her.

“Yes sir, it’s done. I’ll be there in a few minutes. You should bring a blanket. Mmhm. Mmhm. Yes, Mr. Tennyson, I expect payment on delivery”

Ali heard him say Master’s name! She was going to Master! Shane was so nice to take her to Master!

The car finally pulled up to a gated, modest sized, but elegant house with a well-manicured lawn. The electric gate opened, and Shane pulled in.

All 6’4” of Mr. Alexander Tennyson waited at the bottom of the steps, a blanket slung over his arm.

Shane stopped, got out, and opened the passenger door. The smell of sugar and arousal flowed out. Tennyson smirked at the vision inside. A caricature of his assistant sat, head back, eyes closed, fingers pumping in her cunt, awaiting her new life.

“Come here, Alison,” he ordered.

Ali’s eyes fluttered open, and she set her eyes on Master. She cried out for him and leapt from the car. She embraced him and burst into tears.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry,” the tiny remaining shred of Alison sobbed out. “I love you, Master. I always wanted to be yours!”

Tennyson’s face softened. He bent down, wrapped her in the blanket, and lifted her, holding her close to his chest. He whispered to her, “I know, Alison. I forgive you. I love you, too. Now you’re mine forever.”

Ali fell asleep in his arms as Master carried her into her new home.

----------

Shane picked up all the luggage he had stowed in the car and took it into the house and feeling very smug at another job well done.

The Full-Service package was expensive, but he guaranteed satisfaction.

Shane checked his phone, making sure the wire transfer had gone through. He confirmed it, closed the door, and got back into his car.

Just as he was about to drive off, he felt a buzz at his elbow. It was the bimbo’s phone, still open, and sitting on the completed screen for the ride-share app. She’d never even noticed the destination change or the Full-Service package request. Stupid girl.

He picked up the phone, smiled evilly, and rated the trip 5-stars. Shane always took them where they needed to go.

[ash-whimsicalfanfic]

Serendipity (CH 7)

Leroy Jethro Gibbs X Fem OC/Reader

Word Count: 975

Warnings: Mild language, fluff, smut, angst, graphic scenes, death, murder, gore, violence, mature material…

Prompt: You have a major crush on Gibbs, however you choose to push it away as you fear he doesn’t feel the same way. Suddenly there is a bunch of chances that lead to a happy ending…

I snapped more pictures, feeling mortified. The longer I was in this room, the sicker to my stomach I felt. I was more than in his head. It was like I was looking through his eyes and I hated it. No one else knew what I've found yet. They've grabbed what I asked for, and asked questions, but I couldn't explain it.

I did a few sketches whilst I waited for them to get a camera and evidence box. I was eager to start bagging the pictures and putting them in the box. I wanted to get out of this room.

"Y/N/N, what did you find?" Ziva asks.

"I found out that our unsub is obsessive, compulsive, a stalker, and delusional. Not to mention a psychopath. He had motive, he made a plan and followed through. He has had to have been doing this for months." I say, continuing to quickly box everything for Abby.

"He is done killing, right?" Tim asks.

"I want to say yes, but it seems as our unsub was becoming unhinged. If he kills again, the victim will no doubt look like our first female victim." I say.

I set the camera in the box before pushing it through the tunnel. I crawl through it and Gibbs helps me up. I let a deep breath out, wishing I hadn't found that room.

"Do I want to know?" Tony asks.

"No. You don't. But, you'll have to know for the case. It's just sickening." I mumble.

"It's the job." Tim sighs.

"Try being a profiler. I hate getting in the minds of these guys." I grumble.

"Then don't." Gibbs says. 

"Easier said than done." I sigh.

I was more than eager to get off that ship. I rode back with Gibbs, but it was silent. I couldn't get out of my head. I hated how easy it was to understand the mind of a killer, for me at least. As much as I'm happy that my abilities help me get justice for people, it still makes me feel...numb.

"Y/L/N." Gibbs says, hurrying to catch up with me.

I tiredly hum, pressing the elevator button. I could feel his stare on me, but I step onto the elevator knowing he would too.

"What's going on?" He asks.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"You got quiet." He says.

"You always are quiet." I point out.

"Yeah. But, you aren't. You like to talk, whether it be the case or maybe about some book...or something that makes you happy. Even if you aren't talking, you like to hum. But, you were quiet." He says.

I was surprised by how much he's noticed about me. For someone who seems busy all the time or tries to avoid me...he knows me quite well.

"I'm just tired." I sigh.

"Go home. Get some rest." He says.

The elevator doors open and I shake my head. I had some stuff to finish up. He sighs, following me to the bullpen. I grab the box that Tony sat on my desk and decided to go ahead and bring it down to Abby's lab.

"Y/N! You brought me a gift." Abby says.

"Abs, don't look to into this. Just see if you can pull any prints off these. Okay? I don't want you to get upset by this." I say, setting the box on a table.

"Okay...are you okay?" She asks.

"Of course!" I lie and she studies me.

"I'm no profiler, but I know a liar when I see one. Talk to me." She urges and I sigh, sitting on one of the metal tables.

"I sometimes just hate getting into the mind of an unsub. It use to be such an interesting thing and I found myself wanting to get into the most notorious serial killers heads, but now...I just hate it. I hate the way I can so easily find myself in their head. It's not just their head. It's like I'm seeing everything through their eyes. It plays out like a movie and I hate it. I hate the way it makes me feel. It's sickening and I'm just so tired." I ramble.

"Oh, Y/N." She murmurs.

"I know it's my job...that's why I'm here at NCIS. I'm a profound profiler. So, no matter how much it affects me...I can't stop. That's why I was added to Gibbs' team. If I can't do my job, what am I? Nothing. I just get in the way. And yeah...the team relies a lot on my skills and we get through our cases pretty fast, but it's so tiring." I say.

"Have you talked to Gibbs about it?" She asks.

"God no and I don't plan to, Abby. I think I just need to sleep. It'll pass. Or maybe I need to take a small vacation. Who knows? I'll see you later. I got some paperwork to finish up. If you need anything, you know where I am. Love you!" I say.

I pull her into a hug, seeing the troubled look on her face. I kiss her cheek and give her a big smile before I leave. It immediately leaves my face and I was eager to climb into the elevator. I lean my head against the wall, waiting for the doors to open.

I walk back to my desk, sitting down as I begin to work on some paperwork. I look up when my lamp goes off. It was Gibbs.

"Go home." He says.

I sigh, waiting till he starts heading towards the elevator. I stand, grabbing my purse and keys as I wait for the doors to shut. I let a sigh of relief out before sitting.

I turn the lamp on my desk and start working on some more paperwork.

[hookedsworks]

HOOKEDHOBBIES KINKTOBER 2024

Day 10: Facesitting/Lingerie

word count 684

masterpost

this can be read as anyone I guess. from the "I/me" pov. reader has a dagger tattoo and various thigh scars. man has brown eyes. whatever. have fun. or don't.

don't like don't read

He looked at me as though he were going to devour you. I’d taken a big risk and put on a strange, strappy lingerie situation. It was elastic framing my body, black straps that were tight against my skin. I felt self conscious, standing there in this lingerie, and I knew he’d never see it if I had anything to do with it, because I can’t believe I actually thought I’d pull this off. He’d walked in at the worst possible time, caught me bent at the waist, unfastening the ridiculous Pleaser heels I’d paired with the set.

“Is it my birthday?” he had asked. I’d stood up, mortified that he’d caught me bent over, pussy just…out. When I had put it on, I'd thought I would have enough time to try it, to see if I liked it. But he'd come home while I'd been deciding I didn't like it. “Love the no panties approach, baby,” 

“Shut up, you weren't supposed to see this,” 

“Oh? And who was supposed to see it?” 

“No one. I hate it,” 

“Well. I want it on top of me,” he grinned. Gah, he was obsessed. I rolled my eyes. 

“Get on the bed then,” he lit up like a Christmas tree. Ah, shit. Now I'm in trouble. He flopped down on the bed, immediately. 

“Get up here,” one boot untied. One garter strap undone. But… He was grabbing at me. My piercings were straining against the bands across my tits. It was…too tight up there, but too loose almost everywhere else. He snapped his fingers then and my brain went fuzzy and stupid. I got up on the bed. I settled over his erection. “No. No. My dinner is between your thighs, so bring it up here,” he slapped at my thigh, digging his fingers into my dagger tattoo. Scraping against all my scars. pulling on me hard enough to cause bruises later. Awkwardly I stood up so I could settle over his face. I got my knees arranged on either side of his head and he stopped smiling. A look of focus over his face. He grabbed both of my thighs, turned his head and bit down on the three raised scars on my right inner thigh. He loved those. He didn't even want me to cover them. He scraped his stubble against my thighs, making me squeal. Trying to not hurt him, I hovered as he kissed and bit And licked at my thighs. 

“If you don't take a proper seat,” the threat was clear in his voice. Meh. Whatever. He can suck my ass about it if he's really mad. He pinched said ass, causing me to jump. “Sit down. Now.” He commanded. Fuck. I kept my weight off his face as much as I could but his tongue pushed against my clit. He dug his blunt nails into my asscheeks, causing a burn to start up. Worth it. He pushed his tongue straight into my pussy then, followed by a finger. 

