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lailawinchesterr · 2 days

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remedy (vi) — sam winchester

> prev, masterlist

summary: just when you thought things were getting easy between you and sam — tags: underage!reader, 22 year old!sam, med student!fem!reader, cursing.

“Why do you have so many nicknames for me?” Sam looks up from his book with a frown, still comprehending your question, and you can’t blame him, it came out nowhere.

It’s only been a few days but you’ve spent the night with each other, though to be fair you’re both mostly studying. You figured it’s a good way to keep him next to you instead of Lily and you’ve always loved study dates. But it hasn’t all been so easy— Jess doesn’t approve of freakin’ Sam Winchester, like, who else would you approve of if not this man?

In other news, Sam has been shutting you down everytime you brought Dean up and you don’t want to push him so he’s been getting away with it even though you can clearly see how bad it’s eating at him.

“What?”

“Nicknames. You use lots of them.”

“Such as? Sweetheart?” He has to know how sensual it is when he says it. He has to.

“You use lots of other ones too. Why?”

“I don’t know, I want to see what fits you and what you like, I guess. Do they bother you?” You raise an eyebrow at him and it might as well have been you calling him a fucking idiot. Hate them? You’ve never been so flustered in your life from one person but every single word out of his mouth makes you want to lean in and kiss him. Which you can technically do.

“Was just wondering.”

“Well, which one do you like best?” He questions with a smirk, he knows how unnerved you get. You’ve gotten plenty of nicknames from other people, but most of them are just your own name twisted around, this is something that’s reserved for… lovers, you guess. Couples? Whatever.

“All of ‘em. They all sound good coming from you.” He raises an eyebrow in question and you shrug, sitting down on the bed next to him, “maybe I like some more than the others. Just a little, though, but I want you to call me whatever you like.”

“Tell me which ones.” It’s the way he doesn’t hesitate that makes you speak up even when everything in your body is begging you not to.

“You know which ones,” it’s a little bit teasing, mostly nerves, but you move closer to him. It seems to be the only position you’re willing to kiss him in, with you on his lap. You really should try to change it up.

“If you don’t tell me which ones I’m gonna have to start calling you honey-pie.” You gasp, a hand on your chest in offense.

“You fucking wouldn’t! Sam, I think I’d actually throw you out.”

“Of my apartment?” You nod absolutely. “Sure you would, baby.” Okay, that’s the one. The one that makes your heart flutter and eyes fall to his lips and makes things jump inside of you. It’s sweet and hot and so so possessive.

“Whatever.” It seemed to be your usual ‘conversation ender’ around Sam. “Anyway, I’m done with studying. Bored. And done.”

“Which one?”

“Bored.” He nods and puts his book on the nightstand, some old classic he’s reading for a literature class, not that you understand why on earth he would increase the work-load on himself, but he does. He loves it apparently, and this one was free, too, so. When he’s done you’re immediately straddling him, smiling down at him and enjoying the fact that this is the only time you’re taller than him.

“What are you doing?” He asks teasingly. You’re about to answer when it hits you all at once. Does he think this is sexual? Surely not, you’ve done it a thousand times (a couple) and you’ve only ever made out. But it is ten at night. Still, so what?

You’re about to shake your head when you feel his lips on yours, unrushed and perfect. The way he’s been doing every time you get in your own head. When he pulls away, you’re chasing after him, basically, “Never anything you don’t want, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, though it comes out a little like a whine, then push him against the headboard again, your lips on his. Sam sucks on your bottom lip, making you squeeze your eyes shut in a silent moan that he swallows.

And then. You’re grinding against Sam, involuntarily. You’ve never done it, never felt like this, never felt so—

“Sam— Sam, wait,” He lets out a small laugh as you push him away. You’re sure your hair’s not obedient at this point and you’re only slightly sweating and off balance, but that’s the least of your worries.

“You want me to wait? You’re the one moving.” He says fairly, lazy and relaxed. It’s a long way from how he panicked everytime you pulled away only a week ago, which is heartwarming considering you’ve also gotten better at holding yourself back. Everything is easier now, less strained. Okay maybe it’s just the making out, everything else is still new and unknown to you.

“I know, I know, just— I’m scared…”

“Hey, come on, I wouldn’t do anything you don’t—”

“That’s not it. I just don’t wanna do it, you know, wrong.” He shakes his head swiftly, sitting up.

“We’ve been doing this for a week and you haven’t messed up once, what makes you think now’s any different. You’re perfect, sweetheart.” He steals the breath from your lungs— not enough to make your worries disappear though.

“Sam,” you pull away, a little breathless, “I didn’t mean, kissing or whatever, I meant. The whole way.”

His eyes widen dramatically, leaning down to whisper, sarcasm lacing his words, “you mean sex?” Like it’s a secret and you roll your eyes, slapping his shoulder.

“Asshole.”

He uses your arm to bring you back in for a kiss, “we already said we’d wait.”

“I don’t know, Sam, there’s been lots of waiting happening, don’t you think?” Even if you’re right (which you are) Sam’s staying true to his word. He said it would happen when it was the right time, when you’re comfortable enough not to be insecure about it (though that’s probably never so…), and when you’re sure it’s something you want to give to him.

Which— seriously? Longest list ever.

He’s about to remind you of his boring list again when— yeah, that’s a window opening. The one in the living room. Okay. This is okay. No big deal, Sam’s here and he probably knows what to do in cases like these… right?

When you look over at him, he’s already carrying you off his lap to get out of bed, shushing you with his finger over his lips silently before opening the door, looking outside. This is some movie—level type shit, right here, you’re not dying because he’s deciding to take it slow.

“Sam—” He shushes you, sternly this time, with the glare and everything. Which freakin’ terrifies you because up till now you were only overreacting in your head, but very calm on the outside, now you’re shaking on the outside too.

He departs the room so you’re alone with a possible killer in the— “Dean!”

Oh thank God.

You let out a breath you were very much holding for dear life before stashing your phone (your finger was on the emergency contact), and opening the door as wide as it goes to greet Dean. Except you get Sammy on the floor, a snappy remark from Dean you can’t hear, then they switch sides.

“Guys… should I leave?” You hesitate, frowning at the pair. Dean look up at you then fucking winks. Sam’s never scrambled off his brother so fast, you’d guess. They’re both off the floor quick, Sam helping Dean to his feet before he saunters to you, that same smirk from the first time glued to his (pretty) face.

“Hey, sweet—”

“Why are you here, Dean.” Sam asks loudly. States loudly? It’s not quiet, that’s for sure.

Dean clicks his tongue with a look that says, ‘I’ll come back to you’, before turning around. He does something, another expression Sam gets with no words and shakes his head, but ultimately nods.

Great. Another silent conversation you’re not apart of. This is getting real good— “Hey,” Sam steps over to you, a hand on your lower back as he leads you back to his room.

Anyone else think this is getting real fucking repetitive?

“Sam, what’s going on?”

“I’m leaving. With Dean, tonight.”

Sam’s room is the exact same from when you two were having your moment, lights turned down low the way you like it, and suddenly it doesn’t feel so romantic. Neither does his docile tone.

“I don’t want to stop seeing you anymore.”

“Beautiful, every part of you.”

“I want to be with you.”

And the best liar’s award goes to…

“Hey, baby,” You give him a look, one that screams ‘are you on fucking drugs right now’, and he shakes his head. “Not— just till next week. I’ll be back before next week, I promise.” Oh.

“You said if you leave you wouldn’t come back.”

“I thought that would be the case but,” he leans closer, his dimples, oh-so-beautiful, with that smile, eyes glinting, “I have something to come back to.”

And you’d be deceiving yourself if you say that it doesn’t calm your heartbeat to hear it. You don’t want to be easy, you want to stand your ground, and tell him there’s no way— but wouldn’t you be as bad as Dean, then? Not letting him do what he craves? Whether it’s law, or being a good brother/son, who are you to dictate that for him? All you have is to be there for him through it.

“And— and we’ll keep in contact?” He agrees feverently, his hands landing on your hips to draw you in.

“No way I’m going to stay for that long and not call you. You said you trust me, right?”

“Right.”

“So trust me, okay?”

“Okay.” He pinched your hips and you let out a yelp, he made sure to capture the moment by stealing a kiss, deepening it immediately. Like he doesn’t want to keep telling you how he feels through words, they’re too little, too underwhelming, not enough to explain what he feels for you.

And you hope, with everything that you fucking are, that that’s what that kiss meant.

When you disconnect, his eyes, if nothing else, serenade you. And you’re sitting on his bed watching him pack with such little disdain, it’s comforting. Even when him and Dean drive you home in the impala, even when you kiss one last perfect time with his promise of next week you’re still composed.

Even when you tell Jess.

“He— what?” She shrieks, her arms crossing in front of her chest. She’s not even angry at him for leaving you. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

“He’s coming back, jess—”

“Yeah well I come back after every summer vacation, still tell everyone I love them before taking off.”

I shrug, partly agreeing with her but honestly? The fact that I got to kiss him seconds before he took off is enough for me to forgive anything else he’s ever done. Except Gen jumps into the conversation, holding up her phone, reading out loud his ‘hey, Gen, I’m out of town for a few days, love you.’

And Jess is freakin’ seething, it’s actually kind of funny. Gen is rapidly regretting her decision to share with the class and is soothing her girlfriend when you get another text. Thankfully your phone’s on silent so it doesn’t alert both girls, but you feel it vibrate and open the message.

Sam: hey.

Sam: Did you tell Gen and Jess?

You: yeah, why?

Sam: because I don’t wanna tell Jess.

Sam: I can imagine how funny she’s being right now that I said bye to the both of you but not her.

Sam: don’t want her to worry though.

You: asshole.

You: in an affectionate way.

Sam: I’ll text you later, baby.

Maybe he should leave more often if he’ll be this tender and caring with you. You take that back. Because you’d still be on his damn bed talking, kissing, maybe even going a little further if Dean fucking Winchester hadn’t interrupted you.

You were talking about something really important, just for him to, what? Break in! Like a lunatic, no less. But you’ve gotten over it already, new problems, new overthinking material.

You’re thankful for the nights with jess and gen, considering you haven’t been close with them these past few days, always with Sam, sleeping over at his, which is surprisingly easy considering you lock yourself in a room of your own after spending half the night on his bed talking or studying.

But thankful, nonetheless. You needed some alone time. And when you wake up Sam sends you a text, just good morning and when you respond it doesn’t go further than that, you don’t mind. You’re glad to know he’s alive everyday till he decides to come back home. Which is why when he calls two days later, you on your stomach with some assignments in front of you, you answer like he’ll hang up in a second if you don’t.

“Sam Winchester. Who would’ve thought, you do know how to use a phone!” It’s a tease, he’s honestly been incredible with keeping you updated, but it’s good to know he meant it when he said he’ll call.

“How’s our favorite doctor?”

“How’s our hotshot lawyer?”

“Good. Better now that I’m talking to you.” He says, exhaling like he just sat down on his bed and you let out a laugh.

“Stupidest thing you’ve ever said. Hands down.”

“Oh, shut up, you love it.” You do. “How’s school?”

“Fine. Jess said you’re missing important classes. How’s Lily taking it, her partner up and leaving?” He doesn’t answer, just groans like she’s been making his life miserable, though you wouldn’t know. Okay maybe you’re a little bitter about him leaving.

“She’s texting non stop, but I get it— just wish she’d believe that I’m out of town. She probably knocked on my apartment door I swear to God.”

“Gen would’ve known.”

“She’s staying at the apartment?” He questions, and you hear— Dean. Dean is in the background, shouting something about a… woman called Constance. And you’re muted. Great. “Sorry,” he says over the static after a long thirty seconds. “Gen, why’s she not over at yours?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t wanna leave the apartment empty, I guess. Jess is over at yours more often than not, though, if that makes you feel any better.”

“So you’re alone.” You shrug, then remember the obvious, and mumble something about studying. This whole call has been dull the second he spoke. There’s something going on, and it has nothing to do with Gen or Jess or the apartment.

“What’s wrong, Sam?” Everytime sam takes a pause before he answers, or say ‘baby’ in that low voice, full of so much emotion, or shakes his head before he’s even spoke a word, your heart drops for a second. First it was age, then experience, then leaving and now— God, whatever this is. The only reason you’re not always assured with sam is because you have to hold your breath in anticipation when he open his mouth.

“It’s nothing, I’m just— this case is taking longer than I thought.”

They’re called cases, now? What has America come to? “Okay, what’s wrong with that? Is it like… too infected?”

He stutters and it forces you to shut your eyes in agony, just stop. Just stop and say what you mean or you might actually throw the phone.

“Yeah, something like that— I gotta stay for another week.” You huff out a breath, sitting up immediately, another week?

“It’s only been two days! How could you possibly know you’ll need to stay another two weeks?” If your voice is slightly raised, it isn’t because you mean for it to be. In fact, you’re trying with everything in your soul to breathe before you speak but he’s making it so difficult. You feel like you’re being… played or— something is going on and it sucks.

“Look it’s connected to another state and we’re—.”

“You’re what? The only exterminators in the country? Sam what the fuck kind of exterminators are that important, huh?” Suddenly, you're no longer concerned about the volume of your voice, “I swear to god, I just— just give me something, anything, sam! Tell me something I can believe. You promised it'll only be a week.”

He says your name like it’ll stop you from lashing out, and you can just imagine him with his head in his hands over the edge of the bed, or sprawled out on it, a palm pressing into his forehead. Either way he’s stressed and any other day you would’ve tried to be there for him, he’s your friend above all else, but he’s lying to you. “I can’t just— it’s a family thing, okay?”

You scoff, already feeling the tear running down your cheek. Whatever. Fine. You weren’t naive enough to think you’re close enough to be considered anything other than his girlfriend, if you were even that. You’ve never had sex, you’ve only been dating for a week, known each other for a month. You know what? Maybe this is going a little too fast. Maybe this is just—

“No, no, stop it. Please. This isn’t it, okay? We can have fights without ending it, right? Right?”

Right. He’s right. He should be right.

Is he right?

“Tell me the truth.”

“I… am. Kind of. We’re not exterminators for the bugs type of thing— more like bears and other wild animals. Wolves.” So. Much. More. Believable.

You’re in Med school for fucks sake, does he think you got there with your good looks? He can’t be for real. “That’s a lie.”

“It isn’t, I swear.”

“Your promise, your swearing, whatever, doesn’t mean that much right now, Sam.” Even with how mad you are, you know that’s not true, he’s always been true to his word, and you get that this was out of his hands, he can’t help it if there’s an extension of the ‘case’. But it’s as low as you can go. “Whatever. You hunt bears, where’s your dad?”

“He’s, I don’t know.” The way he says it, so heavy with exhaustion and worry, even you can tell it’s as truest raw as it can get. “Me and Dean are looking everywhere. He left us this thing, his journal—”

“Journal?”

“He’s old school. Wrote where he’d be next in it, we just want to find him, then I’ll come back, I have to finish the year.”

“Yeah. And your LSATS. They’re in one month starting tomorrow.”

“Yeah… I know.” And for some reason, you feel like a dick for being so assertive. Sam doesn’t sound like himself at all, and sure a part of it was probably from him lying to you, but you can still sense there’s something else. You’re done asking for tonight, though, he doesn’t need questions, he needs comfort. You get that, more than anyone. But one last thing—

“Why the hell would you lie to me about something like that, Sam?” Your question isn't accusatory like most of the conversation was, it’s lighter, and seems to flow between you and Sam easier.

“Didn’t want you to worry. What me and Dean do is dangerous, and we kind of seek out these things to hunt them down— only if they’ve hurt someone.” That’s sweet, no matter how moronic it is. His intentions never were malicious, with you or other people.

“Right. That’s petrifyingly risky.”

“Petri—” He chuckles, “Yeah, Shakespeare, what else?”

You scoff affectionately, “Not the point. Just… honesty, okay? That’s all we have, it’s all I ask.”

You can feel him nodding, and you can feel yourself mirror his actions. You’re not even— you’ve only known him for a month and somehow he’s the only man you’ve ever seen yourself have a future with. How? How does he do this to you? Hypnotize you and pull you in, while still being your safety net. It’s comfortable, it’s passionate and God you’re so into him.

“Yeah, baby, honest. Tell me about your day.” If the grin on your face means anything it’s that you’ve never felt like this before, and you might never again with another man.

Sam: morning.

You: hey, how are you?

‘Mornings’ never usually open up to conversations, just a way of reassurance, but it’s been a couple of days since you’ve last called each other and you’re life’s pretty tame right now, why not initiate the conversation?

Sam: hey, i’m okay, what about you?

You: I’m fine, just studying.

Sam: oh, want me to leave you for a bit?

You: no, no, I’m done already.

You: I wanna talk to you.

You: when are you free?

He usually opts to call at night, between ten and twelve before he has to go to sleep and it’s usually just half an hour, maybe an hour if he’s not too tired. He doesn’t say much about Dean or his Dad but at least you get some of him.

Sam: I can call you tonight.

You: okay, stay safe.

Sam: you too.

But then ‘tonight’ comes and it’s as silent as it was the night before, except last night you didn’t have a promise of a call. And you’re not even mad, you’re just worried— not worried enough to throw your dignity to the floor and call or text him yourself— but still pretty worried.

It’s only eleven, maybe he’ll call later?

He won’t. He doesn’t. But he texts good morning. The next damn day there’s a ‘good morning’ text right under your previous texts making plans to call.

So, like the petty person you are, because that is one trait you are not afraid to let shine, you don’t text back. You have classes all day, anyways, and it’s the last day before the long weekend, so it’s busy enough as it is without having to talk to Sam. Which you don’t have to worry about because he doesn’t want to talk to you anyways.

Except when he decides to talk to you. Except when he decides to text you at ten at night two days later, after not getting a response from you;

Sam: can we talk?

part seven: all my habits came back around.

title: it’s ok, I’m ok by tate mcrae — (baby, don’t get it twisted)

can you tell I wouldn’t die in a horror movie with her finger on the emergency contact? one thing about me is I will not write a horror movie bitch no matter what the plot is, she will be calling the police/her mum the second there’s a sound‼️‼️

I’ll make a master list for remedy since I think there 2 chapters left maybe. this one is pretty cute to prepare you for the next one which is just angst at its finest. THEN THE LAST CHAPTER WHAT. okay I won’t get too excited since I’m not sure when I’ll be posting them yet but I hope you enjoyed this.

and I’ll fix the format for the rest of the chapters so that they’re like this one since this is the one I decided on. If u wanna be tagged comment or send me a message!!

tag list:

@angzls @chxrrybomb22 @pinkpantheris @ang3ldool @iloveragdollcats

@oohjana18294 @user-2538484747490203746579403 @wattpaduser200 @s0urw00lf @ashlynyyyyy

@strabarrybat @anu-piyakya97 @tranquilitybasegrunge

#supernatural #supernatural imagine #sam winchester #sam winchester fanfiction #dean winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester x y/n #sammy #Stanford Sam Winchester #stanford sam #laila writes!!

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uzurimisery · 1 day

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stars so soft. / toji fushiguro x reader

Warnings: suggestive content, friends with benefits to lovers

w.c.: 1k

Written for the @pixelcafe-network Friday Challenge #2

You know it is before you open the door. It’s late, 2 am. The sunset was so long ago it feels like the night has been around the whole day. The guy you started seeing, Alan, a nice guy but a bit boring if you’re honest, left around 11 pm and you’ve just been scrolling through social media on your phone since then. You’ve kept yourself awake, knowing he will turn up eventually. He always does. Toji’s the only person who shows up at the time, with no regard for whether you’re sleeping or not. But like habit you open the door, the hinges creaking under the weight of itself, and sure enough it is Toji on the other side.

“Hey,” he speaks, voice rough from the cigarettes he smokes. His hair is damp and slicked back from his face from the rain. It drips down onto his shirt, the fabric clinging to every ridge of his body.

You hesitate for a second. It’s not surprise, but more like trepidation. There’s always something about him that makes you feel like a school girl with a crush. He never let’s you know what he actually feels towards you and you’re left guessing. You’ve given yourself the grace to assume he wants nothing serious.

You step to the side without thinking. It's second nature to let him in. “Hey.”

He brushes past you, some water dripping onto the tile of your entryway, and you close the door behind him.

The two of you have a complicated relationship. If you can call it that. You aren’t even sure what he’d consider you guys to be. Whatever it is, you know at least you’ll be having great sex tonight.

“You got a new couch.” Toji is a big guy, he takes up a lot of visual space in your apartment. Its not that you’ve got a small apartment, he’s just big. Tall and muscular.

“Yeah, I did.”

It's plush, a deep shade of teal L-shaped couch that contrasts nicely with the warm wood floors of your apartment, really makes them pop. For something you found for $200 on Facebook marketplace, it really is a steal. Fits well in your space and really ties it together in a way the red loveseat you used to have never could. Makes the space cozy and inviting. Makes it feel like a home.

“Looks nice,” He’s quick to slide his shoes off, sink onto the couch, and place his feet on the coffee table. Maybe when you’re that large you forget that things are smaller than you or maybe he doesnt care, but it jostles the two wine glasses you forgot to clear. They clink against each other softly. Scoffing, you nudge his legs off the table.

“Seriously?”

He pointedly glances at the glasses. “You have company?”

You shrug nonchalantly, sliding onto the couch beside him. “Just some guy.”

It is like a witch goes off for him. Toji’s stiff at that, turning to face you. His brows heavy, forehead scrunched up. Reminds you of a kid finding out they aren’t getting the toy they’ve been eyeing a the store. “You’re fucking other guys?”

“No, it was a date. I’m not fucking him. Yet.” You roll your eyes at his tone.

His jaw tightens. “What do you mean yet?”

“As in I’m not having sex with him yet, but I will later.” You reply flatly.

He crosses his arms and stares forward. His posture was rigid like someone shoved a pole up his ass, muscles tensed under his wet shirt. There’s a long silence, which is normal for him he has phases where he doesn’t talk much, but it’s awkward and

tense. He doesn’t look at you, but he’s firm when he finally speaks.

“I don’t want you to.”

“Why not?”

Its at that he faces you again. There’s a possessive edge in his eyes, something hungry and controlling. It’s predatory and sends a shiver down your spine. If you’re honest, it turns you on.

“I don’t want you to,” he’s cold as he speaks. “If you sleep with him I’ll kill him.”

That should be expected given the whole hitman-for-hire thing. Murder is the most natural thing in the world for him. Comes with the territory. You should probably flinch, act horrified, and cry, but you knew what he was and who he was.

“Toji, you’re not my boyfriend I can do what I want.”

He puts a hand on your thigh as he doesn't miss a beat. “Starting today I'm your boyfriend.”

“I don’t get a say in this?” Both of you know that you’d say yes if he had asked you months ago, you were just being bratty since he didn’t ask before and now is telling you of this.

“What like you’re gonna say no?”

You huff, crossing your arms. “You’ve got to take me on an actual date now y’know that?”

“Okay.” He’s smiling at you.

“And I want flowers every week,” you add. If he’s going to decide this for you, you want romance. God knows he’s got to make up for the lack of it he’s been giving you.

To your surprise, he doesn't argue. “Alright.”

You stare at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The look on your face must say a lot because he laughs, one of those full-bellied ones, before pulling you onto his lap.

“You’re serious?” you ask, still suspicious of him.

“Dead serious,” he replies, grip tightening around your waist and pulling you closer to grind your core against his growing erection. His voice is a low growl and he leans in and whispers the next part. “You make me fucking crazy.”

“Buh buh buh,” you place a hand on his chest and push him back. “Bad dog. Gotta earn it by taking me to dinner tomorrow.”

He groaned, putting his head on your shoulder. “Fine.”

You can feel him smiling against your skin before biting your shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” he chuckles pressing a soft kiss to the spot. “I’m not house-trained.”

©️ uzuzrimisery

#uzuri writes #jjk imagine #jujutsu kaisen imagine #toji x reader #toji fushigro x reader #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro fluff

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gimmethatagustd · 3 days

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the heart nebula (1) | kth + pjm

♡ Summary: It has been a year since Jimin and Taehyung started dating, and they still haven't slept together. Jimin thinks they haven't because Taehyung doesn't want him; Taehyung thinks Jimin won't want him if they do. (Or, the one where Jimin is Taehyung's moon, and Taehyung is from the stars.)

♡ Pairing: Taehyung x Jimin

♡ Words: 8,039

♡ Rating: Explicit

♡ Genre: Science fiction, established relationship, angst, smut, fluff

♡ Warnings: Talking about outer space is both sexy and romantic (i bet you didn't know that), taehyung has tentacles or whateva, relationship insecurity, self-esteem issues, misunderstandings, sexual tension, making out, taehyung in grey sweatpants

♡ Post Date: September 16, 2024

♡ Notes: The number of times my brain tried to get me to write “testicles” instead of “tentacles” was unreal.

♡ Masterlist ♡ AO3 Crosspost

♡ series masterlist ♡

Jimin’s parents hadn’t wanted him to move in with Taehyung. Some of Jimin’s friends also questioned what seemed like a hasty decision, though most were supportive.

Jimin finds it all rather ridiculous. Sure, he understands how big of a step moving in with someone is, and he knows that some people consider one year far too early to be taking significant steps in a relationship, but he doesn’t care.

Anyone with reservations hasn’t spent enough time around Taehyung. If they had, then they wouldn’t have harassed Jimin over if he really wanted to do this.

Jimin was the one who had brought up the conversation about moving in, anyway. It was Taehyung who had been hesitant. Jimin can’t blame Taehyung for it; he knows their relationship is the only serious one Taehyung has ever had.

Although they haven’t spoken extensively of their past relationships, Taehyung being one of the most private people Jimin has ever met, Jimin knows that he has been Taehyung’s first for a lot of things— like saying “I love you" and moving in together — all significant steps that Jimin has taken before with other partners and forgets that not all twenty-eight-year-olds have taken them, too.

Taehyung is anything but hesitant now as he drops a cardboard box onto the bed beside where Jimin sits with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap.

It's impressive how strong Taehyung is despite his lean, unsuspecting figure. He nearly single-handedly carried all of Jimin’s belongings from their rented moving truck up the four flights of stairs to his apartment unit. Jimin had felt silly following behind Taehyung with an occasional plant or lighter box cradled in his arms.

“T-shirts and shorts folded, everything else hung?” Taehyung asks as he refolds one of the t-shirts packed in the cardboard box.

He doesn’t look up from his work, so he misses the affectionate smile that Jimin directs at him.

“Yup! I’m surprised you noticed that,” Jimin says, biting the tip of his tongue between his teeth in a teasing kind of way Taehyung loves.

Jimin’s comment causes Taehyung to look up and roll his eyes.

“Ah, you act like I don’t pay attention to you.” He grabs a second t-shirt and ignores the tongue Jimin sticks out at him. “You should be nice to me. I’m handling the worst part of moving for you.”

"Oh, really?" Jimin taunts, sitting back with his hands pressed behind him to prop himself up as he watches Taehyung carry the neatly folded t-shirts into the walk-in closet in his— their —bedroom. "And what part is that?" he asks.

“Unpacking!” Taehyung’s voice sounds muffled; he’s likely bent over, putting away the t-shirts in the dresser drawers.

Unpacking is the worst, aside from all the manual labor that goes into the literal act of moving. The dark strands of Jimin's hair are gathered into a neat ponytail on top of his head, keeping his face cool after sweating all morning.

Mornings are supposed to be cooler, but the late-summer heat is relentless at any hour. Jimin is lucky that Taehyung isn’t stingy with his electricity bill and lets Jimin crank up the air conditioning. They’ll be splitting their utility bills from now on, anyway. That little detail is such an adult thing, not even exciting, considering it’s just paying bills, but it makes Jimin giddy because from now on, it’s Jimin and Taehyung.

They’ve always fit each other well like they were meant to have found each other despite being tiny, insignificant specks in a grand universe. Their hearts knew, but now that they'll live together, they're ready to show the world it’s them. It’s always going to be them, Jimin hopes.

"You look exhausted, little moon," Taehyung murmurs when he returns from the closet and finds Jimin curled up on his side, embracing a large body pillow. The pillow is shaped like a mandu with a whimsical face, and its smile mirrors Jimin's.

“I’m not,” Jimin says with a yawn that he tries to hide behind the pillow.

He buries the bottom half of his face in the soft fabric and squeezes the plushie against his chest. Taehyung won the pillow for Jimin while playing a game at a local festival. It happened on their cliche first date just over a year ago.

Jimin will never forget the sparkle of the colorful lights reflecting in Taehyung’s eyes when he shyly admitted that he’d never been to a festival. His confession was both sad and confusing to Jimin. How could Taehyung have missed out on so many experiences that Jimin finds commonplace, even inconsequential? Jimin supposes that these are privileges he never took the time to be grateful for.

“Oh, my little moon, what a sneaky thing he is,” Taehyung playfully chastises Jimin with a boxy smile. “What will I do with him?”

Little moon, my moon, pretty moon — Taehyung gave Jimin the nickname early in their relationship. Unconventional and romantic, it's somehow just as perfect a reflection of Jimin’s beauty as it is a reflection of Taehyung's quirky personality that drew Jimin to him in the first place.

Jimin shifts to the edge of the bed where Taehyung is standing, both forgetting about the half-unpacked box of clothing and other trinkets that Jimin had hastily thrown into it in a moment of last-minute packing panic.

“Give him kisses, maybe?” Jimin looks up at Taehyung with wide eyes and juts out his plush bottom lip.

“Hmm… kisses, the only universal currency.”

Jimin smiles in response, understanding Taehyung so well but never quite knowing what might come out of his mouth next. His breath hitches when Taehyung runs his fingers through the hair at his temple, gripping the strands gently but firmly.

The way Taehyung treats Jimin is tender. While he refers to Jimin as his moon, he handles him delicately, as if aware of his mortality.

Life is promised to no one, and Jimin feels that's why Taehyung's lips meet his with deliberate slowness. Taehyung's touch sends electricity through Jimin's being, and his lips shock him with an energizing current that galvanizes his soul.

Parting his lips, Jimin flicks his tongue against Taehyung’s top lip. Taehyung always opens up to him without fail, being so obedient and giving. Jimin curls his fingers around the collar of Taehyung’s t-shirt and lets out a quiet moan when Taehyung gives again, following Jimin onto the bed with his hands pressed into the mattress above Jimin’s shoulders and his knees between Jimin’s legs.

It’s good, so good, having Taehyung close, but it’s never enough. Taehyung hovers above Jimin so that no part of his body touches him aside from their lips and the brush of their noses bumping into each other.

It isn’t that Jimin is frustrated. He loves Taehyung and greedily takes whatever he can get from him, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t crave more. It has been a year, and they still haven’t had sex or any physical intimacy beyond making out. Jimin hasn’t even seen Taehyung naked yet.

Hesitantly, Jimin bends his right leg and presses it against Taehyung's side. When Taehyung doesn't react, Jimin goes further by hooking his leg around Taehyung's waist. The pressure he applies to Taehyung's lower back is light enough for Taehyung to resist, but it's clear that Jimin wants to pull him in.

He wants so badly, so badly he needs it. He needs to feel Taehyung’s body on his, to feel Taehyung’s hips spread his legs and press into his thighs. He wants to feel, touch, and taste…

Taehyung’s hand is warm when he cups the back of Jimin’s thigh, bare skin on display from his athletic shorts riding up his legs. Slowly, he unhooks Jimin’s leg from his waist and lowers it onto the bed.

“Tae,” Jimin sighs as the familiar heaviness of disappointment settles on his chest where he wishes Taehyung’s weight could be instead.

Taehyung's smile is small but warm. He kneels between Jimin's legs with one hand still on Jimin's thigh, caressing his soft skin.

“We should order food. Your stomach is grumbling,” Taehyung says as he taps his fingers against Jimin’s thigh.

Taehyung isn’t a liar, but Jimin never believes him whenever he pulls away like this. There’s always some excuse, something that comes up, something, something, something. Jimin and Taehyung get so close, and then something.

“Fried chicken?” Jimin asks, and he can’t suppress a smile when Taehyung’s eyes light up.

Jimin is Taehyung’s little moon, and Jimin knows that Taehyung is his little star, a smattering of twinkling constellations that remind Jimin that there’s more out there in the world than he can ever fathom.

It still hurts, though, when Taehyung pulls away. Taehyung's attention is drawn to his phone as he searches for their favorite restaurant to order delivery while Jimin flops back onto the bed.

Jimin is all too aware of the strain against the waistband of his shorts that will go unresolved until later when he's alone in the shower with his bottom lip crushed between his teeth and only one man on his mind.

“If I was a constellation, which one would I be?” Jimin asks one Sunday evening.

Jimin and Taehyung are in their living room, surrounded by cardboard boxes. Taehyung is on the couch with a box at his feet, while Jimin sits on the floor in the middle of the room. Taehyung stops mid-motion, his hands gripping the folds of the cardboard box as he opens it. With a furrowed brow, he looks up, his intense eyes meeting Jimin's across the room. His heavy gaze makes Jimin feel like Taehyung is delving into the depths of his soul, searching for the correct answer.