“Ah,” I groaned. “Yeah,” he pressed against the front wall of my vagina. He rubbed. Then he anchored both hands against my ass and pulled me down. He hummed against me, licking and sucking until it almost hurt. My thighs were burning, full of beard burn and strain. He pushed a finger back inside, and then two. The stretch was something then, I could feel it. He crooked both of those fingers, pushing all my buttons. He wrapped his lips around my clit and sucked hard. I pushed out, trying to encourage an orgasm to start brewing. Fuuuuck. My hand was buried in his hair. His warm brown eyes flew open and met mine. Shit. Teeth now. He gently bit down on my clit while holding eye contact. 

“Fuck,” I banged my fists against the wall then. My muscles tensed, and he did it again. “Dammit,” the tears in my eyes burned. My makeup was running. My eyes rolled back in my skull, the cord snapped and I gushed down his face. There's a reason his beard is red and not brown.

[shakysniffles]

okay 💙 won the lil poll I made about which OC I should write a thing for so I've given him a name (Chris) and written a lil thing! When I get a bit more time I might add to this....

Tags: male, headcold, perfume, arousal, m/f

obligatory minors dni and this is n/s/f/w :)

--

Scott sniffled, dragging a knuckle under his nose and holding it still as he read over the monthly reports. He was exhausted, wiped out from the previous night's escapades and the nasty bug he'd managed to pick up, but he knew the annual board presentation had to take priority.

He'd played hard and now it was time to cough up the payment and work to match.

hehh-ihhh--

If only the damn tickle would stop assaulting him. He pressed his finger against his nostrils harder, feeling them flare beneath his touch.

hheHH-

"Oh Scott?" called Amy, popping her head into the open office. "Jeff wants that deck by two."

hEH-ESHHHUU

He groaned, fuzzily wiping away the droplets that had fallen on the screen.

"Whadt was that, Ames?"

"Wow," she said. "You look terrible."

"Thags," he said, sniffling as he reached for a tissue.

heH-RESHOO

"Jusdt a cold sedttling ind by dose. Loogks worse then idt is."

"Does it sound worse too?" asked Amy drily. "You gonna be okay for our lunch break?"

"You sdtill wandt be? The lidttle guy's as interested as ever"

He tried to leer in her direction before breaking off into sneezes again. Scott sniffed and plucked a tissue from the box, blowing his nose loudly.

"We can sgkip." he said forlornly. "I don'dt want you to catch this."

Amy laughed.

"I wouldn't want to leave the little guy hanging," she said with a wink.

She leaned down, her mouth hovering next to his ear so he could hear her breathing, her top button left open so he could see directly down her shirt. She wore a black lacy bra, the soft fabric clinging to her breasts and (he caught his breath with a jolt of arousal that shot straight to his cock) straining where her nipples had grown hard beneath them.

He could feel the fabric of his own underwear straining too, and a high whine escaped his throat.

He didn't need to see her lips to know the way they curved upwards.

"I've booked meeting room 6," she murmured in his ear. "Twenty minutes. Bring a condom."

She was even closer now, close enough for her delicate perfume to waft towards him, floating gently in the air between them as the volatile particles caressed his sensitive nose.

Without warning, his head reared back and his nostrils exploded.

huhHHH-uhhh-hEHR'SSHHUUU

His hand came up too late, tissues trailing miles behind and there was nothing to stop the mess that flew from him, spray peppering her blouse, her bra, her skin.

He couldn't stop that awful sniff that followed, not the shudder that ripped through him after such a big sneeze and he pressed the tissue under his nose with a groan, unable to stop staring at the wetness that coated Amy's breasts, nor the way the contact of cold moisture had caused goosebumps to spread across her breasts.

"I'mb so sorry," he groaned.

Amy straightened and looked down at him, her eyes dark and unreadable, an odd flush spreading across her cheeks and licking its way down her neck.

"Twenty minutes," she repeated.

Then she left, Scott still half-mortified and half-hard in his seat, with looming deadlines from both his supervisor and his secretary.

He didn't know if he could last.

[ramzawrites]

can i request an angsty sbi fic where sibling reader lost two lives saving others (maybe tubbo at the festival?) and they see everything falling apart (techno and phil destroying everything, wilbur dead and tommy focused on the disks) and they pretend to be ok while their mental health gets worse and worse until they decide to end it, and people only realise they weren't okay after the death message pops up and their reactions to seeing it? if not thats completely fine, ik its pretty heavy

Broken

GN

Pairings: none

Characters included: Wilbur, Tommy, Philza, Tubbo, Technoblade

Warnings: depression, suicide (falling, non descriptive), angst

Series: a request!

Summary: Y/N just wanted their home back. They just wanted to live a peaceful life but instead all their hopes and dreams got ripped apart by the people they loved the most.

Words count: 3647

Authors Note: Honestly I could have shortened it quite a bit but here we are, it’s way longer than I wanted but I hope you guys enjoy this. I’m sorry if this went kind off of rails to what you might have envisioned. Also I hope that you guys know that you are loved and appreciated. I appreciate you for taking the time to read my stuff :] Here is m favorite video to cheer me up some times, hope it can cheer you up as well!

I’m also curious what your guys thoughts and opinion are on this or my writing in general! Can’t get better without feedback :]

Y/N loved their family.

They were all pretty chaotic but so was Y/N, following their siblings into trouble ignoring any possible consequences.

So when Wilbur proclaimed he would create an independent Nation inside the SMP that was owned by Dream himself, you bet that Y/N was standing right beside him.

When Wilbur would struggle with his tasks or was weighed down by doubts they would swoop right in and do their best to support him. Every time Wilbur would say “I don’t know what I would do without you sometimes.” While Y/N didn’t do it for praise but out of love for him it was still nice knowing that he appreciated them and that he took note of their work.

Tommy wasn’t really for heartfelt words but he too expressed in his own way how much he appreciated them being around. Most of his schemes wouldn’t have even happened without Y/N’s help after all. As a way to say thanks he would let them just take stuff fout his chets or when he heard they needed a specific resource he would wander out and get it for them. Of course saying something on the lines of “I was out there anyhow, so I brought some with me. It was on the way.” Y/N could read between the lines though. They grew up with him after all.

Y/N put so much energy into L’Manberg they couldn’t help but be in love with this little nation. They would do everything to protect their home.

When Y/N lost their first life it was together with their siblings protecting their nephew Fundy.

The Dream Team suddenly retreated after another battle against L’Manberg. While the group was celebrating what they thought was their first victory in ages, Eret appeared. She told the group of a small bunker with more resources.

Still celebrating Wilbur, Y/N, Tommy, Tubbo and Fundy made their way towards the bunker. The bunker that would later go down into history as “The Final Control Room.”

Inside they all looked at the labeled chests only to notice that they were empty. Eret then pressed a button which opened up secret walls with the Dream Team standing behind. She herself got into safety as Dream and his friends merciless attacked the L’Manberg faction.

As soon as Y/N understood what was happening they did their best to form a wall between the attackers and Fundy. Slowly pushing him out of the room while they made sure to block the exit, giving the Fox Hybrid enough time to run away.

When they woke up again it was inside their home. In L’Manberg. Sore from the respawning.

Once they did respawn though it didn’t take long for Fundy to barge into their room and throw himself against them, thanking them. Wilbur was close by, looking worse for wear as well but incredible thankful nonetheless.

After that and a few battles more Tommy challenged Dream to a duel in order to secure independence. He lost so instead he bartered his music discs for freedom.

After Tommy respawned a second time Y/N made sure to spent most of their time hovering around him. Making sure he was doing alright.

But with that L’Manberg was independent and it was Y/N’s time to shine. Sure, they worked hard on strengthening the infrastructure of the nation but now, maybe even because of that, they basically coordinated all the new builds.

Shops, homes and other things were being build with them overseeing it. Meanwhile Wilbur and Tommy took care of the political part only to come to the conclusion that they had to have a proper election.

At first it started innocently enough as well. New political parties were made that begun advertising themselves. Funny enough they would always come to Y/N asking them where they could hang up their posters. It was then that Y/N realized that the people saw them as some sort of authority, even asking them if they wanted to start their own campaign. They politely declined, saying they worked best as a support role.

Then Schlatt entered the stage and everything got thrown upside down.

In the end he managed to become the next president via a coalition and his first declaration as the president, or emperor as he called himself, was to exile Tommy and Wilbur.

As they ran for their life Y/N didn’t hesitate to follow. It hurt them so much to leave L’Manberg, their fruit and labor, behind. This only got worse once they realized that Tubbo was basically left alone back at the city under Schlatt’s rule.

Then Pogtopia got established.

Tommy, Wilbur and Y/N did their best to get a proper foothold again. Gathering resources and planning for ways to get their home back. And to accomplish this they soon called in the oldest sibling of the group, Technoblade.

Techno has been away for the longest time now. He moved out early to travel the world and apparently train himself. Somehow Tommy found a way to get a message to him, so he made his way towards Pogtopia.

He wasn’t big on words or emotions but as soon as he arrived he let Y/N hug him.

“This is a onetime deal, Y/N.”

With Techno they finally felt like they had a chance. Y/N could maybe return home someday. Back when they were children Techno always looked out for them so to have him back Y/N felt infinitely safer.

All the while Wilbur showed more and more signs that his mental health was rapidly declining. Y/N did their best trying to cheer him up but there was only so much they could do. Especially since they themself were struggling.

L’Manberg was their everything and now it was under the iron rule of Schlatt. They had to watch as Schlatt walked through the nation, ripping apart builds that they commissioned or even built themself. Every time he did something like that it felt like another stab wound directly into their heart.

Then the festival happened where Y/N lost their second life protecting Tubbo.

Schlatt wanted to apparently celebrate democracy and his amazing rule. Tommy and Wilbur weren’t allowed to join while Techno and Y/N received an invitation.

Y/N was very wary of that. They learned from Tubbo that Schlatt apparently was pretty interested in bringing them over to Manberg since a lot of the residents trusted them and saw them more as an authority than Schlatt himself, so bringing them over would probably also bring a lot of the residents around to his rule.

On the day of the festival Y/N made sure to stay close to Techno. Holding on to his arm and basically hiding behind him, not feeling up to talk with all the people in Manberg.

The people were happy to see them but Y/N was tired. They haven’t slept properly ever since the exile, too many thoughts that kept them awake.

Then the speeches started.

Honestly Y/N wasn’t really listening, their attention purely on a broken old building. It used to be the place where Y/N and the other residents would meet up and map out their plans for new builds. Discussing and even sometimes arguing on what materials should be used and where to get them. Now it was empty.

Their attention got pulled back towards what was actually happening once Tubbo begun speaking. It was a nice little speech Y/N had to admit.

Just as Tubbo was about to leave, Schlatt moved back in. Holding him in place and pushing him in something that Y/N had to describe as a cage with the help of Quackity.

“Techno, buddy. Come up here for a sec.”

Technoblade tensed up but still moved towards the stage. There Schlatt uttered the words that pulled the rug out from beneath Y/N once again.

“Kill him Techno. He is a traitor.”

“Don’t you dare!” Y/N yelled out, making their way towards the stage as well.

Y/N knew Techno couldn’t deal well with social pressure, especially when there were about ten people or more behind him that could attack him at any point.

Tubbo looked so scared as he pressed himself against the wall. There was no escape for him.

When Techno moved his crossbow up, aiming directly at Tubbo, Y/N let out another scream. Urging him to stop.

Explosions. Colorful explosions filled the place.

“Y/N!” it was Tubbo screaming their name out.

Just as Techno pressed the trigger Y/N managed to jump in front, the rockets hitting them instead of Tubbo.

Their older brother looked absolutely mortified “Y/N? Wha- What? Why? How?” staring at Y/N’s lifeless body that slowly dissolved. They were slowly respawning but seeing his siblings body was enough to send him in some sort of frenzy.

Filled with bloodlust he aimed his crossbow towards Schlatt and Quackity. Killing them with one press of the trigger only to turn around and aim his crossbow towards the people.

As this happened Tommy enderpearled over, screaming at Techno.

He helped Tubbo out of the cage who was still in a state of shock. He only saw Y/N for a second and the next they were laying on the ground in their own blood.

Y/N heard the details later after they respawned. Tommy had apparently been incredibly angry at Techno, even attacking him. Wilbur then offered that the two deal with their argument via a fistfight inside a pit.

Normally Y/N would have yelled at Wilbur for that. Would have told him that this was his dumbest idea yet but they were too shook from what had happened to them.

Technoblade always spelled safety to them but he killed them. Sure, he meant to kill Tubbo but that didn’t really make it any better. They gave him an out, they would have helped fighting off all these people so they could flee.

The next time they saw Techno they flinched every time he got too close to them and yet they still put on a smile “Never, do this again.”

Techno only nodded.

After this downward slope the momentum didn’t seem to stop for them. Wilbur dropped even more and more off. Falling victim to his paranoia. Y/N tried their best convincing him to not blow up Manberg, that they will fight to gain it back. At this point trying to gain back their L’Manberg was the only thing they could hold on to.

Though all that work was for nothing.

The war to take back L’Manberg went way differently than they all had imagined. Y/N fought with a viciousness most didn’t think they had it in them. This was the day for them to finally regain what they had wished for, for the longest time now.

Everything came to a halt once Dream surrendered. He showed them Schlatt who was sitting in the Carmavan. Drunk off his mind he yelled and screamed at people only to die of a heart attack which meant that the Pogtopia faction won.

The people begun cheering, they had their home back! They were free! Y/N was probably the loudest by far. It felt like a huge weight was lifted from their shoulders. All this hardship and they could finally return to working with the others and rebuild L’Manberg. Return it to its former glory.

Tubbo got appointed President and Y/N was happy with it. Tubbo had an eye for building and was a good person, with him they were sure they could do some amazing things.

Apparently Techno thought otherwise. Instead he pulled Soulsand out, holding onto the Wither skulls as a visible threat.

Y/N had somewhat forgiven Techno for what had happened. It was a stressful situation and they acknowledged it but seeing him there, threatening to kill all of them? That they knew they couldn’t forgive quite so easy. Especially since he made some sound points but it was their L’Manberg. The people didn’t like living under Schlatt’s rule, this wasn’t something that could be described simply as a coup. Technically he was right but only technically. There were so many things that came into play that could let you argue over that but Techno would have none of it. Yelling something about Tommy only wanting to be a hero.

When the first explosions rang Y/N thought it came from a Wither but Techno was still in the middle of putting the heads onto the structure.

When more explosions rang and the ground beneath their feet broke away, Y/N understood what had happened.

At some point Wilbur ran off and must have pressed the button. The button that set the TNT beneath the city ablaze, effectively destroying everything.

Y/N was too busy with finding hard ground again and then dealing with the Withers and Techno that they only noticed after the fighting ended, how broken the nation was now.

They had won. Why would Wilbur do this? He knew how much the nation meant to them and again, they had won, so there was no reason for blowing the place up!

And if that wasn’t enough to see how both their older brothers destroyed everything Y/N worked for, they also had to see how Philza, their father, stood next to the corpse of Wilbur. It felt like they lost everything.

They lost their trust in Technoblade.

They lost their hopes and dreams via Wilbur blowing up the freshly liberated L’Manberg.

They lost their trust in their own father who had slain his own son.

Y/N felt absolutely crushed. Family was so important to them and it was their own family that destroyed their hopes and dreams. They did everything for them and this is how they repaid them?

Once everything calmed down and Tubbo begun making plans on how to rebuild the nation, he immediately came to Y/N for help but they hesitated which worried him.

“Is everything okay? Usually you would have jumped on that offer, Y/N.”

Y/N put on a smile that didn’t seem to reach their eyes “Don’t worry Tubbo, of course I’ll help you. I’m just tired from what we have been through. I finally have time to take a breather and I think it all just crashed down on me.”

“Well if you ever need help you can talk to me.” It was an earnest offer that Y/N would never take advantage of.

Y/N mostly ignored Philza. He talked with them a few times and even explained what has happened but Y/N still made a wide berth around him. Seeing him just hammered back down the feeling of distrust and hurt. Their familial relationship took a hard hit from that point on.

With Ghostbur it was a weird situation as well. They enjoyed spending time with him but were also always incredibly sad around him. Ghostbur took notice of this and would always offer them to take some of his blue but Y/N declined every time.

“Don’t worry Ghostbur. Everything is still just fresh in my mind. I’ll be back to my old self in no time. You take care of yourself, you hear?”

“Of course Y/N! You have always looked out for me, thank you.”

L’Manberg slowly took on a proper form again but it wasn’t the L’Manberg Y/N knew. It felt to them like they were standing on top of a grave. A grave for their dreams and it was getting hard, real hard, to walk through it every day seeing places where they know specific buildings should be standing. Buildings they build on their own only to be destroyed by their brothers doing.

Then Tubbo exiled Tommy and Y/N felt conflicted. They felt obligated to stay in L’Manberg since they were the main person people came to for builds but that was their brother. Their only brother they still trusted and felt a need to protect.

Instead of following him into exile they stayed in the city. Visiting Tommy whenever they could, noticing pretty fast that he was struggling hard with his situation and for once they didn’t feel strong enough to properly support him. Y/N tried their best but once they noticed they couldn’t reach him completely they gave up a tiny bit.

It reminded them too much of Wilbur.

So while they visited him and helped them where they could, they spent more and more time alone in their home only coming out for work and other necessary things like food. Soon it was normal to see them with ever present dark circles beneath their eyes.

Before Philza disappeared to join Techno, he would stop by Y/N’s home all the time.

“Have you eaten, yet?”

“Yes, dad. I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.”

“I just haven’t seen you much lately and I got worried.”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine. Hey, if you go out, please, can you tell Ghostbur to stop coming around to throw Blue inside my mailbox? He won’t listen to me but perhaps he will to you.” And they would always carry the same big smile on their face accompanied by empty eyes.

The only time their happiness reached their eyes again was when Tommy returned from his exile. They crashed into their younger sibling holding him close to them and muttering apologies. He pried them off, embarrassed by all of this.

This short bout of happiness was destroyed by Doomsday. Dream, Technoblade and Philza once again made sure to set L’Manberg ablaze.