Jimin had assumed he was asking something silly, just a fun thought exercise to explore while they unpack the decorations they plan on putting up in the living room. It's been three months since they moved in, and their apartment is still cluttered with boxes and half-finished efforts to integrate Jimin's influence on Taehyung's space. Many of Jimin’s friends have said it could take a whole year before they finish unpacking. Jimin sincerely hopes that isn’t the case.

A few seconds pass before Taehyung returns to sorting through the canvases in his box and replies, “Cassiopeia.”

Why is Taehyung's extensive knowledge of outer space so attractive? Jimin can feel his face growing warm, and he's sure his cheeks have turned a rosy pink. It might be Taehyung's intellect or the authority with which he speaks. Or it's simply that Taehyung feels like he knows Jimin so well, and being understood feels good, even if Jimin has no idea what it means.

“Who is Cassiopeia?” Jimin clears his throat before asking, hoping his voice doesn't give away his flustered state.

“In Greek mythology, she was a queen who was chained to a throne in the sky by Poseidon for being vain after she claimed that either she or her daughter were more beautiful than the sea nymphs.” Taehyung’s lips quirk as he speaks, struggling to fight off a grin when Jimin releases an appalled gasp.

“Are you accusing me of being vain?”

Losing his battle, Taehyung flashes Jimin a lopsided grin as he stands from the couch. He selects one of the canvases from his box and picks up a hammer and nails from the coffee table.

“No, little moon,” Taehyung ruffles Jimin’s silky hair as he walks past him to the opposite side of the living room. “Inside Cassiopeia is the Heart Nebula, located 7,500 light-years from Earth. It's shaped like a heart and glows red because it’s filled with ionized hydrogen gas.”

Skeptically, Jimin reaches for his phone, which sits on the coffee table beside the little box of nails. Sometimes Taehyung is so intelligent about such random things that Jimin wonders if he’s actually bullshitting him.

A quick Google search proves that Taehyung is a genius and never a liar, and Jimin loses himself in a gallery of high-definition photographs of the Heart Nebula, glowing pink against a black galaxy speckled with other stars and space things Jimin doesn’t understand.

“It’s beautiful,” Jimin says, pointing to his phone to show Taehyung that he looked up the nebula online.

Standing at the far wall, Taehyung smiles over his shoulder. It only takes a few hits of the hammer on the nail to be the appropriate length to hang the first painting.

“You are my moon, but also my heart, Jiminie,” Taehyung says with a wink and a blown kiss that Jimin pretends to shoo away.

“Ahhh, why are you so corny!” Jimin only complains so he can act like Taehyung doesn’t render him breathless.

Taehyung shrugs and crosses the room to pick a new canvas from the box. Most of the paintings are ones that Taehyung created for Jimin as gifts, and a few are matching artworks they created together during painting date nights. Jimin had the paintings scattered across his old apartment. It’s nice to see them have a new home next to Taehyung’s other things, right where they belong.

“Thank you for putting these up,” Jimin says after Taehyung empties the box of paintings. They’ve nearly run out of space on the living room walls, but there are plenty more rooms for overflow if needed.

“Of course, heart,” Taehyung teases the new nickname. It’s cute despite being corny.

Jimin leans back on his palms, legs crossed, and stares up at Taehyung as he breaks down the cardboard box.

“What would I do without you?”

“Continue on living, silly.” Taehyung pretends to tap Jimin on top of the head with the flattened box.

“Would I?” Jimin asks as he stares up at Taehyung. He would be sparkly-eyed if it weren’t for his squinted eyes from how deeply he’s smiling. “Do you think I could handle hammering anything into the wall? Look at me.”

With the hand that isn’t holding the flattened box, Taehyung grabs Jimin’s bicep, which he puts on display to demonstrate that he doesn’t have the muscle for home improvement.

“You look adorable,” Taehyung says with a light squeeze of his arm as he helps Jimin stand up. They both know Taehyung is the brawns and the brains in his relationship, even if he’s occasionally a little strange. Jimin fell in love with his quirks.

“Am I adorable enough to nail into the wall, too?” Jimin asks sweetly.

Sometimes, Jimin worries that he’s being too pushy with Taehyung. It’s a tricky line to balance, being horny as fuck for the love of your life and wanting to be respectful, all while having no idea if intimacy will ever happen. Two normal adults would just talk about it, but Jimin fears Taehyung’s response if he asks outright.

“Do you want me, Tae?” sounds like a terrifying question because there is a 50/50 chance the answer will be “ No. ”

So, instead, Jimin does precisely what he shouldn’t and keeps trying without asking clarifying questions that could save both of them from discomfort and potential heartbreak.

“What do you mean?” Taehyung gives Jimin a boxy smile, head cocked to one side in playful confusion.

With soft laughter, Jimin takes the flattened cardboard box from Taehyung’s hands and tosses it onto the floor. Taehyung’s hands belong on his hips, fingers digging into the warm skin exposed by his sweatpants hanging low on Zhis hips.

“Oh, Taehyung-ah, you know. Nail me,” Jimin repeats gently, with an innocence that sharply contrasts how he uses Taehyung’s hands on his hips to pull them closer, closing the gap until he feels all of Taehyung’s body pressed against his.

Taehyung is firm with muscles but still soft in the spots that matter. It isn’t like Jimin never touches Taehyung; they hug often, and Taehyung likes to be the big spoon at night, but it isn’t the same as a moment like this when Jimin is so pent up with desire that he practically trembles with it.

Then there are those moments when Taehyung gives Jimin hope, like now, when his fingers flex against Jimin’s waist, tightening his grip. The response may be a reflex or a nervous fidget, or it might be that Taehyung wants Jimin. Is that so bad to want? To be wanted?

Jimin doesn’t think so, but sometimes he wonders.

“Nail you?”

“Against the wall.” Jimin leans into Taehyung, squeezing his biceps and lifting up on his toes to whisper in his ear. “You’re strong, babe. I think you could handle me.”

It’s cute how red Taehyung’s ears grow beneath his shaggy, mousy brown hair. There’s a slight flush to his tan cheeks, as well, something rosy and pretty, and Jimin realizes he’s not sure he’s ever seen Taehyung embarrassed before. Usually, he almost immediately backs out of intimacy with precision and finesse. Today, though, he stares at Jimin’s bitten lips and takes deep, shaky breaths.

“Tae,” Jimin murmurs as he brings his lips to the edge of Taehyung’s jaw. Each kiss along his jaw elicits another deep inhale until Taehyung’s breathing hitches and catches in his throat.

“Yes, moon?”

Sliding his hands up Taehyung’s biceps until he can wrap his arms around his shoulders, Jimin pulls Taehyung down slightly, just enough to speak against his lips in an almost kiss.

Taehyung’s eyes are squeezed shut, and his pretty lips are parted. His breathing isn’t quite a pant, but it’s breathy enough to make Jimin’s entire body erupt into goosebumps when he turns his face slightly, and Jimin feels his hot breath on the side of his neck.

“Kiss me, please,” Jimin’s lips brush Taehyung’s cheek, and he asks only half of the request that’s burning his chest, waiting to come out.

Jimin knows exactly what he wants to say but can’t bring himself to do it. It feels too monumental to ask for intimacy when the possibility of Taehyung getting spooked is so high.

Surprisingly, Taehyung doesn’t say another word. Keeping one hand on Jimin’s waist, Taehyung cups the back of Jimin’s head with his other hand, supporting him as he tilts to meet Taehyung’s lips. Like always, Taehyung gives when Jimin wants to take. He opens his mouth at the first nibble of his bottom lip, letting Jimin slip his tongue inside and meet him with the tip of his own. The kiss feels desperate and urgent, as though they’ve been starved of each other. Jimin supposes in a way they have, though he never thought Taehyung cared that their intimacy never went beyond a sensual kiss.

It’s easy to surrender to whatever this is. Jimin doesn’t care why Taehyung is rocking against him, letting Jimin shift so his thigh is between Taehyung’s legs. Maybe he’ll care later when they’re no longer panting into each other’s mouths, and Jimin doesn’t have his hands tangled in Taehyung’s hair. For now, Jimin has a one-track mind that he can’t shake, especially when he realizes something that makes him weak in the knees.

Taehyung is hard. Jimin can feel him through his loose pajama pants where Taehyung’s cock is pressed against Jimin’s thigh. He doesn’t dare look down at what he knows will be a prominent bulge partially masked by the checkered print of Taehyung’s pants.

Jimin would be a liar if he said he hadn’t thought about Taehyung's body, but now that Jimin feels Taehyung's cock pressed against his thigh, warm and thick, he realizes Taehyung is much more than Jimin expected.

Taehyung kisses him like he has been waiting for his whole life, and Jimin considers how possible that may be. They joke that they’re soulmates, but the more Jimin learns about Taehyung, the more he feels connected to him in a way he hasn’t felt with anyone else. It’s cliche, but anything Jimin feels deeply enough to make his heart ache is worth paying attention to.

But when Jimin’s hope for more than just a kiss reaches its peak, Taehyung pulls away.

“Your parents,” Taehyung pauses to clear his throat, “we need to get everything put together before they get here.”

Jimin opens his eyes only to narrow them immediately, eyebrows scrunched together and wrinkles lining his forehead.

“What?” he asks, out of breath. “They’re coming next week. We have plenty of time.”

Taehyung still holds Jimin’s waist, one thumb hooked around the waistband of his well-worn basketball shorts. It isn’t a sexual touch, just a way to keep Jimin close, but Jimin feels Taehyung’s presence against his skin like a hot iron brand.

“Time means very little, almost nothing at all,” Taehyung sounds exasperated, as though he can’t understand why Jimin is making this more complicated than it needs to be.

Except Taehyung is the one not making sense.

“Okay…” Jimin says blankly as Taehyung takes a step back.

Taehyung grabs the flattened cardboard box and a few other recyclables to dispose of, leaving Jimin alone in the living room with a tight smile.

Jimin should be accustomed to this behavior by now, but each time, Taehyung somehow manages to cut a new wound in him that hurts worse than the last. There was a time when Jimin thought he was invincible, that it was him and Taehyung against the world. These days, he feels like he’s on the outside, looking in. If Jimin is Cassiopeia, Taehyung is 7,500 light-years away on Earth, looking at stars that may not actually exist anymore.

Jimin thinks having his parents in his and Taehyung's apartment feels weird. Their apartment is a sacred space where they can escape the world's expectations and judgment. Inviting Jimin's parents into their space is unavoidable and frustrating. Jimin loves his parents, but they are difficult.

Especially his mother.

"So, Taehyung, remind me, what is it that you do for work?"

When Jimin's mother asks the question, Jimin flinches and nearly drops the shot glass in his hand. Luckily, the thick glass only thuds against the kitchen counter. Taehyung and Jimin's parents turn around to look at Jimin, but he waves them off and returns to making their beverages.

As a bartender, Jimin is always volunteered by others to make drinks at parties and family gatherings. Tonight is no different, with his parents visiting his and Taehyung's apartment for the first time and meeting Taehyung.

Jimin realizes they should have gone out to dinner rather than cook at home. It's nearly ten o'clock at night, and his parents are asking for a second drink, looking far too comfortable in their spots at the kitchen table while they hold Taehyung hostage in his own house.

It would be impolite for Jimin to kick his parents out of his apartment, but he doesn't know if he can survive another four hours with them. At least Taehyung isn't sweating through his dress shirt like Jimin is.

Clearing his throat, Taehyung adjusts his posture in his chair and answers Mrs. Park's question.

"I'm an aerospace engineer for the Korea Aerospace Administration, eomeonim," he is polite, perhaps more than necessary.

"Is that so?"

Jimin stands with his back to the kitchen table, tending to their drinks. He has known his mother for nearly thirty years; he can sense the exact expression on her face merely from the tone of her voice. The familiar scrutinizing look causes her to furrow her brows and purse her lips as if she's caught a whiff of something unpleasant. The look itself doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's her thinking face; the thoughts could be good or bad. It's what she says when wearing the expression that matters.

"Yes, eomeonim," Taehyung responds almost cooly, but Jimin isn't entirely paying attention.

"Looking at this apartment, I wouldn't assume you have such a prestigious career. What is your salary?"

"Eomma!" Jimin nearly drops the three glasses of somaek he's delicately carrying to the table.

Taehyung immediately stands up to help, but Jimin hushes him until he sits down again.

"What? I was merely curious." Mrs. Park's eyes widen with feigned naivety. Only the subtle twitch at the corner of her lips betrays her poorly crafted ruse.

"The apartment is modest," Mr. Park finally speaks up once he has had a sip of his drink. "There is nothing wrong with that. I respect a man who lives within his means and doesn't flaunt his wealth. Or degree, for that matter."

Despite the positivity, Mr. Park's comment feels like a dig at Jimin, who dropped out of college after a year. Unfortunately, Jimin knows he tends to overthink his parents' words and intentions. It isn't much use, but he can't stop himself.

"Taehyung is incredibly intelligent, one of the smartest people I know. But he is very humble," Jimin says as he returns to his seat at the table.

Taehyung and Mrs. Park sit at each end of the small table, with Jimin and Mr. Park across from each other on the sides. When Taehyung doesn't respond to Jimin's compliment, Jimin turns to look at him and frowns at the sight of Taehyung drinking his somaek entirely too quickly.

"Clearly," Mrs. Park agrees, though Jimin doesn't understand what she means, "and what are your future plans, Taehyung? Do you want to remain in Seoul long-term? I assume you aren't from here, considering your satoori."

Jimin bites his bottom lip and avoids Taehyung's gaze, though he realizes Taehyung isn't looking at him anyway. His mother has always been invasive; Jimin supposes most parents are when meeting their child's significant other for the first time. It's just hard to watch, knowing that Taehyung is a very private person.

"I grew up in a small town outside of Daegu," Taehyung says with a smile that doesn't brighten his face the way it usually does.

He doesn’t answer Mrs. Park’s other questions.

Mr. Park grunts at Taehyung’s reply, going on a little tangent about a good friend of his from Daegu. Jimin doesn't pay attention, already knowing the friend his father is talking about. Instead, he watches Taehyung, who is unusually quiet and still. Jimin wants to blame Taehyung's standoffish attitude on nerves, but it feels like something more. Despite his polite language and concise answers to even the most probing questions, Taehyung comes across as apathetic, even cold. He isn’t making an effort to lighten the mood, even though Jimin already prepped him for what being around his parents would be like, particularly his mother. Before Jimin’s parents arrived, he and Taehyung had agreed to have each other’s backs and to stay positive. Now, Taehyung won’t even look at Jimin.

The confusing tension Jimin feels strumming between him and Taehyung – tension he isn't even sure Taehyung notices – snaps when Taehyung abruptly stands from the table after Mrs. Park asks him about his past love life.

"Please excuse me," Taehyung mumbles and avoids everyone's gaze as he rushes out of the kitchen without a second look.

With his nostrils flared, Jimin stares his mother down as they hear the bedroom door slam shut.

“Eomma.” Jimin doesn’t say anything else. If he tries to articulate his thoughts, he may be the most disrespectful he has ever been to his mother. Even though she may deserve it, Jimin was raised too proper for that.

"All I asked was if he had been in a serious relationship before this," Mrs. Park sniffles and pats her cheeks with the corner of her napkin as if there are tears to be dried.

“Eomma,” Jimin repeats with frustration, “you shouldn’t ask someone a question like that.”

The fake tears are quickly forgotten when Mrs. Park narrows her eyes at Jimin. “Jimin, I just want what's best for you, and I don’t feel confident that Taehyung is. He is not right.”

Jimin takes a deep breath as the room tilts. His mother continues talking and complaining, and his father chimes in to likely lessen the blow of his mother’s words, but everything sounds like Jimin is underwater. He doesn’t think he’s going to pass out, though he never has before. Everything is still in color. There’s no ringing in his ears or spots in his vision. He can’t breathe, though. It’s as if there’s a hole in him, a leak somewhere, and each breath is air that passes straight through his lungs without bringing him any sense of calm.

“Taehyung is just different,” Jimin whispers through the tightness in his chest. “Different isn’t bad. He just… he has a different way of thinking, eomma, and he’s shy. He was nervous to meet you.”

Mrs. Park scoffs, “How am I supposed to accept him into this family when he can’t even be polite?”

What hurts the most is that there is truth to her words. Jimin thinks back to the tension between him and Taehyung the day before. It’s always the same: Jimin seeks a connection Taehyung won’t give him, and Jimin wonders if it means Taehyung doesn’t want him. Is that what everything comes down to? Is Jimin fighting for a partner who doesn’t even want him?

“Different isn’t bad,” Jimin repeats as if saying it again might convince her. It sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself.

Jimin’s parents leave by midnight. At some point, Taehyung returned from the bedroom, quietly apologizing. Only Mr. Park paid the apologies any mind.

Jimin doesn't speak to Taehyung after his parents leave. Jimin goes through his routine in silence. He deliberately avoids looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he changes into his pajamas and washes and moisturizes his face. The sight of the frustration and self-doubt etched into the lines on his forehead and the deep creases that form around his mouth is too much to bear.

Ignoring Taehyung may seem unnecessarily cruel since the night wasn’t particularly great for either of them. The thing is, Taehyung ignores Jimin, too. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but Jimin doesn’t care. He’s tired of getting his feelings hurt and pretending it doesn’t matter.

When Jimin and Taehyung first moved in together, Jimin felt like every night was a sleepover with his best friend. Now, Jimin just feels cold as he climbs into bed with Taehyung, who stares silently at the ceiling.

“Goodnight, Tae,” Jimin mumbles as he reaches over to turn off the bedside lamp.

If Taehyung responds, Jimin doesn’t hear him.

Jimin wakes up in the morning still pissed. Despite brushing his teeth the night before, he has a bad taste in his mouth, and a god-awful headache throbs in the middle of his forehead. Overall, it's a shitty way to start a Sunday morning.

When he gets out of bed, Jimin can hear the steady thump of music from down the hall. The sound is muffled by the closed door of their guest bedroom, which has recently been transformed into a workout room. Jimin rarely uses it, but when he does, he prefers peaceful yoga routines or guided meditation sessions from his favorite calming app. Taehyung utilizes the room far more often than Jimin and prefers more rigorous activities, such as weightlifting and cardio.

Based on the beat of the music, it sounds like Taehyung is listening to a hip-hop playlist. Jimin knows that means he's doing cardio and probably woke up pissed off, too. Jimin hopes so; he doesn’t want to be the only one seething. He wants to slide down the hardwood floors of their hallway in his fuzzy socks pulled loose at the toes from being slept in, bust into the room with hell’s fury, and be met with Taehyung’s own fury, ready to combust with his.

Instead, when Jimin flings the door open, he's greeted by Taehyung casually running on the treadmill as if nothing is wrong, as if the bullshit from the previous night never happened, as if meeting Jimin's parents and fucking everything up means nothing to him. It's as if he doesn't care at all.

Taehyung presses a few buttons on the treadmill, gradually slowing down to a leisurely walking pace. When he runs his fingers through his hair, Jimin is reminded that Taehyung is one of those insufferable people who seem to never sweat. For some reason, it makes Jimin even angrier.

"What is wrong with you?" Jimin raises his voice just enough to be heard over the music playing from the Bluetooth speaker.

Looking over his shoulder, Taehyung furrows his brows as his eyes scan Jimin, probably noticing his crumpled pajamas, unwashed face, disheveled bedhead, and arms folded tightly across his chest.

Taehyung hits the stop button on the treadmill. "What do you mean?"

"Obviously, there's something wrong, Taehyung,” Jimin scoffs and hates that he hears his mother in his own words. “It's either you or it's me. It's probably me. Am I really so repulsive to you? Do you really despise being with me to the point where you won’t touch me, won’t fuck me, barely even kiss me, can't even pretend to like my parents for just one night?"

Taehyung steps off the treadmill but doesn’t move toward Jimin. They stare at each other from across the room, Jimin hovering in the doorway, Taehyung with one hand wrapped around the arm of the treadmill to steady himself. His face crumples as Jimin speaks, his frown melting into a pained expression Jimin has never seen on him before.

"Little moon..." Taehyung starts, but Jimin interrupts him.

"Don't call me that," Jimin snaps, blinking back unshed tears that burn the corners of his eyes.

It isn’t fair how things have devolved so quickly. It has only been a few months of living together; Jimin thought being together would improve their relationship. He thought the insecurities and confusion would be resolved if they spent more time together. It doesn’t help that Taehyung’s hours at work are chaotic, and Jimin has revolving shifts at the restaurant bar he bartends at. It doesn’t help that Taehyung is so private, not letting Jimin around when he changes or showers. It doesn’t help that Taehyung has no family from which Jimin can learn and gain insight into Taehyung's life before meeting him.

Jimin thought they would be closer, but instead, he feels like he’s losing his mind.

Taehyung’s expression softens, though he doesn’t look any less upset. It’s the most emotion Jimin has seen from him all weekend.

"I don't hate being with you, Jimin."

Even though Jimin insisted that Taehyung call him by name, it still stings when he does.

"So what is it then? You don't hate it; you just dislike it?" Jimin inhales sharply through his nose as he tries not to cry. "Do you even want me, Taehyung? Because I can't do this. I really can't."

Sighing, Taehyung lets go of the treadmill, reaching for his phone to turn off the music. Jimin thinks he will step toward him, but instead, Taehyung wraps his arms around his own torso. He embraces himself tightly as if holding himself together with his arms.

"You have no idea how much I want you," Taehyung says softly. The tender look in his eyes makes Jimin's heart crack even worse than it had when he watched pain twist Taehyung’s face.

“Then what’s wrong?” Jimin quickly swipes his fingers across the apple of his cheek, gathering the few tears that have managed to escape.

Taehyung's gaze darts to the floor. “I can’t tell you," he murmurs.

“Taehyung, I want to help you,” Jimin pleads. “I don’t understand what’s going on with you, but I want to help you, okay? Even if it’s me… if you don’t want me to be here, I’ll leave, okay? I just hate how… I just hate this.”

It isn’t even about sex, not really. If Taehyung told Jimin right now that he never wanted to have sex, Jimin wouldn’t even care. He would hug him, tell him he loves him, and never bother him about it again. But not knowing why Taehyung pulls away from Jimin and why he won’t even stick around to spend time with Jimin’s parents despite knowing how meaningful those relationships are to Jimin…

All Jimin ever gets from Taehyung are evasive answers and forced smiles. It’s eating away at him.

Taehyung lets his arms fall to his sides and gestures for Jimin to come closer. Jimin follows, drawn to Taehyung as always, their strings attached and stars aligned.

“Please don’t be upset with me,” Taehyung whispers. He keeps his eyes on the floor as he talks. “And please don’t be scared.”

Scared? Jimin frowns so deeply that his head hurts, and it only worsens when Taehyung reaches over his shoulder to grab the back of his shirt and pull it over his head.

“Why would I be scared of you, Tae?”

Jimin watches Taehyung fold his t-shirt and hang it over the arm of the treadmill. The only thing scaring him is how strange Taehyung is behaving.

Taehyung's eyes close for a moment as he takes a deep breath. Whatever he's about to reveal is causing him even more anxiety than the previous night's discomfort. Jimin can sense it; he can see how Taehyung holds his energy in his body, with slumped shoulders and a tight chest.

Rather than respond to Jimin’s question, Taehyung opens his eyes and stares into Jimin’s. He adjusts his posture to stand at his full height. Jimin watches the fear in his eyes and almost misses the movement behind him.

“Jimin, I’m–”

“What the f–”

Jimin's breath catches in his throat as he stumbles backward, bumping into the sharp edge of the doorframe.

Two long tentacles emerge slowly from Taehyung’s back. They’re smooth with a slightly ridged underside and tapered, ending with a flexible, rounded tip. One wraps around Taehyung’s bicep while the other rests on Taehyung’s shoulder, the tip occasionally moving in a way that reminds Jimin of a cat curious about its surroundings.

Jimin’s eyes flit from the tentacles to Taehyung’s face and the insecurity that etches wary lines in his expression. His heart quickens in his chest, fluttering and forcing his blood to rush into his ears. He hears nothing but his own heartbeat and sees nothing but tunnel vision that darkens everything around him aside from Taehyung with fucking tentacles.

“What the fuck, Taehyung,” Jimin whispers, tilting his head back to rest against the wall. His legs are on the verge of giving out.

"I'm not from Daegu..." Taehyung admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I can fucking see that!"

Jimin's voice is high-pitched and followed by shaky laughter. Taehyung cringes. The tentacle wrapped around his bicep quickly shrinks back, retracting until only one tentacle is left. Jimin has the strange feeling that the tentacle is looking at him.

"The Korea Aerospace Administration discovered my planet three years ago," Taehyung speaks slowly, never taking his eyes off Jimin's. “In exchange for a peace treaty, a group of scientists came to Earth to be studied.”

A flicker of pain scrunches Taehyung’s expression, tightening his brow. He lets go of it quickly, but Jimin sees it and understands. Taehyung doesn’t need to explain further; what has happened is clear. Nothing good can possibly come out of being handed over to the government to be studied. Jimin can only imagine what experiments were forced upon these unknown people. Aliens.

Taehyung is a fucking alien.

Jimin opens his mouth, but he finds he can’t speak. He can hardly even exhale. His throat feels dry and stuck like it’s closed off.

“I’m so sorry…” Taehyung breaks eye contact once more as the tips of his ears turn pink.

The remaining tentacle touches the side of Taehyung’s face, just along the edge of his cheekbone, before pulling away to curl around his forearm. It looks like it’s… comforting him.

“I don’t know what to say,” Jimin confesses, his voice trembling.

Taehyung responds with a forced smile aimed at the floor.

“I won’t blame you for thinking I’m a monster. I am, at least, on Earth. At home, I’m just a regular guy,” Taehyung says with a dark chuckle. “I have a mother who complains that I haven’t given her offspring yet. My father is a scientist, too. I grew up wanting to be like him.” Taehyung looks up at Jimin again, this time with wide, pleading eyes. “My little sister is still in school. We have school, just like here. She wants to be a teacher of human studies. She finds all of you fascinating.”

Tears slip down Jimin’s ruddy cheeks, trailing along his cheekbone to travel his jawline. He doesn’t wipe them away; more will come.

Taehyung has a family. He went to school and became a scientist. He risked his life for the good of his people and ended up here just to argue with his boyfriend about secrets and intimacy.

Everything strange that Taehyung has ever done flits through Jimin’s mind like rolling credits, one moment after another, clearly laid out. His behavior at dinner with Jimin’s parents, his knowledge of space, his quirky little jokes Jimin rarely understands, and the pet names he gives Jimin, his job as an aerospace engineer.

“Do you actually go to work?” Jimin chokes out.

For some reason, Taehyung laughs. His reaction makes Jimin's face burn with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” Taehyung says once he has calmed down his anxious giggling. “I just… That wasn’t what I expected to be your first question after finding out you’re dating a monster.”

Jimin frowns. "Are you going to eat me?"

"Why would you think that?"

"I don't know. You keep calling yourself a monster."

Taehyung laughs again, and this time, the joy reaches his eyes. "Little moon, I'm not going to eat you," he says, tentatively stepping closer. "I'm in love with you."

Taehyung has said it a million times, but hearing his love confession always makes Jimin’s stomach flutter.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

Jimin peers over Taehyung's shoulder at the tentacles extended from his back. Since their conversation calmed down, two more tentacles have emerged, all of them peeking around Taehyung's body as if they're cautiously watching Jimin.

"I never told you because I didn't know how. I'd been on Earth for barely a year when I encountered the most captivating creature I've ever seen," Taehyung says, looking at Jimin with a soft smile. "Was I supposed to walk up to you and say, 'Hi, I'm Taehyung, the alien! My tentacles and I would love to get to know you!'?"

Jimin struggles to look Taehyung in the eyes.

“You could have said that,” he mumbles as he watches two of Taehyung’s tentacles bat at each other.

Taehyung snorts. “I could not have.” The playful tentacles seem to annoy Taehyung because he swats at them, and they shrink back slightly, separating themselves so one is on either of his shoulders. “Aliens aren’t real.”

The statement sounds silly coming from a man with tentacles, but Jimin thinks he understands. If their roles were reversed, Jimin doesn’t think he would ever share his secret with Taehyung.

“Well,” Jimin takes slow steps until he meets Taehyung in the middle of the room, “I’m not afraid of you. And I don’t think you’re a monster.”

Up close, Jimin can see that Taehyung has been crying, too. His eyes are red and puffy, and his cheeks are tear-stained. He’s still gorgeous, though, a pretty crier. He could be nothing else in Jimin’s eyes. Tentacles and all.

“Thank you,” Taehyung reaches for Jimin’s hands and grins with Jimin, offering both for Taehyung to hold.

Jimin keeps waiting for something to happen, something horrible that will have him packing his bags and getting the fuck out of there. But it's the same two hands holding his, with the same rough calluses from lifting weights and the same warm skin that always bring Jimin comfort. Taehyung is still the same, with soft brown eyes that stare into Jimin's with the intensity of the desire to know and understand. Taehyung is just Taehyung.

“You don’t need to hide them. They’re cool,” Jimin says, smiling when Taehyung laughs again. He could listen to those giggles for the rest of his life – plans to, actually.

One of Taehyung’s tentacles sneaks out further, hovering near Jimin’s forearm. It doesn’t touch him, but something about how it moves makes Jimin think it wants to.

“Are they sentient?” Jimin asks, looking back and forth between the tentacles and Taehyung.

Taehyung furrows his eyebrows, deep in thought.

"It's hard to put into words for a human to understand... It's like my tentacles are an extension of myself. I can control them, but sometimes, they act on my emotions and instincts without me telling them to. Sort of like your subconscious. They have their own little personalities, but I think it’s because each one is a concentrated piece of my personality. When I let them free, they know what my mind and heart want without me having to tell them. Does that make sense?"

It doesn’t, but Jimin nods anyway.

“I guess the most important thing to understand is that they’re a part of me, and they won’t harm you,” Taehyung’s tone is gentle but firm. "My people, we use them to communicate and understand each other's emotions." He squeezes Jimin’s hands when he talks, drawing Jimin’s eyes up to his. “Okay, moon?”

“Yes,” Jimin nods again, “I never assumed you would hurt me, Tae.”

Seemingly satisfied with that answer, Taehyung raises his eyebrows as he takes one of Jimin’s hands and directs it toward the tentacle still hovering near his arm.

"What?" Jimin squawks, but he doesn't stop Taehyung from guiding his hand.

The tentacle first pokes at Jimin’s outstretched fingers. After testing the waters, it slides against Jimin’s palm, though he doesn’t dare try to grab it. As the tentacle glides along the inside of his wrist, Jimin feels the line of tiny bumps on the underside that send tingles through his skin.

“They’re really soft,” Jimin notes in surprise. He shivers as the tentacle climbs his arm and slips underneath his t-shirt sleeve.

"You're the first human to touch them who’s not doing it to study them," Taehyung admits shyly.

It’s shocking how quickly anger creeps up Jimin's neck and flushes his face. Just the thought of someone poking and prodding Taehyung makes him feel sick to his stomach.

“It’s okay, little moon.” Taehyung reaches up with his hand to run his fingers through Jimin’s hair. “I’m okay now. I don’t have to go through that any longer.”

“Okay.”

Jimin doesn’t see the point in bothering Taehyung about it. Maybe one day he’ll ask, but today has been a considerable step for Taehyung. Jimin doesn’t want to push him even further than he already has. There’s just one more question he’ll allow himself to ask. It seems within the boundaries of what has already been uncovered. Still, Jimin has to take a deep breath to dispel his nerves.

"Can I see the rest of you?"

Taehyung finally breaks out into a full smile, all crooked and boxy.

"This is all of me," Taehyung says with a laugh. "What more did you expect? Antennae? Green skin?"

"Leave me alone!" Jimin swats at Taehyung, embarrassed by his own curiosity. It’s the damn movies! Jimin doesn’t even like watching alien movies.

"My people aren't too different from yours," Taehyung says with a knowing smile.

Maybe for some humans, learning that one’s boyfriend is an alien would be devastating. For Jimin, as he opens his arms to wrap around Taehyung, careful not to crush his tentacles, learning this vital information about his boyfriend only helps him understand Taehyung even more. Gone are his concerns about being enough or Taehyung’s happiness. Knowing the secret of who Taehyung is is a gift. It’s a guarantee that Jimin will be able to care for Taehyung better and nurture their relationship with a better understanding of what Taehyung needs.

And right now, Jimin knows that Taehyung needs reassurance — something Jimin is more than eager to provide him with.

“I love you so much, my pretty moon,” Taehyung murmurs into Jimin’s silky hair. He cups the back of Jimin’s head, keeping him close as if he thinks Jimin might pull away.

“I love you, too. Always.”

Always is a bold statement, and Jimin means it with all his heart.

♡ series masterlist ♡

My fanfiction works are created for entertainment purposes only and do not represent real individuals or events. My content is exclusively posted on Tumblr (gimmethatagustd) and AO3 (gimmethatagustd, daddytaehyungie). Copying, reposting, modifying, translating, or using my content for AI purposes is strictly prohibited. All rights are reserved.

#taehyung x jimin #bts fanfic #jimin fanfic #jimin angst #jimin smut #jimin fluff #bts angst #bts fluff #bts smut #taehyung fanfic #taehyung angst #taehyung smut #gimmethatagustd #taehyung fluff #jai writes #the heart nebula

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livelovecaliforniadreams · 2 days

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JENNA All right. Jim and Pam are going to arrive to work, and they are, dare I say, blissfully, in love this trot through the parking lot. We haven't seen this in a while.