The second time Y/N’s fruits and labor got completely annihilated by their family but still they had some hopes this time. They still had Tommy on their side they could just finally build a home somewhere else and live in peace but Tommy had other ideas. He had it in his mind to get his discs back and he would do anything for it.

So while Y/N tried to ground themself with new hopes and ideas, holding onto the only constant of what was important to them, that being Tommy, Tommy ignored them. He was too busy with his own things and the worst part was that Y/N couldn’t even fault him for it.

They understood how much these discs meant to him and that this was something that had to come to an end but with this they lost another, and possibly their last, anchor point.

Yet you could still see them running around with a smile, tending to every one and trying to help out the best they could.

Then suddenly they were gone. They just disappeared one day. The few people who took note of that took some time to look around but there was no sign as to where they left. Y/N didn’t take their armor with them nor any weapons or food.

< Y/N succumbed to despair and fell of a high place>

When every ones communicators rung out with this message the SMP fell quiet.

Tommy couldn’t believe what he was reading. This didn’t make any sense. Y/N was fine! They would talk with them and everything looked fine! This must have been a cruel joke from Dream somehow, right? This couldn’t be real. Why would Dream do this? This didn’t seem to make sense.

Exactly there was no sense in Dream doing this.

While Tommy was battling with his thoughts Tubbo came running over to him. Tears streamed down his face.

“What happened? Why did this happen? Where are they?”

Tommy was visibly shaking “I- I have no idea. I don’t know. They looked fine. I’m- I’m not sure. Tubbo-“

Tubbo just slammed into him, giving him a proper hug, trying his best to help Tommy through his rising panic. He lost another sibling and by Ender that hurt.

Meanwhile in the snowy Tundra both Philza and Techno were staring at their communicators as well.

Philza was pale. So pale it almost rivaled the snow around him.

Techno had his brows furrowed. For anyone who didn’t know him well enough he looked at best displeased with this situation but Philza could see the small details that told a different story. Him sucking his breath in as he read the message, hiding his quivering lip in his cloak. He was heartbroken.

Sure the two weren’t on good speaking terms but Y/N was still his younger sibling. He still loved them.

Philza felt similar. He acknowledged that he screwed up and honored their wish to be left alone by him but he never imagined this could lead to their death. His knees buckled and he sank to the ground. Two of his children died, one directly by his hand and the other due to his inaction.

His eyes glossed over, the world became a blur and yet he continued rereading this message over and over. Y/N just lost their last life.

Philza could hear Techno walk closer to him and sat down on the ground as well.

“Y/N is-“ Philza begun but he didn’t know what he wanted to say. State the obvious to his eldest son?

“I have more fault in this than you, dad. Don’t feel guilty.” His voice was uncharacteristically weak. Wavering as he spoke. He wanted to cheer Philza up but it was a weak attempt.

“What have we done.”

Ghostbur was at first confused when he read the message. It was like he couldn’t connect the dots but it slowly dawned on him what this meant.

“Oh my.” His usual happy demeanor was suddenly gone.

He touched his face and as he put his hands back down he saw how they were smeared with blue.

“Y/N is dead?”

His usual ghost behavior seemed to break a bit. It was like through the warped version of Wilbur that was called Ghostbur for a moment the true version of him came through again. And he was hurt. Devastated.

“I think I need to find the others.” He mumbled to himself, making his way towards his family. All the while he held onto the blue wool of Friend like a lifeline. Combing through it nervously. Blue continuing to spill from his eyes.

[shurisneakers]

harmless (vii)

Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader, drabble series)

Warnings: cursing, existential crisis, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, lil bit of angst, clint barton being a lil shit

Word count: 3.4k

A/N: hey shoutout to @ugherik for suggesting a spin on the “A PLATYPUS!??!“ [perry puts his hat on] “PERRY THE PLATYPUS!???” thing. i used it in here, it’s a really small part and probably missable but i tried!! also i like the next chapter better than this one, i just wanted to put this here so it doesn’t seem abrupt <3333

here’s

my ko-fi

if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

Bucky can’t stop staring at the mirror.

He wishes it was for narcissistic purposes. He had enough reason for it to be. His age may be a hundred but he had the youthful exuberance of a very drained sixty year old.

But no, it wasn’t because of the steel cut jawline or thousand gigawatt smile.

After last week’s mini-spiral, he does what almost half the videos on TikTok warn him not to do.  

He got a haircut.

Everyone’s reaction stopped him from following it up with an ear piercing, but he can’t confidently say he didn’t at least consider it once. Maybe a neck tattoo. 

He pulls at a lock of hair. It’s not even longer than his finger.

What did he do-

“It’s just a haircut, man,” he says to no one in particular, almost like he’s trying to reassure himself.

He runs his hands through his hair. It takes lesser time than he was used to.

Steve had told him he looked good. But then again, Steve wore a fugly costume 90% of the time, what did he know?

Clint acknowledged it and didn’t outright call him ugly, which he supposed was a compliment. Wanda simply smiled at him.

“FRIDAY?” he reaches out.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?” comes the automated reply.

“How are you?” It took him some getting used to her, given that she was constantly listening to everything, and in general seemed to go against the universal idea of privacy. 

But his therapist told him he needed to form friendships. 

She didn’t mention it had to be human ones.

“As good as ever. Is there anything I can help you with?”

He wants to ask her what she thinks of his hair until he realises fashion advice from a faceless AI is a new low for him. Maybe ‘Do you think I should crawl into a pit and die?’ would be more appropriate. 

“Never mind,” he dismisses instead. “Any messages for today?”

“A reminder to buy a harder bed because you can’t keep sleeping on the floor.” Ah, that was on Sam’s recommendation three months ago, but he wasn’t going to stop any time soon. “And a text from a contact named Nuisance saying to meet them at the attached location in thirty minutes.”

“Where is the location?”

“The local sports centre.”

“Isn’t that closed today?” 

If he had to go out in public looking like this, maybe he could wear a cap and sunglasses and no one would recognise him. Unfortunately, as he was reminded several times before by anyone with an iota of common sense, it was a stupid disguise. 

Beanie it was, then. Bare minimum. 

“It is, yes.” Fewer citizens to worry about.

“Okay.” He hesitates in front of the mirror again, adjusting the hat on his head. “Thank you, FRIDAY.”

“You’re welcome, Sergeant.”

He stares at the little tuft of hair at the front that refused to stay down no matter how much he shoved it back.

“Come on, man,” he exhales in slight despair. “Whatever.”

____

The lock of the door leading to the pool is easy enough to pick. He can see how you got in without a hitch even though it was closed. 

The deck around the pool was absolutely drenched in water. No one was using it, there was no reason for water to splash out unless it was deliberately kept like this.

He catches sight of you easily, being that you’re the only two people there. You were standing at the end of the hall, head ducked as you scrolled through your phone.

The door closes behind him with a soft thud.

You don’t look up from your mobile when you start talking, “What do you think 6 year olds like?”

Because James Barnes, carbon dated to 1917 and therefore certified young person, would definitely know the answer to this question.

“I don’t know. Lego?”

“Just how much money do you think a teacher makes-”

You stopped mid-sentence, finally lifting your head to catch his eye. He stares back at you, steps faltering when you don’t move.

"Who are you?" you squinted.

What

"It's me," Bucky says, tugging off the dumb beanie and using it to gesture vaguely towards himself. Fuck, he shouldn’t have worn it, it was ridiculous anyway-

"You sound like him..." You narrow your eyes. “You don't look like him.”

Great

He rolls his eyes before putting on a mock scowl. Can't have Bucky Barnes without a sense of eternal disgruntlement.

"Oh hey, that is you." You grin. "You got a haircut."

“I did.” He suddenly feels the awkwardness increase. His fingers fidget with the beanie.

“Nice.” You nod in acknowledgement.

He wants to hit himself at the words that just spill out before he could think about it. “You hate it.”

“I never said that,” you snort. “And since when does my opinion matter?”

“It doesn’t.” But now he wants to know what you think since he didn’t trust anyone else to tell him honestly.

“Must cut down on time in the shower, huh?”

It did.

He shrugs. He shoves the beanie into his back pocket.

“Was it a crisis haircut?” How did you kno- “Are you going to get bangs next time?”

“Shut up,” he says lamely, a dull burn in his cheeks. 

“I know a place where you can get hair dye for cheap. Not technically FDA approved, but I think purple streaks are a good place to start-”

“What are we doing here?” he interrupts, sighing.

“Skinny dipping. Take off your shirt, Barnes.” 

“Funny,” he says dryly, eyeing your shoes when you straighten up.

Ice skates.

“Fine, pants then.” You don’t make any effort to move from your end so he does, walking closer to you. 

“What are those for?” He doesn’t hide the annoyance from his voice when he points at your feet.

“Oh, these?” You look down at them. “Yeah, I’m going to freeze the pool.”

That seems... mild compared to the shit show you wanted to do last time.

“For?” He halts where he is. 

“’M gonna take my friends ice skating.”

“Is that all?” He wants to make a comment about the fact that you have friends but bites it back.

“Today is just a trial run. Tomorrow I’m gonna go freeze the East River.” There it is.

“The East River is not your personal ice skating rink.”

“Not yet it isn’t.” You lift up a middle finger.