ANGELA They have a super cute joint talking head together. I'm pointing out all the talking heads as these final episodes play out. And this one is facing out. Jim and Pam are facing out to the future of their life.

JENNA Although maybe they should be facing in since Jim is coming back to Dunder Mifflin. Maybe the talking head knows more than they do at this moment.

ANGELA Maybe the writer of the Talking Head knows more. Jim is going to share that. He's taking time off from Athlead, and the guys in Philly have been calling nonstop, but all that matters is the two of them being together, and they've had some great days together. And Pam says 'And a nice morning, too.' And then Jim's like Beasley.

JENNA Well, we had a fan question from Anto P. in Brooklyn that so intrigued me and Anto said, 'Are you aware of the quote, Pam lucky sweater theory?'

ANGELA No.

JENNA I was not. Thankfully, Anto linked to this theory. The theory is that Pam has a sex sweater.

ANGELA No.

JENNA Yes, it is a pink cardigan. And apparently, if she wears it, it means that Jim and Pam have recently had sex.

ANGELA Get out.

JENNA Yes.

ANGELA Did you see, like, go back and look at episodes?

JENNA Yes. So in the carpet, she's just returned from the Poconos with Roy, and she hesitates to answer when Michael asks if she got lucky.

ANGELA Is she wearing the pink sweater?

JENNA She is.

ANGELA Stop.

JENNA And later she has to tell Jim like, well, we didn't ski much. Like, she's all, like, shy to be like, No, we actually didn't ski much. So. Okay, then I guess she wears it again in PDA. That's the episode where her and Jim hook up in the closet. Right. And then she wears it in this episode, too. Now, she wore it one other time. She wore it in customer loyalty. And that's the one where C.C. has a recital and she breaks down crying.

ANGELA So maybe that one throws the theory off a little.

JENNA It does. But don't they always say, that's the exception that proves the rule? Isn't that that saying in order to prove a rule, there's always one exception? Is that what that sometimes means? I'm going to be. I don't know why we ask. I don't really have I don't really know what it means. We don't know what it means. But anyway, fans wondered if maybe that was a nod to the private moment that she's going to share with Brian in the end, that there was still intimacy, even though it wasn't sexual intimacy. This is how the fans justified it.

ANGELA I mean, there are a lot of theories out there about different parts of the show. This one is the most surprising to me. That she's got a 'I got lucky' sweater. Oh my gosh.

#the office ladies #cute things #love this scene #jim x pam #jim and pam #jim halpert #pam beesly #love #john krasinski #jenna fischer #the office #the office edit #the office edits #theoffice #theofficeedit #theofficeedits

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hellenhighwater · 1 month

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Hellen, how do you know how to do so many things? I know how to do a few things but I look at your stuff and every time I'm like "damn. I wish I could do that"

oh, I just do them.

It's after 1:30 am, so you get the existential answer. The fun thing about personhood is you get to just be whatever. You can't necessarily do whatever--money and laws are things, unfortunately, and you only get so much control over the opportunities available to you. But you can sort of just throw yourself down on the anvil of life and hammer yourself into whatever shape you want. Ideally the process of it drives out some flaws as you go, but sometimes also you take an impurity and make yourself stronger with it.

I am, still, a person who is terrified of failure; of incorrectness; of being wrong. And there is nothing to do with fear except shatter it with blunt force, and so I line myself up against failure again and again and again. I will try. I must; or the fear of failure wins, and I must keep trying after I fail or I have failed utterly. I fear failure, and therefore I take it as a challenge. I must do what I think I cannot. And you know what? More often than not, I can.

I have a weird and wandering skillset because I make myself try things, knowing full well that I will remember for decades every time someone saw me be less than instantly successful, because the only way I know to get better is to batter down the dross of my own fear. That's the deal. I'm not doing anything that nobody has done before. I know it's all possible. I just have to be the sort of person that does it. And it gets easier every time. If the question is can it be done and the answer is yes, then the next question is can I be the one to do it, and the answer is I want to be.

Every time I fail my way over and over to eventual success, trying again the next time is less scary; every time I have a broader base of skills to carry to the next challenge. I'm not unusually talented, just stubborn as hell, and I've lived long enough on I have to do what scares me that honestly, not that much scares me anymore.

If you keep failing long enough, it turns out that you just get really good at problem solving, and figuring out unconventional ways to reach your goals. It's not about a special secret concoction of skills, it's about persistence, and hammering away until you've taken a mess and made it into something you think is worth keeping. It's not easy, but it is simple.

Also I have incredibly strong unmedicated ADHD. But I sort of assume that's glaringly obvious.

#Also. If I'm being honest. I tend to operate on instinct and while my instincts arent BAD they are definitely weird.#there has been a lot of no-hesitation I should do this...#in my life #and its resulted in a kind of eclectic skillset #rejection sensitive dysphoria my ancient foe #my narrative foil....#on the same topic i have a strong fear of heights and as a result I spent years doing theatrical rigging because it forced me to get good #at working at height #mostly bc i was personally offended by the idea i may have a quote unquote weakness #so now im scared but functional #the artistic philosophy of put your shoulder down and press on #"

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kuromi-hoemie · 1 year

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i just finished iron blooded orphans and need to lay down for a bit

#it was so good #i don't have a lot of concrete thoughts rn just Feelings™#it was SUCH a wild ride. I'm always kinda hesitant to talk about a show bc i feel like I'm gonna spoil it but it's also not new lol so??#imma talk about it a bit anyways so tags after this will have spoilers #BUT SJFKGKDLA #so many people died 😭 imo the late deaths weren't as Sad™ as the earlier ones but still.#the way everyone changed their names and picked up new lives but still kept in touch with each other #and everyone finding Something because they kept moving forward. particularly Takaki in particular for me 🥹🤲#hearing something as simple like if u see a lot of places and learn a lot of things u will have many options. but The Way he's #living that out is just 🤌 a long way from being human debris my boy 🫂 I'm so proud of him #and I'm glad that greedy arms freaking mf got shot up in the bathroom 😼 it's what he DESERVED!!#last episode just like. rly emphasizing that even though the group is done everyone still lives on and finds their niche #and it's tragic fr how many people had to die trying to realize a dream that happened anyways 😔 though it wouldn't have #without their deaths so.. i fuckn KNEW at the beginning of the second season when Olga got the warning #about how if ur taking shortcuts/fastest way possible ur going to regret it later was MASSIVE foreshadowing #and it's just like damn y'all r letting me know this early huh 😭imma enjoy the ride regardless and what a fucking ride it was #i almost want to watch it again but there are also Other gundam series i need to check out #not for a while though.. imma do some stuff around the house n maybe draw for a bit.#just rly sit on my feelings and the Experience i just had. thank u everyone who brought up IBO it was SOOOO fucking good #feel free to recommend other favorites of yours i should check out next. mecha anime has always been a blindspot too so #if y'all have any in general from the genre lmk ^~^

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euphor1a · 1 year

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Hi, I hope you guys know that you can unfollow/block me at any given moment. I genuinely do not want to see anyone’s tumblr experience being ruined because of me! Please don’t think it’s rude because ultimately it’s a form a self-care and we should practice it to make ourselves more comfortable in our internet space <3

#this has been a psa #as someone who ruins their own experience on here; i’d be sad if i was affecting other people as well #so never hesitate 💕#and it’s really not just about me #it goes to any blog you follow #i know a lot of people struggle with blocking and unfollowing (bc i do as well 😗✌🏼)#but i hope you wouldn’t feel burdened or obligated #it’s 4 am now i should probably head to bed #but my point stands. okay? okay.#how to tumblr

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abyssembraced · 1 year

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I'm hesitant to outright promise anything, but I'm hoping to get to my owed replies sometime soon? At least the ones I owe for Ghost, anyway.

I'm also open to plot new threads for either Ghost or Rouxls! Admittedly, I'm not sure how much time I'll have to sit down and Discuss things this week, mind you, but I'm willing to give it a shot! Finishing my currently owed replies will have to take priority over writing any new starters or replies for new threads, though, since I've owed them for a frankly ridiculous amount of time and I feel really bad for putting them off for so long, but plotting and planning stuff is good!

#ooc #((i only have two owed replies for ghost))#((so the ''replying to old threads has to take priority over starting new ones right now'' isn't That big of a thing))#((aside from the fact that i am Very Very slow with writing))#((but yeah. ough. really didn't mean to let my threads sit for this long))#((during the school year it was fine since i was busy with uni but i've been on summer break for a couple months now dgdhsh))#((it's not even that i don't know how to reply. i have ideas and plans!! it's just a matter of sitting down and actually Writing))#((i guess it's because i expect my replies to end up being pretty long. so i expect them to take a long time to write))#((and that makes me hesitant to start writing and then i end up procrastinating for months :l ))#((the same thing has been happening with my more important headcanon posts for ghost and rouxls' bio page))#((since i expect them to be long and thus take a lot of time to write out))#((although those also have the added thing of ''if i'm going to write something long then it should be a reply to a thread''))#((anyway. i've been rambling fhdgshfs))#((plotting! feel free to message me if you wanna do that!))#((i can't guarantee i'll be online consistently but we could probably make things work))#((plus i tend to write fairly long messages when i'm coming up with ideas so there would be longish waits in between my messages regardless)#((dgdgshf))

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joelsgoldrush · 1 month

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“GUILTY PLEASURE” | 8.6k

logan howlett x fem!reader

“I want this like a cigarette / Can we drag it out and never quit?” Guilty Pleasure by Chappell Roan

SUMMARY: After saving Earth-10005 from impending disaster, Wade convinces Logan, the alcoholic and easily irritated mutant, to stick around for a while. He’s convinced that nothing good can come out of this experience, until he meets you: the charming bartender with a soft spot for swearing that matches his own. Suddenly, sticking around doesn’t seem so bad after all.

WARNINGS/TAGS: smut - mdni 18+ fluff, angst, drinking, dirty talk, slow-burnish, grumpy!logan x sunshine!reader, reader is really kind but cracks a lot of jokes, age gap (25 vs 200 - they’re basically the same age), oral sex (f receiving), fingering, finger sucking, soft dom!logan, wade being the funniest asshole, logan calls reader "kiddo/kid"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HI! first of all, i'd like to thank you for all the support you showed me on my recent post. let me just tell you that i’m LOVING writing for logan. but none of this would be possible without YOU, so yeah, i fucking love y’all.

** regarding this story, i was planning on making it even longer, but writing these two has been so much fun, and i didn’t want it to end just like that (i have attachment issues as you may infer from this note). therefore, i’ve made the decision to write a second part to this fic, which will contain fluff and other stuff (you already know the drill). i don’t know when i’ll be posting it, but i’m sure it won’t take me that long.

*** i’m also working on other one shots (purely fluff/domesticity because i want this man to cradle me in his arms). anyway, i don’t know if anyone’s going to read this, but still, all I have to say is THANK YOU FOR READING MY WORKS! i hope you really like this silly story i made up :)

**** english is not my first language so if you come across any mistakes don’t hesitate to tell me :)

special recognition to @zloshy who allowed me to rant about my own fic 😭 the sweetest human ever

The bar is far from packed, but then again, it never truly is.

Studying your regulars has become your favorite hobby. Soon you end up knowing their names, the drinks they like, and what time they come through the door. It’s what happens when standing on your own two feet and refilling glasses lose all their charm. A part of you thinks you also do it to make them feel safe. No matter how much you try to deny it, you truly care about their well-being.

Is this your dream job? Nope. Definitely not. You’re pretty sure that holding some stranger’s hair while they empty their insides wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. But sadly money doesn’t grow on trees, and university isn’t going to pay itself. Plus, this was the only job in which your resume was not immediately rejected. It should also be stressed that the drunks happen to love you.

Perhaps this isn’t the life you had always imagined for yourself, but you were getting closer to it. You’d often talk to Adam, a retired psychologist in his seventies. He was without a doubt one of the most loyal clients you’d ever encountered. In the past, he’d even given you free advice on some of your failed hookups. You once told him that in less than two years, you’d be just like him when you got your degree in Psychology. To your surprise, he replied: “You’ll be much better than me, doll. I’m a mess, can’t you see it? You don’t wanna be like me,” his voice was hardly above a whisper as he continued. “I should be at my daughter’s birthday right now, but I didn’t get an invitation this year. Believe me, you don’t want to end up like this old man.”

Like Adam, most of the men who frequented the bar day-to-day saw it as an opportunity to hide within the shadows. In comparison to the other pubs in the area, the one you work at doesn’t receive that much attention from the general public. A dimly lit place where only music from the 80s is allowed. You’re certain that if a health inspector ever came down here, you’d be in serious problems. But hey, you know what they say: do not worry about tomorrow; instead, live in the now.

The atmosphere of the bar shifts dramatically as the main door slams shut with a resounding thud, pulling you abruptly out of your daydreaming. You turn to see who’s arrived, but as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re compelled to look away. Nevertheless, the brief glance you catch of the stranger’s features is enough for you to unlock your phone and send a quick text to your best friend.

You:

cutie patootie alert

there’s this really handsome guy at the bar

i don’t think i’ve ever seen him before

i think i’m in love with him

my night just got a 100% better

Allison:

age

what does he look like

is he bald?

You:

he looks like he could be in his early fifties??? it’s hard to tell UGH i wish you were here

brown hair, beard, 6’2 if i’m not wrong

i didn’t stare at him for too long

otherwise that would’ve been very weird

and no he’s not fucking bald

that happened only once and i was not aware of that gentleman’s lack of hair

Allison:

so you’re dating retired now

get it grandma!

You:

oh fuck you allison

Allison:

it’s okay girl we all have our flaws

just make sure it’s nobody’s father

wait it’s not mine right?

You:

nah your dad’s way hotter don’t you worry about it

Allison:

bitch

Even with the music blasting through the speakers that are attached to the ceiling, you can still hear the low murmur and the whispers. The mysterious stranger seems to have attracted the attention of the other patrons, some of whom have even raised their phones to take photos. Your eyebrows draw together. Why would they do something like this, approaching the man as if he were a celebrity? Since curiosity never fails to kill the cat, you decide to get involved.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” you hear him ask the crowd, his raspy voice making your knees wobbly. He sounds enraged. You step on your tiptoes, trying to see what all the fuss is about, albeit it’s pretty hard considering how these men are caging him with their bodies.

The glow of a phone’s flashlight catches your attention, and suddenly, a chair is dragged without much elegance. “Enough of that, y’hear me?”

Enter you now. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need you to make some space for me, alright?” you mumble as you gently push them aside. “Thank you, thank you. Y’all can be real sweethearts when you put your minds to it.”

Then you spot him, and it becomes clear why everyone is making such a fuss.

Gary, your worst client ever, steps forward. His nasty breath clouds your senses as he rests one of his sweaty hands on your shoulder. “Doll, it’s the fucking Wolverine. Don’t ask him for a picture, though. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for that.”

The last thing you needed to see today was a fight (despite your knowledge of who would be the winner). You locate yourself amidst them, shaking your head like a disappointed mother, so as to add a tiny bit of drama to the situation.

“Guys, what you’re doing here is completely inappropriate. I thought I’d taught you better. Imagine if I were to pull this crap on you. You wouldn’t have it.”

Adam presses his lips together, flushing a bit. “She does have a point.”

“Thank you, peanut. You’re still my favorite,” you flash him an honest smile. Scrutinizing the rest of the men, you continue with your speech. “You can still make up for it and fill my tip jar all the way to the top. Deal?” they all scoff, barking their disagreement. “Oh, you don’t like the sound of that? Then leave him alone, okay? Class dismissed! Back to your places,” you clap your hands repeatedly, signaling them to go away. “Chop chop. All this alcohol won’t be drinking itself.”

Just like that, everything goes back to normal in the blink of an eye. Wolverine sits back down in his chair, leaning closer to the table and resting both elbows on it. He examines you, lifting his chin while his brown eyes take in every inch of you.

“Thank you,” he utters, his eyes still trained on your features.

“No need to. It’s what I’m here for,” you point to your work clothes, which consist of an antiqued apron and a silly sticker that has your name written on it. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s also Burger Night. You can get one for half the usual price.”

(No. It’s not fucking Burger Night. You just happen to find yourself deeply attracted to him.)

He doesn’t seem too eager to hear you talk. “Not hungry at the moment. But I could use some whiskey.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Very sure.” Well, now he does look annoyed.

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” you move as if you were in a race, returning to him after a hot minute. Setting his glass down on the table, you fill it with some old whiskey you don’t even know the name of. Still, he omits that detail, gulping down two-fingers of whiskey as if it were water. “I see you’re thirsty.”

“Could you leave the bottle here?” those brown puppy eyes are begging you to do as he says, and although you’d be happy to oblige, rules are rules.

“Actually, I can’t. The bottle stays on the counter. But you can always join me at the front,” your proposal doesn’t appear to have the desired effect on him. “I won’t talk to you if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he rubs his neck, drawing a long breath as he stands up.

You can feel many pairs of eyes searing into your soul. The others ask you for more drinks and you pour them, pricking up your ears when you hear them talking about him.

“What a weirdo. Didn’t you see it on TV? He’s not even from this universe,” Gary explains, looking for accomplices to hate on Wolverine. “Let me tell y’all something: he shouldn’t even be here. He’s fucking dead on this earth.”

Yeah… that you knew.

It had been all over the news for weeks. Some would even swear that he was back from the dead, but that was until the representatives from the TVA spoke their truth. If someone would’ve told you a month ago that multiple universes were a thing, you would’ve laughed in their face.

As if that weren’t already difficult to process, your mind does the job of reminding you that there’s a man with metal claws sitting a few meters away from you. Despite that, you can’t seem to be scared of him. There’s something magnetic about his personality and that don’t-come-near-me-or-there-will-be-consequences expression that he has. Why had you promised not to speak to him? Dammit.

“I can hear your thoughts,” a muscle in his jaw twitches after knocking back another glass of whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut before tapping the table with two fingers, silently asking for a refill.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” you raise one of your eyebrows, and you behold how the corners of his mouth turn up for an instant. “I can assure you your liver hates you.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me, so don’t be afraid. Keep ‘em coming.”

For nearly twenty minutes, he does nothing but drink. He attempts to light a cigar at some point, and you stop him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No special treatment?” he inquires, placing the cigar between his parted lips and tilting his head back. He’s so… dreamy. He has to know it.

“I saved your ass today. The least you can do is not cause me any trouble.”

His eyes widen at your words, blinking owlishly. “You saved my what?”

“Your goddamn ass. You were about to start a fight.”

“Blame the idiots you have for clients,” he says, jerking his thumb toward your direction. “I was just mindin’ my own business. They came for me, not the other way around.”

“Look, Wolvie. I–”

“Wolvie?” giving a bitter laugh, he rams a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve heard in a long time,” he looks at you through his lashes, getting rid of his leather jacket. “It’s Logan.”

“Wow. Your name is very boybandish.”

You succeed in making him laugh once again. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe his face without feeling like you were just about to get caught. He has deep creases and worry lines etched between his eyebrows, a brown beard that perfectly frames his jaw, and a few white hairs scattered in his sideburns. Pearly teeth that go hand in hand with one of the most impeccable smiles you’ve ever seen, and a pair of brown eyes that make you feel weak in the knees. You know for a fact that he’s a lot older than you; his exact age remains a mystery, but his appearance is enough for you to start fantasizing.

Shit, you want him. You should feel sickened by the mere thought of being with him. He was born God knows when, has lived hundreds of years. Still, the idea of tracing his cheekbones with your fingers while lying on his chest doesn’t leave you. This is fucked up. You are fucked up. A fucked up Psychology student. The joke is pretty much self-explanatory.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, you preening slut. Can’t even bother to answer my calls now?”

The tension between you shatters like a glass dropped onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to look in the direction of the owner of that voice, not even as the seat next to him gets taken. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wade, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“It hasn’t been exactly easy, raising our kid on my own. I don’t even have money to hire a babysitter, Lo. I spent nine months carrying your child, and for what? You end up going after a bartender,” the masked man turns to you, giving a sly wink. “No offense, baby. You must be a real sweetheart. In fact, do you want my number? The name’s Wade, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“You dumb fuck. Are you flirtin’ with her?”

“No shit, smartass. You’re the future of this country.”

A soft giggle escapes you despite your attempt to hold it back. You take a step back, admiring the two men. “Well, aren’t you two a beautiful couple?”

“You should see our little munchkin. He’s got my eyes and Logan’s hair. His first word was gubernatorial.”

“Would you like to have a drink while you’re here?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, sugarbear. You’re the cutest,” Wade sinks back into his chair, resting his chin on his palm. He jerks his head in Logan’s direction, bumping his shoulder. “She’s the cutest. Are you two together?”

Logan rubs his forehead, speaking through gritted teeth. “How did you find me?”

“It's the power of love, baby. I had It’s All Coming Back To Me Now on repeat for hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Handing Wade a cold beer, your eyes scan Logan’s face. “I didn’t know patience was your strongest suit.”

“Me neither.”

“Enough of that! I can’t stand not being included in a conversation,” Wade throws his hands in the air, and you look at him. “There you are. So, what about you? Are you even allowed to be here? Did bars change their policies?”

You can’t help but snort. “I’m 25.”

Wade looms closer, lowering his voice. “Now that I think about it, you could totally be Logan’s caretaker. He’s been having some issues recently, given his age. Do you… know anything about adult diapers?”

But then Logan’s face contorts, turning crimson. He rises from his seat, grabbing Wade’s arm. “That’s it. We’re leavin’,” his eyes lock on you for a moment. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

The things you’re willing to do for a man, right? You should be ashamed of yourself.

(But you aren’t.)

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Kiddo, are you–”

“Completely sure,” you finish his sentence for him, bowing your head and clasping your arms behind your body. A tight-lipped smile takes over you. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

Wade shifts his gaze back and forth between Logan and you. “I usually don’t mind third-wheeling, but I sort of feel left out.”

“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut, Wade.”

“Oh, come on! I was just making small talk,” the masked man tries to excuse himself while Logan pushes him towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sunshine. I’m free on Thursdays. Hit me up if his whiskey dick fails to impress you! Mine’s way more agile and young!”

As you watch them leave the bar, you remain frozen in your place amidst the clamor of ongoing chatter and clinking glasses.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Patrick’s normally the first one to get wasted during weekends,” you explain to the blonde woman sitting in front of you, and she writes that information down in her notebook. “He can usually handle himself, but at some point, he’ll try to call his ex-wife, and that’s when you know you need to stop serving him.”

She clicks her tongue, the color draining out of her face. “This is… definitely a lot to remember. I think I already forgot half of what you said.”

You shake your head, shoving your hands in your pockets. “You’ll get used to it, believe me. I’ll be with you at all times, so if you have any doubts, just ask me.”

After a whole year of working solo at the bar, you finally get to have a coworker: Gwen, a mother of two teenagers in her forties. You had met her at the grocery store, and in the process of helping her find a specific brand of cookies, you found out that she had recently lost her job. One thing led to another, and now she’s your trainee.

Your savior complex strikes again!

It has been four days since your first encounter with Logan. The thought that he could show up at any moment makes your heart race and your hands sweat. Allison had received countless voice messages where you narrated the entire experience in full detail.

Touching your arm softly, Gwen’s face lights up. “Another man came in. Is he a regular? I don’t think you told me about him.”

Fuck, it’s him. Manifesting does work wonders. He locks eyes with you and raises a hand in greeting.

“Leave this one to me,” you tell her as your feet take you to where Logan’s sitting, contemplating the way in which his leather jacket hugs his wide frame. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, kid,” he grins. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Nobody has puked yet, so that’s a good thing,” you crinkle your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Whiskey?”

“You know me so well,” a smirk takes place in his lips, and he smiles cockily. “Though this time, I won’t be leavin’ without payin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” you go back to your usual spot behind the counter, looking for a glass. Your cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard. Next to you, Gwen studies your reaction to seeing Logan. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You almost drop the whiskey bottle. “God, no. He’s not my boyfriend. Barely know the guy.”

“It’s funny,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a knowing look, as if she knows something you don’t. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

“It’s probably because of this,” you reply, lifting the bottle in her direction before pouring a small amount into a glass. Just as you’re about to walk over to him, a girl slides into the sit beside him, her long blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stunning red dress and black heels. You wonder if she’s a model, because she certainly looks like one.

Her hand creeps up his arm, fingernails scraping against the worn leather. Although Logan’s expression is hard to read, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know what? Here’s his drink– You take care of it. I’ll stay here,” you don’t give Gwen a chance to talk back, instead staying behind the bar, engaging in small talk with other clients.

“Doll, are you okay?” Adam asks you after noticing you struggling to open a beer bottle. He takes it from your hands and opens it with ease. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fine, never been better. Why you ask?

“You sure?”

“Affirmative.”

“You mixed up our drinks,” he explains in his most psychologist-like voice. “This never happens to you. Michael has my wine, and I’ve got his martini.”

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you chew on your bottom lip, rubbing your temples. “I feel stupid.”

“Oh, please. Don’t say that. You’re far from being stupid,” he sits up straight, reaching for your fingers and giving them an apologetic squeeze. “If you ask me, I think you’ve got your mind on someone else,” he must notice how you visibly get tense because he adds: “Remember: I know when you’re lying. You didn’t charge him the other day, which means that you must really like him,” taking a tentative sip of the martini he didn’t even ordered, Adam shrugs. “I’m a great observer. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blonde girl from before returning to where her friends are chatting. Logan is left alone, and you watch him grab his glass and head towards the counter.

“As I said, your mind’s somewhere else,” Adam sighs, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “Go get your man. I’ll survive.”

“Not my man. But thanks, older-and-wiser-version-of-cupid.”

Pretending not to have seen Logan, you continue with your work. He remains silent for some minutes before finally saying: “Hi.”

Hi? It sounds so out of character for him.

“Hey, claws,” you force a smile, still avoiding to meet his gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Logan points to his empty glass, like a toddler asking for more cereal. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

“I thought you were busy over there,” you say, surprisingly managing to sound nonchalant, despite the jealousy bubbling underneath your friendly tone. “Did you get her number?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

Yeah, maybe you don’t sound as collected as you think.

Whether Logan notices it or not, he chooses not to mention it. He folds his arms over his chest, fixing his brown eyes on you. “I’m not interested.”

“And what is it that interests you, champ?” your question elicits a low chuckle from him. Just as he opens his mouth to seemingly reply, Gwen appears out of nowhere to ask you about the price of a certain drink. Your gaze shifts between her and Logan, who remains focused on you while sipping his drink.

After that, Gwen leaves. The man in front of you goes poker-faced, pursing his lips, and his abrupt change in demeanor alarms you. “Wade wants to have dinner tomorrow at his apartment– well, our apartment. I live with him now. It’s complicated,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, and you laugh. “Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’re invited. I know we don’t know each other that much, but… he said you seem like someone worth havin’ around,” he mumbles awkwardly, eyes downcast. “I think the same as well.”

You could die at peace.

“You’re a lucky fucker because I don’t work on Sundays,” you quip, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to attend your feast.”

“Great. I thought you would turn down the invitation.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you barely know me– us,” he corrects himself rapidly. “Plus, Wade’s annoying as hell when he puts his mind to it. You’ll see.”

“Marital problems?” he actually in response. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Oh, I’ll bring the dessert.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do want to,” you tilt your head in an effort to hide your longing for him.

“Just want to get under my skin, huh? I can see why Wade likes you,” Logan beams, reaching out to tuck a $100 bill into the pocket of your apron. “The tip’s included.”

“I don’t know how things work in your universe, but you’re giving me way more money than you’re supposed to. I can't accept this.”

“Oh, but you will,” his gravelly voice fucks your system up, and you’re glad he can’t see how you squeeze your legs together behind the bar.

He writes down Wade’s address on a random napkin, holding his breath as he stands up. “I should get goin’. See you tomorrow then.”

Before he walks out the door, you stop him. “Logan? You didn’t answer my other question.”

His back shakes momentarily with laughter. Turning around to face you, his stare leaves you even more confused. “Good night, doll.”

This is becoming a habit: every time he goes away, you feel as though you’ve just run a marathon with no water available. Your mouth is completely dry, your fingers are numb and there’s a knot in your stomach that’s becoming all too familiar.

“Would you mind telling me where you got him?” Gwen’s voice makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“He’s not from around here. I think he’s Canadian.”

You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

Knocking softly on Wade’s door, you step back, the container holding the tiramisu cold to your touch. It’s your first time trying out this recipe, so you’re expecting it to at least not taste like shit.

Wade answers the apartment door, acting surprised when you remain silent. “Well, look what the wind blew in: if it isn’t my husband’s lover. How dare you? We’re still going to couples therapy.”

You show him the container, and he squints at it. “Tiramisu. You want it or not?”

“I hate twenty-somethings,” he says with a defeated sigh, stepping aside to let you into the apartment.

Leaving your purse on the nearest surface, you scan the living room, wondering where Logan might be. There’s a small mirror beneath the couch, and you check yourself for the hundredth time tonight. “Don’t get too excited. He’s still showering,” Wade’s voice rings in your ears, and you turn to look at him, your eyebrows knitted. “Yeah. I noticed. You’re already drooling over that big piece of metal between his legs.”

“Keep quiet!” you cover his mouth with your palm, noticing the scarred state of his skin up close. “Wade, you fucking dog. Are you licking my hand?”

“Couldn’t help it. You taste like mascarpone cheese and espresso.”

Then Logan emerges from the bathroom, with only a white towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his wet hair, tracing the muscle of his abs, ending somewhere beneath his happy trail. Your eyes keep flickering between him and his torso until he clears his throat. “I thought you were comin’ later.”

“Me too, but I…,” you trail off, your brain struggling to catch up, “I didn’t know what else to do at my place.”

“It’s fine. Just– let me put on some clothes.”

“Please don’t,” Wade murmurs next to you, but Logan only scoffs. “I was just being honest. Communication is key.”

When Wade and you are alone again, he lets out a harsh breath. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My pants are really tight right now.”

“Thin walls, buddy!” Logan shouts from his bedroom, earning a laugh from you.

Like A Prayer starts playing. Wade moves his hips to the beat, getting lost in the melody. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, but I always take a few seconds to dance to it. Such a banger!” he says, then picks up his phone, accepting the call. “Hey, Ness! What´s up?” Wade covers the speaker before telling you: “It’s Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend. We fuck once a week, sometimes even twice.”

From behind, Logan nudges your arm with his, looking at you. ”Hey, kid.”

“No, I’m not busy at all,” Wade exclaims, grabbing his crotch and thrusting into the air. “I’ll be there in ten, cupcake. See you,” he spreads his arms wide and whistles. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“You made me come all the way here… and now you’re leaving?”

“What? My friend Wolverine wanted to invite you over. I just had to provide the apartment,” in one quick movement, he presses a kiss to your cheek, then does the same to Logan. “Shave yourself, will you?”

“Go fuck yourself, will you?”

“Love you too, honey. Hope you two lovebirds have a good night, because I know I will!”

Wade throws a wink over his shoulder before heading out, the apartment going dead silent. Logan and you stand frozen, staring at each other, although he quickly drops his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. A giggle threatens to escape you: he wanted to see you. Could he possibly enjoy your company as much as you enjoy his?

Logan watches the spot where Wave had just been. The absence of his chaotic energy makes the room feel strangely empty now. He coughs lightly, the sound awkwardly loud in the quiet room.

“So... I, uh, bought pizza,” he says, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to cover up his nervousness. Averting his eyes, he focuses on the pizza boxes on the table.

You catch the hesitation in his tone, your curiosity piqued by his discomfort. Tilting your head, a teasing smile forms on your lips. “Pizza, huh? You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Logan chuckles, the sound strained, as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured it was a safe choice. Didn’t want to ruin it, y’know?”

You move closer to the table, the warmth from the pizza boxes radiating against your hands as you open one of them. The rich smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills the air, a comforting scent that makes your stomach growl softly. “Thank you. I’m a big fan of pizza.”

He sits in the chair across from you, taking a bite of his slice. You watch him quietly, your own thoughts churning. The truth of his origins had been a shock at first, but now, it just made you want to know more about the man. What was his life like in the other universe? Did he miss it? Was he happier here, or was he longing to return?

“Logan…,” you begin, your tone gentle but probing, “Can I ask you something?”

He glances up at you, eyes widening. There’s something in your eyes –an understanding, maybe– that makes him feel like you could see right through him.

“Sure,” he replies, trying to sound more at ease than he really feels. “Ask away.”

You hesitate for a moment, not wanting to push too hard. “I was wondering... would it be okay if I asked you some questions? About, you know, your life. Where you're from.”

The bite of pizza suddenly feels heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t talked much about his world, not even with Wade. Partly because it was too painful, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to explain how things turned out for him. He nods slowly, setting his slice down. “Yeah, it's okay. I’ll answer what I can.”

“I just... I want to understand you better.”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m no hero. You should know that by now.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kid, I’m the worst Logan. A complete failure. Of all the variants out there, Wade just had to pick the one despised by every living soul on his earth,” Logan looks away, his voice low and heavy. You’re wondering if doing this was a good idea. “I need a drink.”