It was too early for you to flip him off, even by your standards.

He raises an eyebrow.

Your face scrunches in confusion. You follow his gaze to your finger. “Oh yeah, no, that’s a freeze ring.”

Only then he notices a ring around the finger. From where he was standing he could make out the blue stone that adorned it.

“Joy.” He rolls up the sleeves of his black bomber jacket. “Let’s get this done with, then.”

“No no, wait.” You hold up your hand and he complies, having nothing to lose anyway. You pull out your phone and press a few buttons before shoving it back into your bag and tossing it aside.

The soft sounds of a piano start playing from a boombox near the corner of the room. A child starts singing following a series of knocks.

His eyebrows furrow. “What the fuck is this?”

“The Frozen soundtrack.” You beam at him. “I thought it was fitting.”

He doesn’t know what that is and at this point, he’s too afraid to ask. He can vaguely make out the lyrics being about a snowman but he isn’t too concerned.

He takes one step forward. You immediately point your fist at the ground in front of him, forcing him to jump back when a blast hits right in front of his shoes. Suddenly he gets why the floor is covered in water.

It sounds like a series of cracks as the water starts freezing over, a layer of ice now separating him and you.  

"You ready?” The mischief was woven in your voice as the blasts continued throughout the deck, effectively turning the entire floor into ice.

Bucky takes a step tentatively forward. Not bad. He takes another. Okay.

The third one is when shit starts to hit the fan. His hands shoot out to hold onto his balance when his footing slips from beneath him.

His Nike sneakers aren’t used to snow. They’re used to well manicured lawns and pavement trips to Starbucks and marble floors of the compound. Not swimming pool decks covered in ice.

He can hear you singing in the distance and every time he looks up you’re a little further away, making sure every inch of space is frozen.

It takes him a while to get over the initial fear of breaking his skull and just move forward swiftly with short steps. A goddamn penguin is what he looked like.

“There you go, you’re getting it,” you chirp as you whiz past him. He reaches out to grab at you, only to miss by an inch. He staggers, arms flapping wildly to regain his stability.

He hears crackling beside him. He gets a second or two to watch ice crystals spread through the water before turning it completely solid. You step onto the now frozen pool, testing your weight with one leg before cautiously getting on.

A triumphant smile emerges on your face. “Awesome.”

He manages to press himself against the wall as a form of support. 

There is no point to this whole thing. He knows this. It’s been well over 6 weeks and there is genuinely no point to this.

He realises it again when he moves from side to side, body erupting into a waddle. 

Why is he doing this. He doesn’t get paid extra. He doesn’t get any kind of compensation. All he gets is more wisecracking geniuses, embarrassment and the mortifying ordeal of getting caught imitating a penguin.

The song changes to a woman singing about doing something for the first time, forcing him to pay attention to it. He hears something about ball room and balls and tunes right back out.

Bucky manages to find his way to the actual pool since that’s where you’re twirling around, opting to land on his mental arm in case things go wrong. He takes a sliding step forward, followed by another. Maybe he can do this. 

“If a 200 pound super soldier can stand on this, I suppose it’s strong enough,” you muse, watching him slip and slide as he tries to invent makeshift ice skating.

Unfortunately, his method doesn’t have any brakes, so while he’s too busy trying to move forward, there’s no way to actually stop. He finds this out very soon when he almost launches himself off the edge of the pool.

Something yanks him backwards and back onto the ice.  

“Honestly, this is utterly useless since you can’t really do anything but it’s the most fun I’ve had all week,” you admit when he goes sliding towards the middle, arms flailing.

“You had to pick fuckin’ ice of all things.” He thinks that maybe he’s getting a hang of this. He can definitely move faster than what he was doing like, 10 minutes ago. It’s not like you were going anywhere, anyway. 

“I like to keep things spicy.”

He stays where he is to glare at you. You mouth the words to the song, watching his every move whenever it interested you. 

Okay, change of plan; a temporary distraction till he figures out how to actually get the ring from you. He settles on skating towards the edge of the rink slowly, taking a step off, slipping almost immediately when his foot comes in contact with the deck. 

“Where are you going?” you yell over the music initially but immediately break into song when it ends in a crescendo.

He takes a knee, lifting his metal arm up before driving it into the ground. It shatters magnificently, leaving small shards of ice at his disposal. 

He picks up one of them, waiting for you to complete your dumb twirl. He takes aim, and-

“Ouch, what the fuck?” You stop your off key singing to rub your shoulder where the ice hit you.

He wordlessly picks up another piece to throw at you, hitting you squarely in the leg.

“Stop that!”

He may not be able to move as fast but he can definitely throw. 

“Give me the ring,” he commands, stretching his arm behind his back before releasing another piece to hit your forearm. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” There’s nowhere you can skate to avoid his stupidly good marksmanship. 

“You gotta do what you gotta do.” He shrugs, breaking another patch of ice to replenish his ammo. “Hand over the ring.”

“Over my dead body,” you shriek when a particularly big piece lands next to your feet. You knew he missed that shot on purpose.

“I feel like I’m finally acting my age,” he says casually, finding your darting about in order to avoid him more fun than he initially thought. “Can’t throw pebbles at meddling kids so this is the next best option. Thanks.” 

“If you acted your age you’d be in a casket, Barnes,” you hissed, finding that skating in zig zags helped your cause, but not by much. “I’d be- you bitch- I’d be more than happy to help you get there.”

You raise your arm, ready to send another blast to freeze the water that was starting to melt around him, hopefully, keep him where he was if it froze around him. 

He flinches. You notice immediately, hand dropping slightly when you realise what it looked like.

“I’m not gonna freeze you,” you say, softer than you intended. From what you knew, he had enough and more experience with that and you weren’t going to contribute to it. 

He swallows thickly, giving himself a little shake of his head as if to jolt him out of his train of thought. 

Another piece of ice hits you in the leg. You let out a string of curses at him.

“The more ice you make, the more I have to throw at you, Y/N.” He waits for you to regain your balance when you nearly take a stumble. 

“Shut up, you’re so immature.”

“Remind me whose plan this was again?” No point waiting for you to regain your balance when you fall over only a few seconds later. 

He gathers a few shards in his beanie, tucking it into his belt like a little makeshift rucksack just in case before venturing out on the main rink again. 

It’s more difficult for you to stand without railings to guide you, giving him enough and more time to make his way towards you, staggering and skidding. 

Both of you looked ridiculous. 

“Stay away, fiend.” 

“Ring first.” He holds his hand out in front of you. He even considered pulling you up if you just made things easier.

Next thing he knows he’s on his ass on the ice beside you. 

“I hate you,” he groans, watching as you inch away from him on your knees.

He doesn’t really have any other options so he shoves aside the humiliation and gets on his knees, using his arms to drag him along the ice.

“For the love of Christ, none of us are winning here. Just give me the ring.”

The bitch from the soundtrack sings about letting it go but he won’t. 

“Never,” you shout, sliding away from him as fast as possible. 

You make use of the fact that the top layer of ice is starting to melt, using the ring to freeze it again. His knees and fingers get stuck as the water freezes over but he has super strength. It barely takes him a second to free himself. 

“Great,” he huffs, just settling down on the ice, ignoring the sting of cold that was spreading through his limbs. Running after you wasn’t going to work; he needed a way to get the ring. 

“You won last time, I’m not letting you win again.”

“Are we seriously keeping score?” He watches as you scramble towards the edge.

“No one likes a loser, Bucky.” You use the pool stair railings to pull yourself up.

“Explain why you have friends then.” He can’t help himself this time. 

“Hardy har har.” You roll your eyes. 

He doesn’t make an effort to move. Instead, when you take a step back into the rink, he raises his arm and pummels it into the ice, just to annoy you. 

The ground damn near shakes, pushing you dangerously towards losing your balance again. 

“Are you crazy?” Your arm shoots out in front of you to keep you from falling headfirst. 

“No.” He does it again. This time there’s a crack in the ice. “I’m just very tired.”

“If the ice breaks we’re both gonna be underwater, you moron!”

“Fine by me.” He shrugs. “Freeze it again. I’ll just find different ways to ruin it for you.”

You glare at him. He raises his arm above his head again.

“Fine! Fine, stop.” You eye him as he lowers his arm. 

He reaches for his stash of ice pieces from earlier, throwing one at your shoulder again.

“Boy, I swear if you don’t stop doing that-” you duck when another one comes at you. You had no idea he could be this annoying. 

It suddenly hits him, like a lightbulb going off in his brain. He wipes his hands off on his jacket, getting on all fours before slowly managing to pick himself up again. 

He looks at you, tilting his head slightly like he was studying you.

“What?” you ask suspiciously, eyeing as he starts inching closer towards you. “What are you thinking?”

It’s like watching a newborn deer stumble its way through the world, albeit more gracefully, until he starts picking up speed. The motherfucker was going to mow you down.

The skates are useful but not so much when an extremely determined bumbling oaf is barrelling towards you, his speed beginning to match yours even without equipment. 

You don’t know why you’re running, you don’t know why he’s chasing after you but when you see the end of the pool you take a sharp left only to have him knock right into you, sending you both sprawling.

You land half on top of him, breaking your fall but it doesn’t stop the very loud groan that escapes your mouth. He’s already in the process of sitting up straight, giving you less time to analyse what just happened.