He gets up and you follow him into the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge, in search of a cold beer. Meanwhile, you attempt to find the right words. “I don’t think–”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, three metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. A gasp catches in your throat as he uses his claws to pierce the beer can, drinking from the punctured holes. Once he’s done, he goes back to staring at you. Your gaze, on the other hand, is still glued to the now-empty beer can. “What?” he asks, exhaling slowly.

“That was completely unnecessary,” you mutter, and he lets out a bitter chuckle, tossing the can into the trash. “But, back to what you said before– I don’t think you’re the worst Logan.”

“You didn’t know me back then, darlin’. I fucked it up,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Like the Logan from this universe, I once belonged to the X-Men too. I remember that Scott used to beg me to wear my suit. So did Jean, Storm, Beast– All of them,” his gaze grows more distant, and you can tell that memories are flooding his mind. “Wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn’t do it. Told them they looked fucking ridiculous.”

The pizza’s long forgotten. You take the risk and get a bit closer to him, your eyes never leaving his.

Logan’s silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again. “One day, while I was off on my own, the humans came. They went mutant hunting.”

Your heart clenches at the pain in his voice. He still remembers everything as if it had happened yesterday. “I can guess the rest. You don’t have to–”

But he cuts you off. “No, let me say it. I need to say it,” he takes a deep breath, lowering his head. “By the time I stumbled home, shit-faced from the bar, it was too late. They were dead. They called after me and I walked away.”

Reaching out, your hand gently brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away, but instead searches for your eyes. “My suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. What I did. I found them and they were… dead. I started killing, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned the whole world against the X-Men.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change how he feels. “You’re not a bad person, Logan,” he shakes his head, mumbling something you can’t quite catch. “I mean it. What happened back then doesn’t define you. You took the blame for their deaths upon yourself. I can tell you loved them deeply, and I’ll never fully understand the pain you feel. I wish I could. I wish I could take it away, make you forget somehow, but I can’t. That’s not how life works. But you got your second chance: you saved this world. My world,” gently cupping his face in your hands, you allow your fingers to caress his cheeks. He leans into your touch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re my hero. I’m your biggest fan– after Wade, obviously, which is a lot to say.”

He grins, letting out a laugh. “Easy there, bub.”

“Should I give you some space?”

That’s the last thing he wants from you right now. You already know that as he looks you up and down, placing his hands on the small of your back, his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. There’s no turning back– The warmth between you feels almost like a fever dream. “For a long time, all I wanted was to disappear. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning, knowing that another day awaited me.”

“And what happened?” your breath mingles with his, his closeness becoming nearly intoxicating. “What changed?”

“I met a pretty girl at a pub, that’s what happened,” he murmurs, his dilated pupils flicking up to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Do all your kisses come with a warning?”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

You don’t have time to respond because he kisses you there and then. His stubble scrapes your skin as your mouths meet again and again, needy hands that hold you as if you were prone to breaking. Logan licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and swallowing every one of your whimpers.

“So this is what it takes to shut you up, huh?” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel him smiling, and it makes your heart skip a beat.

“Keep talking and you won’t get a single bite of my tiramisu,” you tease him, kissing him again, the taste of beer numbing your senses. “I really like kissing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, but now that you’ve mentioned that tiramisu…”

“Am I that easily replaced?”

“No. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

Jokes aside, you’re as happy as a clam.

Since that night you and Logan kissed, you’ve been living your best life. Like a freaking schoolgirl with a crush. Some things never seem to change.

He hasn’t been to the bar in three days. Yes, you’re counting them. No, you haven’t lost your mind. You want to see him, but there’s something about making the first move that gives you the chills. What would his reaction be if you showed outside of apartment?

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anybody. On top of that, all the guys you’ve dated were your age. Being with someone that older than you certainly wasn’t no your plans. You’d be lying if you said that the mere idea of being with him in that way didn’t excite you.

Oh boy, you miss him. You miss his scruffy voice, his gorgeous hair. And you two aren’t even official yet. To be honest, you don’t even know what he wants from you. Is he even the type to be in a relationship?

“Nighty night, gentlemen,” you say to Gary and his friends as you find yourself in front of them, smoothing your apron. Gwen had called in sick tonight, so it’s just you at the bar babysitting a bunch of grown-men.

“What’s up, doll? You’ve forgotten about us. We miss you coming in here to chat,” Gary’s eating his burger at the same time he speaks, something you find repulsive, but you’ve seen worse. “Y’know, I’d love to take you out someday. I have a place you’d like.”

The other men laugh and punch him in the back, just boosting his ego. Pathetic.

“I’ll let you know when I’m free,” you reply with the most polite smile you can offer, intending to go on. “What are you having tonight?”

“You always pull that shit, baby. I don’t think you’re so busy that you can’t accept a date.”

You hate the way he’s looking at you, as if you were wrong for not being interested. As if you didn’t know any better.

“You’re reading minds now? Shocking, Gary.”

“Oh, doll. That attitude of yours shows you’ve never been with a real man like me, that’s all,” he leans back in his chair, resting one of his arms on the table and the other one near his crotch, manspreading. “It’s alright. I like you bratty.”

“I’ll be back when you finally have something to order,” you attempt to turn around but he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. Your eyes lock, and he seems to enjoy this: being in control. Like a predator hunting his prey. “Come on, Gary. I don’t want to have to kick you out.”

“It’s not that you don't like me, right? You’ve already got your mouth full.”

“Careful.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not fucking that useless mutant. I see you like ‘em older. Pretty little things like you drive me wild.”

You laugh in his face, showing him your teeth. “It was never about your age, Gary. You’re right: I do like them older. I’m just not into bald, vertically-challenged pricks.”

His entourage of idiots goes silent after that. He looks up at you, eyes burning with hatred. His grip on your wrist tightens, probably leaving a mark. “Fucking bitch.”

“Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s voice forces the two of you to look in his direction. It seems that he’s just arrived at the pub, his jacket still on.

“You joining us? We’re just getting started here, big boy.”

“Did you not hear me?” Logan lunges forward, his nose almost touching Gary’s. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m just having a chat with your girl. She’s one of the good ones, I’ll give you that,” arching a sly brow, his forehead puckers. “You don’t like sharing? We can even take turns.”

Logan clenches his jaw, lips set in a grim line. “Say one more word, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll give you a full sentence instead: can you even get it up?”

The tension in the air is thick, every second stretching out as Logan's anger simmers dangerously close to the surface. Gary’s smug grin only makes it worse, pushing him to the edge. Before you can react, Logan’s fist swings forward, connecting with Gary’s jaw with a sickening crack. Gary staggers back, realising your wrist. Blood seeps from his nose, his white shirt becoming stained with it. “You fucker! You broke my nose!”

“We’re just getting started here, big boy,” Logan mocks him, repeating his previous words.

“Stop!” you shout, moving quickly to grab his arm, trying to pull him back. But he’s beyond hearing, his rage blinding him to everything else. He shakes you off, and with a fierce growl, drives another punch into Gary’s stomach. The latter doubles over, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him. He then falls to the floor, curling into a ball. People start to gather around you, and soon your beloved bar becomes a box ring.

“That’s enough, Logan! He’s barely conscious,” you murmur under your breath, stepping between them, hands up in a desperate attempt to create some space. Logan pauses, chest heaving, fists still clenched, as he finally looks at you. The wildness in his eyes starts to fade, replaced by a dawning realization of what he’s done.

“He deserved it,” he nods vigorously to himself, as if trying to explain his point. “He was hurting you.”

“If you keep that up, you’re going to kill him. My bar is not a fucking cemetery,” your voice trembles a little bit, expecting to talk some sense into him. “I won’t let you do this.”

The room is quiet now, the only sound being Logan’s heavy breathing as he stands there, still tense, still processing. You turn to Gary’s friends, cold fury in your eyes. “Get him out of here,” you watch as they haul him up, practically dragging him to the door. The other clients continue to stare at Logan, their mouths hanging open. “Everybody out, right now! Go home. We’re closing earlier tonight.”

Adam is the last person to leave, slamming the door behind him. You rush to the counter, searching for a mop to clean the fresh blood off the floor. Still agitated, the images of Logan hitting Gary flash in your mind. He approaches you from behind, his fingers circling your forearm. “Bub–”

“Don’t. Now is not the time.”

“I was protecting you.”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t. You just shook me off,” you snap, glancing at his knuckles which are not even bruised. Slamming your eyes shut, you get to your feet and wash your hands in the sink, the remaining water becoming reddish for a moment.

Logan moves closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. He wraps his arms lazily around your middle section. ”I’m sorry.”

You turn in his arms, your back flushed against the sink and your nose in the air. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“But– Jesus, Logan. You could’ve come sooner. I thought you regretted what happened the other day,” you say and the muscles in his face twitch, his body stiffening at your words. “Thought you no longer wanted me.”

“No, bub. I– I still want you. I want all of you, trust me,” he murmurs, and you allow him to press his body against yours, the scent of the cigar he must have smoked recently enveloping your senses. “I just… don’t know how to do this. I have a habit of ruining things, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be with you without hurting you.”

“Pushing me away also hurts,” your eyes flick up to meet his gaze again, and he whispers under his breath. “I can’t read your mind. You need to tell me what’s going on in that ancient skull of yours.”

His face falters, flashing you a mischievous look. His hand creeps under the fabric of your shirt, fingernails scrapping against your spine. “I’m sorry, princess. I truly am.”

“You can’t just say ‘sorry’ with that voice and expect me to–”

You’re cut off by his lips crashing down onto yours. You melt into the kiss, unable to deny what your body has been craving for the past days.

“I thought your kisses came with a warning,” you say, detaching your mouth from his, a smile spreading uncontrollably in your face as you see his toothy grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?”

In a clash of tongues and teeth, your mouths meet once again. Tugging the hair at his nape, you feel him growl against your lips. His strong hands trace every curve of your body, kneading the flesh of your hips and undoing the knot at the back of your apron. You’re becoming one with the sink, but in a moment like this, you couldn’t care less. Logan’s hard on nudges your lower stomach, and he ruts against you like an animal.

“You said you wanted to know what’s on my mind, right?” his teeth nibble on the skin of your neck, syrupy voice going straight to your core. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to touch you right now.”

“Right here? On the counter?”

“Yeah, on the fucking counter,” he grabs you by your thighs, hosting you up and placing your body on top of the cold bar. He nudges your knees apart, his bulge meeting your clothed cunt deliciously. “Will you let me, baby? Can I make you come in here?”

“Please. I’m glad we have such a low budget. Camera installment is t–too expensive these days.”

“Do you always talk this much?” he slowly unbuttons your pants, and you help him to remove them.

“Yes. Next question,” your breath hitches in your throat as you feel the pad of his thumb circling your clit through your panties. Your eyelids drop, your head lolling back. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Logan hums, mesmerized with the way your hips roll into his hand, your whimpers sounding like music to his ears. “You have any idea how I felt when I saw him touching you? Wanted to rip his hands off you,” his eyes drift to your chest, how it rises and falls with impatience. “But it’s me who gets to have you like this. He can fantasize about you all he wants: I’m the only one who touches you, ain’t I right?” you sigh with content as his fingers graze your slit, aimlessly bucking your hips. He doesn’t go any further, and you tug at the collar of his flannel, needing more of his callousand hands on you. “Nuh-uh. You want something, you gotta use your words. Got it?”

“I w–want your fingers inside me,” you don’t even recognize your own voice at this point. The few guys you had slept with had never been very talkative during sex. But Logan isn’t like them. This is just the beginning and you’re already starting to realize that he has a dirty mouth, that expectant look on his face as he waits to see your reaction to his words. “Please, Logan. I want you so bad.”

“Oh, I know, bub. There’s something about me I don’t think you know,” he inserts one of his fingers in your cunt, your slick coating the palm of his hand. “These claws I have… they didn’t come on their own. Let’s just say my sense of smell is… pretty good,” Logan can almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to think coherently. He moves his middle finger in and out of you, stretching your walls. “And you… have been wet ever since the first time you saw me. Always nice to everybody, making sure they feel at ease,” you feel like you’re being stretched even further, another one of his fingers sinking into your warm pussy. “But you’re so needy, too. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

“Too long, f–fuck. Too long,” you’re squirming, a totally whiny mess. He retratcs his wet fingers and instead goes back to flicking your clit, this time with much less delicacy. His left hand squeezes your tits, and you hate the fact that you’re still wearing clothes. “Shit, Logan. I need you to fuck me. Please. Need your cock.”

His face comes to rest at your neck, and you feel lingering kisses and bites that keep you grounded to earth. “Not here. I need a bed to fuck you properly. You’re only getting my fingers now,” he positions them inches away from your entrance, testing your patience. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“L-logan–”

“Tell me and I’ll make you come,” his husky voice is making you dizzy, tears shimmering in your eyes. “Come on. Know you want it as much as I do.”

You succumb to the tentation, like divinity turned to sin. He kisses you roughly, and you struggle to find the correct words. “It’s you, Logan. You own my pussy. It’s f-fucking yours.”

With that, he goes back to nudging that spot that makes you see starts, that filthy squelching sound getting mixed up with your moans. The knot in your belly keeps growing tighter the more he pumps his fingers in and out of you.

“I said you were only getting my fingers for now, but fuck… I need to gest a taste of this sweet cunt.”

He’s on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Your thighs tighten around his face as he licks a hot stripe up your folds, tracing a heated path on your cunt, not wishing to waste a single second. Pleasure builds quickly, your breath hitching as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer when your body begins to tremble.

“I’m close,” you pant, breathing hard, grinding your hips against his face. “I’m so close.”

“That’s it. Come in my mouth like the good girl you are.”

Who had given him a damn script for this?

The release is explosive. Like the peak of a roller coaster: you go up up up, ascending higher. You think you almost see Jesus, but at some point, you also have to crash down with force. Your shoulders slump, your entire body cramping up; yet he doesn’t let you go that easily, his fingers still working, scissoring within you while you ride out the final waves of your high, drawing out every last moment of ecstasy.

Once you finally manage to open your eyes, there he is, staring down at you. He taps your lower lip with his fingers, and then mutters: “Open.”

And you do, because you’re just as messed up as he is. Your mouth parts, and he slides his fingers between your lips, dragging them smoothly across your tongue. His knuckles brush the back of your throat, and you gag around the intrusion, tasting yourself. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, clearly satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned them off.

“I think we should really pay a visit to your apartment,” he suggests, groaning in defeat, and you feel his bulge poking your hip. He must be painfully hard. “I meant what I said earlier. I need a bed if we’re going to fuck. My back’s hurting.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “Why not go to yours?”

“Wade’s in there. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

You can’t help but laugh, pausing a moment to collect your thoughts, heat rising to your cheeks. “So we’re going rodeo?”

Aiming to silence up, Logan kisses you, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Only if you can handle it.”

part 2: “GIVE ME THE FIRST TASTE”

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

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gongedtornado · 6 months

Text

#okay complaining again and i cant tell if im overreacting this time or what #but this has been plaguing my brain since yesterday /neg #so i brought in a piece to submit to the art show and my professor looks at the information and goes ‘why dont you want to sell it?’#and i go ‘because i like it too much’ and without hesitation she goes ‘thats a terrible excuse’#and then proceeds to go on a rant about how you should always try to sell your art at art shows and told us we’ll regret it if we dont #but in my head ofc i feel like shes yelling at me for not wanting to sell my art #like. 1: i havent drawn anything i actually like in months aside from a few projects #and 2: why does it matter so much to her that i dont sell *my art* this time around #the world will still go on even if i dont sell it :/#i wasnt gonna let her be the reason i put that up for sale. especially not under that influence #if im really proud of something and id like for it to be sold. then i will gladly do so #im not just gonna have her get on my ass about not selling my art and have her be the reason i sell a piece just bc she kinda yelled at me #and i understand shes coming from experience but like.#dawg im gonna think youre yelling at me and pressuring me if this is the way youre going with it :/#ik that professors are supposed to push you and thats great. but she kinda. makes me want to quit taking college art classes altogether #uuurrghhggh #:/#kazzy complains #maybe im overthinking it #maybe its just me being a bit overly sensitive and crabby as of recently but that doesnt make it sting any less #sorry ive been complaining a lot recently i just. really havent felt that great in a hot minute and its kinda getting worse #im certain its because of biological reasons coming up but rrgghghhhrghh bark bark bark bark #edit: NO BECAUSE AT THJS POINT I JUST SHOULDVE TOLD HER I DIDNT WANT TO SELL IT JUST BECAUSE I DONT WANT TO.#AT THIS FUCKING POINT

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nereidprinc3ss · 5 months

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hi!!! here for a request. can we have a imagine where reader has a wound from surgery or whatever on like in a rib and she hides to change the bandages but then spencer sees her and he’s like ‘lemme help you’ and…

you do you for the rest!

in which spencer helps BAU fem!reader change her bandages in the bathroom at work. it's intimate, and he's adorable and awkward, and it only fuels her terrible, terrible crush.

warnings/tags: fluff, talk/description of wound, brief talk of being stabbed (does not actually occur in this fic lol), reader wears a bra, spencer undoes said bra but not sexually, lots of suggestive humor and teasing, a TINY sprinkling of angst but not really, idiots in love

a/n: i'm picturing early seasons spencer and it is filling me with so much unbridled joy. I. LOVE. HIM. thank you for the request!! and lets not talk about how inconsistent my formatting for requests is pls and thanks!!