“What the fuck was that for?” you speak through gritted teeth. “Fuckin’ acting like the both of us have free healthcare.”

“You refused to give up.”

“So your plan was to tackle me like a quarterback?” You threw your hands up.  

“One part of it.” He drags himself to the edge, away from you. 

“There's more to your monkey brained plan?” He doesn’t look at you. The ice around the pool has more or less melted, letting him gain proper footing on the floor before he stands up. 

“Oh, yeah.” He turns to you. “The other’s a trick I stole from Stark.”

Bucky holds up the ring. Your jaw slightly drops, eyes searching your finger for the now missing piece of tech. 

“Suppose that’s two points for me?” 

You’re impressed. You also want to stab him. So you do the next best thing.

“When I imagined you holding a ring in front of me, the circumstances were very different,” you comment.

“Bye, Y/N.” He spins on his heel, not even giving you a second’s worth of reaction. You found it amusing.

He heads towards the door, clothes all wet. He empties out melted ice water from his beanie before stuffing it into his pocket. Just when he’s about to leave, you remember something. 

Do you mean it genuinely or just because it has an effect on him? 

“Just for the record, Barnes, about your hair-” you call out, earning his attention from over his shoulder. “I think you look really good either way.”

The world may never know. 

You swear you can see the corners of his lips quirk upwards before he turns around again. 

He slips on a block of ice, cursing and clenching on to the door to keep him upright, quickly yanking it open and leaving before he has a chance to embarrass himself further.

Smooth.

Next part

[colossalcriminal]

Fraternization At Its Worst - j.b

Pairing: James Bond x Fem!Reader, M x Fem!Granddaughter!Reader

Summary: Workplace romance is never a good thing, especially for agents 007 and 003.

Content warnings: Swearing, making out? Slight 'exhibitionism' without the sex. Innuendos.

A special gift for @jiejie-eonni-onee-sama :)

Skillfully sauntering into her office undetected and closing the blinds that shielded the glass panes that surrounded them, James instantly pulled his lover in for a starved kiss, only parting on her accord.

"I'm being sent out tomorrow." Y/N tells him through heavy breaths, lips just about brushing against each other.

He nodded, almost sorrowful. "Where?"

"Berlin."

She pulled him back in hungrily, squealing when the back of her thighs hit the edge of her desk, sleek pencil skirt cushioning the impact. Hopping onto the desk, she let out a sigh of relief at the feeling of his tongue massaging the sensitive spots of her neck and collarbones, soon to be covered by her blouse as he slowly undid the silk shirt, button on button.

Quickies had become a usual occurrence during the last six months of their relationship. What started off as small pecks during free periods and lovesick stares during briefings had turned into ravenous sessions in her office and teasing messages sent during the worst of times, the honeymoon phase had never really died down.

Y/N slipped off his suit jacket, clutching the fabric, biting into it slightly as his hands travelled down between her legs, fingers teasing her inner thighs.

"Sorry, 003, but plans have changed and you're being sent out today. We've got your brief- Oh, my god!"

James stepped away from her quickly as 003 shielded herself with his jacket, looking equally as mortified as Q and Tanner, who shielded their own eyes with a folder and a tablet. "Jesus, Fuck! Knock!"

"I'm sorry!"

"We didn't know you were about to have sex on your desk!"

Q's retaliation was a tad bit too loud, even for a half empty office on a Friday evening, but it had attracted the worst of the worst. M herself. "What's going on?" The older woman marched in to the much too crowded office. It didn't take her long for her to piece together the situation. From Bond who had no jacket and a loosened tie, Y/N who's neatly set hair had turned into a mess of flyaways and knots and the other agent's said jacket wrapped around her so tightly as if it were a lifeline. "Right. 007, out. I will speak to you tomorrow morning. Tanner, Q, please take 003 for her briefing and prep her for her flight."

With a firm nod, and a sly wink to the young woman, James began fixing his tie.

"And I'm calling your father." She scolded her granddaughter, not bothered by her slight frown and the urge to stomp her foot like a child. "Wait for her outside." The two men followed in suit, heads hung low in embarrassment for the couple.

The pair were left alone once again, straightening their appearances the best they could. "God, come here." Y/N beckoned, shaking her head comically as she worked on the tie he had done so atrociously.

"She's calling your dad." He teased.

"Shut up." She pecked his lips, declining his attempt to finish their earlier affair. "I'll see you soon, yeah?"

He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Yeah. Love you."

"Love you, too."

James left the room, stifling a chuckle at Q and Tanner who stood outside, rigid.

[bluejayblueskies]

For the Touches Ask Game, if you can, a little Jonmartin with Touching/9?

Thank you so much, I love your writing!!! 😭💕

touches prompt list

9 - holding hands across the table

i did a season two lunch dinner date fic! cw for mentions of paranoia/stalking and murder (in typical s2 fashion)

.

They’ve been having lunch together for two months when Martin asks, with enough stuttering that it takes Jon a moment to process his words, if Jon would like to get dinner with him.

Jon hesitates only briefly before agreeing. Between finding out about Martin’s CV and the newly delivered CCTV footage, he’s almost entirely convinced that Martin did not, in fact, murder Gertrude Robinson and that his various attempts to make sure Jon eats and sleeps and drinks tea are simply a result of Martin being… well. Being nice, he supposes. If overbearingly so.

Why Martin feels the need to coddle Jon, he doesn’t quite know. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s… not complaining. His frequent skipping of meals often isn’t an intentional thing, born instead of his tendency to get so wrapped up in his work that hours fly by without him noticing, and while sometimes he’s irritated when his flow is interrupted by Martin’s cheery greeting, more often than not it’s… a relief. To step out of the Archives, away from the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and pretend like he isn’t working alongside a murderer.

Maybe a murderer. He… he doesn’t know. According to the CCTV footage, Tim and Sasha and Martin and Elias all have alibis. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he gets, sitting in his office or walking down the corridors or reading through statements, that something isn’t right.

That there’s something in the Archives that’s not supposed to be there.

So, it’s… nice to get outside. And as much as Tim may joke about it—or… used to joke about it, at least—Jon does, in fact, try to eat three square meals a day if he can remember to do so. Try being the operative word. He’s been… caught up in work lately, and often he glances at the clock to see that it’s well past ten and he’s accidentally skipped dinner entirely. He hadn’t thought Martin had noticed, given that the man doesn’t live in the Archives anymore and typically leaves promptly at five along with Tim and Sasha, but evidently, he was wrong.

As Jon sits across the table from Martin at the small café they’ve chosen for lunch, he has the fleeting thought that Martin’s been sneaking back and watching him work and that’s how he knows that Jon has been missing dinner. He lets himself feel it, takes a deep breath, and pushes it away with considerable effort. No, that’s not… he trusts Martin. He does. Or he… he wants to. He’s trying.

“Jon?”

“Hm?” Jon blinks up at Martin, who’s clearly waiting for a response. “Sorry, I-I didn’t catch that.”

Martin’s cheeks are dusted a rosy red. He fiddles nervously with the black ring on his finger—a bit thicker in width than Jon’s, the metal smooth and bright where it reflects the sunlight. “Is—is this Friday okay? At—at seven? I-I can, um, meet you at the Institute. U-Unless you’d like to meet there! That’s, er. That’s fine with me too.”

“The Institute is fine,” Jon says, picking at his sandwich with a frown. The bread is damp and squishes under his fingers. “Perhaps we can go somewhere a bit less… soggy.”

“R-Right, yeah. I, um. I was actually thinking… you know that new bistro o-over in Clapham? M-Maybe not, it’s, er. It’s new. But I-I heard it has good South Asian food, which, um. I know you like.”

Martin’s face is fully crimson by this point. Maybe we should sit inside next time, Jon thinks. Or at least in the shade. The sun is rather intense. Martin picks up his mug of tea and takes a long sip, staring resolutely down at the table once he’s done. Jon waits, but it appears that Martin is done rambling, so he says, “Yes, that sounds fine.” Then, because it’s polite (and not untrue): “I am… looking forward to it.”

“O-Oh? Oh!” Martin looks at him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Y-Yeah, um. M-Me too.”

We should definitely sit inside next time, Jon thinks as the back of his neck grows warm, the tips of his ears surely darkening. Good lord.

He doesn’t think the heat is responsible for the way Martin’s smile makes something in his stomach flutter. He decides to blame that on the atrocious sandwich because… well. It’s as convenient an excuse as any.

Because Martin is just looking out for Jon’s wellbeing. This is no different than him bringing mugs of tea when Jon is recording statements or accompanying him to A&E to get stitches after Michael or inviting him to lunch in the first place. This is not, he tells his ridiculous, over-zealous, butterfly-filled stomach, a date.

Because it’s not. Martin is simply a coworker—an employee—and a friend. Who he trusts. Maybe. Probably. And thinks about sometimes when he’s unoccupied. His hands, mostly, which look very soft and very capable. His smiles as well, each one like a gift meant just for Jon. The way he carries the heavier boxes that Jon can’t quite manage and can reach the top shelves to retrieve statements without even having to clamber up onto the bottom ones.

All completely normal thoughts to be having about a friend

So, when Jon wears the soft maroon button-down on Friday that he’s been told brings out his eyes and takes care to arrange his hair into something other than the haphazard braid he’s been managing lately and digs a bottle of peach nail varnish out of the bottom of his drawer the night before to coat his fingernails with, it’s just because he feels like it. Not because this is a date. Because it’s not a date. It’s just dinner. With Martin.

Who shows up to the Institute at quarter to seven wearing a nicer jumper than usual—cable-knit and mustard yellow, looking incredibly soft to the touch—and with small black studs decorating the lobes of his ears. He smiles widely when he sees Jon, also standing outside earlier than agreed upon, and Jon almost turns around to see if someone’s behind him. But there isn’t. That smile, unfettered and full of joy—it’s… it’s for him.

Surely, Martin is just… happy to see him leaving the office while it’s still light out for once. He’s certainly chided Jon enough times for his habit of falling asleep at his desk. (Which he’s been trying to do less lately, if only because it would be easy for someone to sneak up on him while he’s unconscious and slip a knife into his back or poison his tea or shoot him three times in the chest or—)

“R-Ready to head out?” Martin says, abruptly halting Jon’s train of thought. He tries not to look like he’d just been theorizing about his own inevitable demise as he mumbles his assent and follows Martin away from the Institute and into the still-bustling streets of London.

And if he presses close to Martin’s side while they walk, well. It’s just because every brush of unfamiliar contact against him feels overwhelming, enough so to make him flinch away. And if he takes Martin’s hand for a small period of time, well. It’s just because the crowd has thickened and he doesn’t want them to get separated. And if he feels particularly warm in his jacket when Martin laughs awkwardly at his own joke and rubs at the back of his neck, well. That’s just from exertion. It is quite a far walk to the restaurant.

The bistro is lovely. Jon typically doesn’t go for places like this—tucked between two nondescript buildings with a glass front that reveals soft, intimate lighting within and flowers planted in boxes outside—but once they’re inside and seated at their table, it’s… oddly charming. Jon shrugs out of his jacket, and even though it’s the same shirt he’s been wearing all day, Martin compliments him on it with a flush. The change from frigid winter air to the warmth of the bistro brings heat to Jon’s face as well, and he rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves to just below his elbows. Martin makes a choking sound, but when Jon looks up with a frown, he has his glass of water pressed to his lips.

“Sorry,” Martin says once he’s placed the glass back on the table. “Just, um. Uh. Tickle in my throat. A-Allergies, you know.”

Martin’s face pinches in what looks like a repressed wince, and Jon tries to be reassuring. After all, Martin is taking time out of his schedule to be here with Jon, and Jon doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. His grandmother taught him proper manners, and besides, he is… rather glad to be here.

His commiseration about his own experiences with seasonal allergies turns into a mini-lecture on the species of pollen-producing plants in their area. He only realizes he’s doing it when the waiter comes by with a cheery smile and asks if they’re ready to order.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence. He has not even opened his menu.

“I. Um.” Jon is about to ask for more time—which he strongly dislikes doing, as he’s had the waiting staff forget more than once about his table and he’s had to go through the mortifying ordeal of hailing them down like a-a bloody taxi—when Martin tilts his own menu toward Jon and points to an item in the middle of the page.

“They have chicken karahi and naan. I, er. I heard it’s good if you’re… interested.”

Jon blinks at the menu in surprise. “That… sounds great, actually. Er, medium spice, please.”

Martin orders his own squash curry, and the waiter takes their menus when he departs, leaving the spot in front of Jon oddly empty. Jon taps his fingers on the newly barren tabletop a few times, trying and failing to remember where he’d left off in his lecture. Ultimately, he gives up, deciding that Martin isn’t going to be interested in hearing about all of that and he’s already said enough on the subject.

Then, Martin says, “So, you were saying—about the pollen?” and something in Jon’s chest squeezes, an emotion he doesn’t know the name of. Relief, maybe, as Martin’s words manage to spark his memory and he picks up his train of thought again easily enough. Yes, that’s… that’s probably it.

The first few times they’d gone to lunch, Jon had made an effort to stop himself from rambling, as he was prone to do any time someone gave him the opportunity. He’d engrossed himself in his sandwiches and rice bowls and mediocre Chinese takeaway in order to keep from launching into an explanation of the origins of said folding takeaway containers or the documentary he’d watched recently about the Zhou dynasty. And the first few lunches had been… awkward. It wasn’t because Jon thought Martin was a murderer—he doesn’t think he’d have agreed to go for lunch if he truly believed that Martin might harm him. It was just… how things like this went when Jon was involved. He knows he struggles with casual conversation, and he’s never understood the purpose or execution of ‘small talk.’ He would be perfectly content to eat and exist in silence, except all too often he feels expected to provide some sort of conversation or entertainment, upon which point the silence becomes horribly oppressive and stress-inducing.

But he also knows that talking too much can be just as bad as not talking enough. His grandmother had always told him so. So he suffered through the awkward silences for the first few days, and Martin had let him, clearly assuming that if Jon wasn’t speaking, he shouldn’t either.

Then, around their fourth or fifth lunch together, Martin had begun to ask him questions. They were casual, genuine, and so clearly targeted at Jon’s interests that Jon was convinced that Martin was somehow following him home or searching through his computer history or—or something. On their eighth lunch together, Martin asked Jon about the newest exhibit at the museum—it had been about sharks, if Jon remembers correctly—and Jon couldn’t help asking how Martin knew that he’d gone to see it. He hadn’t explicitly asked if Martin had been following him, but he’s sure the sentiment was clear in his eyes.

The tips of Martin’s cheeks had grown red, and he’d said that Jon had mentioned a few days prior that he was planning on going. All traces of fear and paranoia had left Jon’s mind then, replaced by surprise and, beneath it, something warm and bubbly. Martin had remembered.

Their conversations had gotten a lot easier after that.

Despite how Martin seems to enjoy Jon’s long-winded tangents, he… does still make an effort not to hold a completely one-sided conversation. So, a few minutes into the continuation of his pollen discussion, he finds a natural stopping point and says, “So, er. You… like being outside?”

Not the most… articulated question Jon has ever asked. But Martin doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers curl around the bottom of his water glass, his palms smudging the condensation. “Yeah, w-when I can find the time, I suppose. I-I try to go for walks around my neighborhood if I can, if it’s not too dark by the time I get home, and there’s this park in—”

Martin cuts off with a small cough. He lifts his glass and takes a long sip, while Jon sits and drums his fingers against the table and tries not to bounce his leg too noticeably. “Sorry,” Martin says as soon as the glass leaves his lips, giving Jon an apologetic smile that somehow seems… artificial. Like it’s been plastered atop another, heavier expression. “S-Something in my throat again.” He hesitates, then continues, “There’s a park in Devon that I-I like, whenever I’m in that area.”

Devon’s quite a trip away, Jon thinks but doesn’t say. Why do you go to Devon? he doesn’t say. Is that where you go on Saturdays? he doesn’t say, because—well. It’s rather embarrassing, among other things, to admit to the fact that you’ve gone through your employee’s desk calendar because you thought he might have shot an old woman three times in the chest and had plans to do the same to you. Particularly when you are having dinner with said employee.

Ugh. Probably best not to think about the fact that he is technically Martin’s boss when he’s sitting three feet away from him at a candlelit table on what, to an outside observer, might look startlingly similar to a date.

But it’s not a date. Because Martin didn’t say it was a date, and he’s just trying to care for Jon, in that… over-the-top way that he does. Jon tries to muster up some irritation at the reminder that he’s likely being coddled, just for habit’s sake, but comes up empty.

He hasn’t been truly irritated with Martin in quite some time. He… doesn’t really know when that changed. When Martin became a source of comfort, rather than of annoyance.

“Jon?” Martin says. Right. Martin is still sitting across from him.

“Right,” Jon says, trying to sound like he hasn’t been drifting off in a hundred different directions. “That sounds… nice.”

Martin’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Yeah. I-It is. It, um. It makes the trip worth it, to be able to sit on one of the benches and just… write poetry.”

Jon has read some of Martin’s poetry, though Martin doesn’t know that. Jon doesn’t like poetry. Jon liked Martin’s poetry. These are, apparently, two truths that can and do coexist.

Jon does not mean to say, “Could I hear one?” But it appears that he is weary enough and relaxed enough and distracted enough that his verbal filter has small, critical holes in it. Damn.

Martin sputters. “U-Um, well, I-I suppose… I could, I-I do have a few, er. M-Memorized, if you—you really…” He trails off uncertainly. “You’re. Um. You’re sure?”

Well. Nothing to do but lean into it, Jon supposes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t sure, Martin,” he says, a bit snippier than he intends. The tips of his ears are hot, and he is deeply thankful that the dimness of the bistro hides the way they’re surely darkening.

“R-Right.” Martin clears his throat, looks down at the table. “I-I suppose I’ll just… do a short one?”

He proceeds to recite, in quiet, surprisingly stutterless lines, one of the poems that Jon already knows from the notebooks he’d left behind in the Archives. It’s… his favorite, if he were forced to pick one. But there is something different—something more—about hearing Martin speak the words aloud rather than simply reading them on a page. Martin pauses in places Jon hadn’t thought to pause, lingers on words he hadn’t thought to linger on, and adds a softness to the ends of lines and phrases that Jon finds himself enraptured by.

Logically, he knows that it’s not good poetry. He’d begrudgingly taken a poetry class during uni, had hated every minute of it, and had donated all of his books to charity shops the moment he wasn’t in need of them anymore. He’s read Dickens and Poe and Whitman—all the works that are considered great representations of their art form.

Martin’s poetry is nothing like theirs. His lines don’t follow the same rhythms; his words are clumsier, his images less profound. But still, even though Jon knows that it is technically not good poetry, he… he likes it.

He tries not to analyze that feeling too closely.

“So, um. Yeah,” Martin says after he finishes, rubbing his thumb over his ring. “I-It’s not really… great work, heh, you know, s-sorry.”

Jon is not the comforting sort. He’s been told that he’s too sharp at the edges, skin too full of spines and thorns. So he surprises himself, and probably his grandmother from beyond the grave, when he reaches across the table and takes Martin’s hand in his. It’s soft and big, the pads of Martin’s fingers lightly calloused from a past history of manual labor, and Jon thinks just for a moment how small his own hands look in Martin’s. He surprises himself even more when he says, honestly, “I enjoyed it, Martin.”

Martin blinks at him, eyes wide and owlish. His hand is rigid in Jon’s, like he’s afraid that if he moves, he’ll frighten Jon away like a skittish cat. “O-Oh.” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Jon thinks Martin might be blushing. “Well. T-Thanks.”

Jon nods once stiffly. He does not retract his hand. At first, it’s because he doesn’t think to do so, too wrapped up in the feeling of his skin against Martin’s. Then, it’s because it’s been long enough that doing so would be more awkward than keeping his hand there. He asks Martin about the inspiration behind the poem, for want of another conversation topic, and Martin talks about the trip he took to the countryside once and how it stuck with him, and Jon’s hand remains atop Martin’s. Martin takes a drink from his glass, and Jon takes a drink from his, but both of them use their free hands, as if in unspoken agreement that this is just how things are now. Jon’s hand is resting atop Martin’s and it will be until he has just cause to move it and that is just the way of the universe. Nothing to be done about it.

Their food comes, and looking extremely regretful about the fact, Martin extracts his hand from underneath Jon’s and reaches for his fork. They don’t mention the loss, and it’s quiet for a period of time while Jon eats his chicken karahi and Martin eats his squash curry and Jon tries not to openly moan at how good the food is.

Something must show on his face, because Martin smiles warmly at him and says, “Well? Was that Yelp reviewer correct when they said that the chicken karahi is ‘literally the best food they’ve ever eaten in their entire life’?”

Jon swallows a bite of admittedly very good chicken. “Well. I don’t know that I would quite go to that extreme, but it is rather enjoyable.” Reminds me of the way my grandmother used to make it, he doesn’t say. That feels like a date conversation, and this isn’t a date.

(It feels very much like a date.)

(It isn’t a date.)

“Good,” Martin says. Then, he smiles, wide and unabashed and like a ray of sunlight, and Jon quickly buries himself in his food again so he doesn’t say something foolish like I really like it when you smile at me like that or Is this a date? or I would very much like this to be a date.

They finish eating, and the waiter takes away their plates with the promise of bringing the check soon. Jon’s hands rest on the table, index finger fiddling with the edge of the cloth placemat in front of him. He’s in the middle of trying to convince himself that yes, it would be ridiculous to take Martin’s hand again, you should definitely not do that on this very much not-a-date, when Martin reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in his. Properly takes it, pressing their palms together and slotting his fingers easily between Jon’s and knocking their rings together as he squeezes gently.

“Um,” Jon says eloquently. He should very much not ask if this is a date. “What are you doing?”

Nope, that’s worse. That’s definitely worse.

“Oh!” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand immediately, and Jon does not try to chase Martin’s hand as it retracts, thank you very much. He’s more dignified than that. “S-Sorry, I thought… I, um. Never mind. I-I shouldn’t have… sorry. Again.”

“It’s fine,” Jon finds himself saying. Then, in an effort to do damage control: “I… didn’t mind.”

“You… didn’t?” Martin seems confused, which is understandable. If Georgie were here, she’d tell him that he’s giving, quote, ‘mixed signals.’ He’d never quite understood what counts as ‘mixed signals,’ and he doesn’t know that he ever will.

“I did not,” Jon confirms. “I just… I suppose I…”

He should not ask if this is a date. He really, really shouldn’t.

“Is this a-a date?”

It appears he’s found another one of the holes in his verbal filter. Lovely.

Martin’s eyes grow impossibly wider. He makes a series of sputtering sounds as Jon waits and tries not to bounce a hole through the floor with the heel of his foot. “You—you didn’t…” Martin seems to have a miniature internal debate with himself, his face cycling through a dozen different expressions over the next few seconds. Finally, he sighs and says, eyes fixated on the table between them, “I had… intended it to be. Though I suppose if—if you didn’t know it was a date, that. Um. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Does it?” Jon’s mouth says without his permission.

“I-I mean… you can’t really have a one-sided date,” Martin says with an awkward laugh. The waiter is nowhere to be seen, which Jon is grateful for and disheartened by in equal measure. This situation would certainly be easier with a convenient escape.

“I… suppose.” Jon worries at the edge of the placemat, pulling on a loose thread. “Though, it’s… if this were a date—or, I suppose, if I-I’d known it was meant to be a date—I… wouldn’t have acted much differently.” He pulls harder at the thread, feeling a bit bad for the way the fabric bunches around it. “I… would not have been… that is to say, I would have liked it if… rather, to say that I didn’t think about it would be, er… well, incorrect.”

Martin stares at him, clearly unable to make sense of Jon’s admittedly disjointed, half-finished sentences. Jon sighs and says, under his breath, “I am not opposed to considering tonight a date.”

Martin’s cheeks are red enough now that Jon can see the flush, even in the dim light. “U-Um. What?”

“I am not opposed,” Jon repeats, louder, “to considering tonight a date.” Lord, that’s mortifying to say out loud. How do people do this? To emphasize his point, he sticks his hand out, palm-up on the table. It’s stiff and awkward and he probably looks like a cat with its hackles raised. He focuses on the cable knit of Martin’s jumper so he doesn’t have to see whatever amused or mocking or disappointed expression is on Martin’s face as he realizes just how bad Jon is at all of this.

Martin is quiet for a moment. Then, just as Jon is about to pull his hand away and flee for the exit, he feels a touch against his palm. Martin’s hand settles tentatively atop his—not weaving their fingers together, not even properly holding it, just… pressing together, palm to palm. Jon can feel Martin’s heartbeat faintly against the tips of his fingers where they press against the inside of Martin’s wrist. “Okay,” Martin says softly, like Jon has just given him a precious gift. “Then it’s a date.”

It’s a date. Jon’s skin has absolutely no reason to prickle at those words, nor does his stomach have any reason to squeeze and sprout butterflies. He nods, a bit brusquely, and opens his mouth to say something—god knows what—when the waiter appears next to their table, somehow having both comically bad and impossibly good timing.

Martin pays, despite Jon’s insistence that he can cover his own share, and then they’re back out in the cool night air, making their way toward the tube station. The first few minutes are quiet. There’s a tension between them that feels more anticipatory than awkward. Their hands brush once, twice. Then, on the third time, Martin hooks his fingers around Jon’s and clasps his hand in his, and Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

They hold hands all the way to the tube station, up until they have to part ways to take separate lines. Jon runs through all the things that he thinks he’s supposed to say in a situation like this—I had fun tonight or We should do this again sometime or… something—but ends up saying instead, “How long have you…?”

He trails off, squeezing Martin’s hand a few times thoughtlessly, like a warm, bony stress ball. Martin seems to infer the rest of his question, however, because he squeezes Jon’s hand in return and says, “It’s… new for me too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon nods and squeezes Martin’s hand again. He thinks that’s going to become quite a habit if they keep this up. “Right.”

Martin hesitates, before letting his grip on Jon’s hand loosen slightly. “We… we don’t have to do this again if you don’t want to. I-I know things are complicated right now, and I…” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to do this again, for… for what it’s worth. But I get it. If you don’t, that is. For—for any reason.”

“I do,” Jon says, surprising himself with his conviction. “I-I don’t… you’re right. Things are… complicated.” That’s certainly a word for it. “But I… I trust you, Martin. O-Or… I want to trust you.” He takes a deep breath. “I am making the decision to trust you.” It’s hard and it’s terrifying and there’s an animal instinct deep within Jon that’s telling him not to expose his vulnerable side, but… somehow, despite all of that, Martin makes him feel… well. Not safe, but as close to safe as he can get right now. Which is an accomplishment in its own right.

Martin exhales slowly and gives Jon a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you. I-I know that’s difficult, and I…” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, just once. “I-I’m happy.”

And Jon finds that he means it when he says softly, “I’m happy too.”

Martin gets on his train, and Jon gets on his. And despite the ever-present itching beneath his skin and the persistent belief that something isn’t right and the knowledge that he is likely a hunted man, from the moment he lets go of Martin’s hand to the moment he closes his eyes and curls onto his side in bed, that happiness remains.