It’s not like you meant to bend down so quickly that your wound reopened—but here you are, suffering the consequences of your actions in the women’s bathroom at Quantico as you try to assess the injury before you re-bandage it. And your shoe is still untied.

Unfortunately, the fact that you had quite literally been stabbed in the back last week makes it hard to reach said injury—especially when you’re at work and so can’t take off your shirt like you normally would. And all this struggling means it’s taking longer than it should, so now you’re focused on the wound and its scabby, wet edges and all the things it’s secreting rather than hurrying to give another statement of the entire event to Hotch since the first one had apparently been too sparse on the details.

A knock sounds on the open door. Spencer calls your name.

“You in there?”

The angle of your neck has your voice slightly strained as you call back, “yeah, what’s up? Is it Hotch?” you pause to hiss as you accidentally scratch at the wound with a nail. You don’t even want to know how much bacteria you just introduced to it. “Tell him I didn’t forget our meeting, I’ll be there in—”

“It’s not Hotch. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with your back? I know you said you were going to check on it, but you’ve been in there a while.”

You sigh, dropping your sore arm as you continue to hold up your shirt with the other and regarding the reflection of your back in the mirror.

“Actually—could you come in here?”

There’s a pause.

“You want me to come into the women’s restroom?”

“Yes, Spencer. It’s fine. There’s nobody else in here. I just… I need some help, I think.”

The last part is admitted quietly, with an air of defeat. To admit to needing help, is, by your standards, the same as failure. Spencer knows this, which is probably the only reason he puts aside his hesitations and shuffles uncertainly into the tiled room. If you’re asking for help, it’s because you really need it.

“What do you need help with?” he asks, sweeping his gaze suspiciously around the lavatory as if you were lying about there not being any other women present and this whole thing might be a trap of some sort.

“It’s gross, and you can totally say no.”

He raises his brows expectantly, before spotting the weeping wound on your back. Unconsciously he steps closer, leaning forward. It’s not your fault, and the gore is not specific to you—anyone’s body would react this way to being stabbed. But you still feel embarrassed by the close attention to such an ugly marring, which nobody besides you and your doctors has actually seen up close.

“That doesn’t look good,” he mutters. The expression on his face is irritatingly familiar—the drawn brows, tightened eyes, barely parted lips—but it takes a moment before you realize what it is.

“Reid,” you complain. He’s still stooped over slightly to examine the wound, and looks up at you through dark lashes with those infuriatingly warm puppydog eyes.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me the way you look at a dead body on the slab.”

His nose scrunches.

Some might say it scrunches adorably.

“No, I’m not. That’s just my face.”

“Okay, well stop. It’s freaking me out.”

He pouts—actually pouts. Subtle, but bottom lip jutted out and all. It’s ridiculously endearing.

“My face freaks you out?”

“Wh—no! That’s not what I said! You have—you have a great face! I didn’t mean—”

You manage to claw yourself out of the hole you’re digging when you see the dopey smile growing on his face.

Oh. He was fucking with you.

He never used to do that. It’s unnerving to be the fucked with instead of the fucker for a change. Especially when it’s Spencer.

“What did you need me for?” Spencer asks by way of peace offering. You close your eyes and sigh, attempting to collect your thoughts without his presence re-scrambling them.

“Um—I just need you to put this bandage over it. I can’t reach without taking my shirt off.”

And now you’re forced to wonder if he’s thinking about you shirtless as much as you’re thinking about you shirtless.

“Yeah—don’t do that,” he says absentmindedly, stepping again closer to get a better look before turning to the nearest sink.

For some reason, this offends you.

“Why not?”

Spencer pulls another face as he washes his hands—you love the constant flow of expressions he always seems so unconscious of. Even when they’re not pleasant and directed at you.

“Are you asking me why shouldn’t you take your shirt off?” he clarifies.

“I know why I shouldn’t take my shirt off, but I want to know why you think I shouldn’t take my shirt off.”

“Because we’re at work?” he observes astutely. You frown deeply at his completely logical reply. Spencer chuckles as he dries his hands and approaches once more, taking the square of gauze pre-lined with medical tape from your hand. “I mean, I can’t stop you. But it would be kind of a weird choice.”

“Oh, so me shirtless is weird?”

Cool fingers meet the comparatively hot skin of your back—where everything is still sensitive because the wound wreaked havoc on your nerves there. You flinch slightly.

“Sorry,” he murmurs gently. Though his touch is so incredibly light it doesn’t really hurt—it hurts much less than when you’re tending to the wound, anyway. It’s almost soothing. After a moment he continues, a bit louder. “And that is not what I was saying. But I am completely comfortable asserting that it would be weird for you to be shirtless at work.”

The gentle touches contrast with his teasing words and serve to disorient you as you’re shaken back in to your usual dynamic. Which is markedly more sarcastic.

“Well—”

Before you have to think of something to say, Spencer interrupts you.

“Your, um—I think your… brassiere… is in the way.”

As soon as he says it you burst out laughing. It echoes through the room.

“My brassiere? Are you actually 70 years old?”

His brows knit even tighter and his face gets very pink very quickly. He can’t meet your eyes over your shoulder.

“That’s what it’s called.”

“Spencer, you may be the first person to use that word since 1952. Say bra.”

“I don’t want to,” he complains. Your laughter only grows as your head tips back.

“Why? How is brassiere better than bra?”

“It’s—it’s too colloquial! I’m trying to be professional!”

“Call it a bra or I’m going to rub my dirty hands all over my back,” you threaten, adopting a poker face so he knows you mean business. His eyes widen immediately.

“Oh my god! Bra! Do you want to introduce staph and meningitis and g—do not do that!”

“See? How hard was that?”

“I hate you,” he mumbles, face still flushed and adorable. “And you still have to take it off.”

“Excuse me?” you grin, pretending to be affronted because you know he didn’t mean it like that but it’s fun to pretend he did. Fun for you, of course. Not so much for him. He's utterly flustered by this point.

“Or at least undo it! It’s in the way.”

With a deeply bored sigh, you go to unclasp your bra—but as you go to do it your shirt drops down. You grimace, humor briefly forgotten as the fabric brushes the damaged skin.

“I can’t—”

“Okay, just—I’ll do it,” Spencer says. “Just move your shirt again.”

So you do, watching his reflection as he works.

And you have not one joke to break the heavy silence with as you feel his knuckles gently pressing into the middle of your back, as he unclasps the bra with his characteristic tenderness and a surprising amount of agility. It’s quiet except for your pulse in your own ears as he carefully pushes it out of his way, holding it down with a hand to your rib cage and fingertips slipping just under the fabric of your shirt—unintentionally and certainly non-sexual, no doubt, but skimming under your heart in a way that still feels so intimate you’re realizing how touch-starved you are.

“You do that often?” you find yourself asking, because you’re stupid, and you need to cool the tension before it chokes you, and you can’t help yourself even though you don’t actually want to know the answer.

“I,” he begins, voice quiet as rustling paper, tongue darting over his lip and eyes narrowed. The sentence stalls as he focuses on placing the patch just so. “Do not think that is an appropriate workplace question.”

Something aches in the pit of your stomach.

Something resembling jealousy.

It was not the timid evasive linguistic maneuver of someone who is insecure about the thing they’re discussing. It was not the awkward fumbling no but I don’t want to tell you that which you were expecting from Spencer Reid.

Nor is it an easy yes—an admission between friends. He doesn’t want to tell you.

You swallow and try to act like yourself.

“Yet here you are, in the woman’s restroom at our place of employment, undoing my bra. I think we’re past professionalism.”

“When you decontextualize it like that it sounds like something it’s not. This is professional, because I’m helping you with a wound you sustained on the job. I’m being a good colleague.”

Your lips twist into a smile he can’t see.

“A great colleague would kiss it better.”

“It's almost like you want me to file a sexual harassment complaint with HR," he says through a little smirk as he smooths the bandage over. Before you can snip back, he steamrolls over his own teasing—you’ve both been speaking in almost reverent tones since he started but his voice loses the sarcastic edge from a second before and reverts back to concerned and sweet. “Does that feel okay?”

You rotate your shoulders best you can without letting go of your shirt or flashing the good doctor to check if it feels secure.

“It’s good. And hey—if I were going to sexually harass you I would do a lot better than that. You think that’s my best material? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I keep so many inappropriate comments to myself. You’d be shocked by some of the things I have almost said to you.”

He laughs, secures the band of your bra and begins fitting it to the clasp you’d had it on—and at that precise moment Emily walks in.

“H—woah.”

“It’s—I’m—I was helping her!” Spencer panics, immediately removing his hands from you like his palms are burning and holding them up defensively.

“Oh, you helped me alright,” you tease, pulling your shirt back into place.

“Don’t say it like that!” And then, to Emily, “I was changing out her bandage!”

“Changing my bandage,” you emphasize, winking more than is advisable.

“That’s—this is a hostile work environment! I feel unsafe!” Spencer almost yells, half laughs, as he scampers towards the door. “I’m going to HR!”

“Shut up! You love it!”

His laughter audibly travels farther away for several moments as he presumably goes back down the hallway to do his actual job.

You have the stupidest grin on your face, but you wipe it off when you notice Emily staring.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and looking away, moving toward a stall. “You’re just… you guys are funny.”

“What do you mean funny?” You demand, standing right outside her stall as she closes it.

“Wh—I mean funny! Are you going to listen to me pee, you weirdo?”

You frown.

She makes a good point.

Unfortunately, giving Hotch a more detailed statement is just as bad as you’d thought it’d be. Despite how cheery you’ve tried to remain about the whole situation, despite the way you insisted that the wound was so shallow you didn’t need more than a few days off work, despite the jokes you make about forgetting it’s even there because it’s on your back—it’s hard not to remember exactly how the glass felt twisting under your skin, how you’d felt suddenly so hot and lightheaded and sick to your stomach and the way Morgan hollered because he didn’t know how deep it had gone after you crumpled quick from shock, when you’re asked to describe it all in excruciating detail.

It only takes ten minutes, but they seem to drag on and on and by the time you’re leaving Hotch’s office you feel utterly drained. You hurry back to your desk, covertly wiping away moisture that you refuse to allow to become tears. Once seated, and having dodged sympathetic looks and avoided any do you want to talk about its, you allow yourself a few deep breaths with your eyes shut.

When you open them, you realize there’s a fresh cup of your favorite tea on your desk, in the Snoopy mug the team is always fighting over. Now his little black nose is covered by a square of yellow paper. You’re already smiling as you peel away the sticky note and hold it closer.

On it is an adorably odd smiley-face, and a note in familiar, messy looping scrawl.

I would never report you to HR beautiful

That would be a stab in the back!

You snort loudly and clap a hand to your mouth—but you’ve already drawn the attention of almost everyone in the bullpen.

When you turn to look at Spencer, he’s not looking back. Instead, his eyes are firmly trained on his computer screen. But he’s got his chin propped on his fist over the desk, and his knuckles are doing a poor job of concealing a giant self satisfied grin. He is the only person on the team who knows you well enough to make such a distasteful joke. And he also knows you well enough to know that it would make you feel so much better after your meeting with Hotch than all the well-meaning sincerity in the world ever could.

Funny.

Maybe that is the right word for what you two are.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x self insert #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic

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peaktora · 7 months

Text

𝐂 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐘 ˚◞♡ ⃗ satoru gojo

𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬 ┊ your husband is unbearably clingy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what are y—“

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

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

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

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

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

two can play that game.

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

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

or atleast, somewhat similar to what you wanted.

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

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

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

“satoru—”

“what happened to nicknames?”

“satoru.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“cause holding your hand ‘s better.”

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

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

you tsk, making him drop his excuse.

“wh—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i love you more.”

#(っˆ ³(ˊ ᵕ ˋก ) ⇢ ˗ˏˋ 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 ࿐ྂ #i have a essay due in a couple hours and i’m over here writing fics .. 😣#gojo x reader #gojo x reader fluff #gojo angst #gojo x you #gojo headcanons #gojo scenarios #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk gojo #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jujustu kaisen #jujustu kaisen x reader #jujustu kaisen headcanons

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totally-here · 18 days

Text

3 times Phantom's Guardian was Mentioned + 1 Time He Showed Up

One

Phantom’s introduction to Young Justice wasn’t as dramatic as Empress’ or Slobo’s, or even Arrowette’s first introduction to the cave. No, it wasn’t during the Olympics, or on a battlefield, and he didn’t come in injured and looking for help.

Impulse just brought Phantom in one day and insisted that he should join because he’s their age, interested in justice, and now that Greta’s human again they need another ghost member. So Phantom stayed, popping in and out for missions but never really sticking around all that long.

Today is one of the days that Phantom’s with them on a mission, that being looking around a lab of the Brain’s that had an energy surge recently, despite it being presumably abandoned.

Kon got paired up with Phantom to check the rest out first, since they both have better hearing than Anita and Tim, who were both still in the main room working on checking the computers for previous activity.

The room is dark except for the light green ball glowing slightly above Phantom’s hand. He waves it around enough for it to reflect off of glass, then throws it up to the ceiling. The light expands enough to illuminate the room.

Phantom mumbles about not knowing he could do that. Kon ignores him and moves closer to inspect the glass tubes to the side of several monitors set up.

“Looks like cloning equipment,” Phantom says, casually. He drags a finger through the dust gathering on one of the monitors. “Don’t think they’ve been activated recently, though, so that’s good.”

“What? You got a problem with clones or something?” It’s a quick and defensive answer, and Phantom puts his hands up in surrender.

“Not in concept.” He shrugs and joins Kon near the tubes. “But not a lot of people ask before making clones.”

“So I don’t need to sic Superman on you?” Obviously Kon could chew Phantom out himself, but few can do a “not mad, just disappointed” face better than Clark.

Phantom scrunches his face. “Why would you need to?”

Kon stops pretending to inspect the tube and stares at Phantom. “You do know I’m a clone, right?” The blank look on Phantom’s face tells him that no, he did not. “Well I am. Clone of Superman, though we’re pretty much brothers now.”

“Cool,” Phantom says, not a bit less friendly. He hesitates for a second before continuing, “Could I maybe ask you how you got there? Me and my clone have landed on cousins, but that was also, like, given to us by her evil dad. So.”

Phantom trails off. Huh, that makes three members of the team that have been cloned. Not a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened three times.

“You’re making sure she feels accepted, right?”

“Yeah! Well, whenever she’s around. She,” Phantom waves his hand around, looking for the right word, “She’s a wanderer. Exploring the world and stuff. But Richard has a room for her at home, and I remind her of that whenever she does stop by.”

“Well, first of all, don’t push it so hard,” Kon says. Phantom nods enthusiastically. “And second, who’s Richard?”

Kon doesn’t know a lot of Richards, and he doesn’t think that Phantom ever mentioned one before. Or even if he remembers his living life.

“Oh, he’s my, uh, guardian? I guess that’s the best term. The guy I’m living with who forces me to go to school sometimes.” Phantom looks away and back to the tubes.

Before Kon can ask for more details, Robin and Empress come in with a report of dead computers and wanting to know where they’re at with the cloning room.

They’re unimpressed with their lack of progress.

Two

Wally doesn’t really need to come by the Hamilton Lodge that often, not when that’s Young Justice’s territory and he doesn’t want to get involved in all of That.

But Red Tornado said that the team has a file on a planet that’s very quickly becoming a league problem, and he figured it might be a good time to try to check in with Bart, anyway. Make sure he hasn’t run any cars off cliffs again and all that.

So he stops by Manchester to ask Bart about the file, then they both head East to actually find it.

When they arrive at the hotel minutes later, Wally’s surprised to actually find it… clean? There’s no visible trash or overturned furniture or anything else he’d expect from an abandoned hotel filled with teenagers. Well, maybe not filled, lately. He doesn’t think anyone’s living here currently, with Greta at Elias’ for the school year and Slobo gone.

Still, the room smells slightly of artificial pine scent, and Bart perks up before disappearing and reappearing rapidly, holding a teammate up by his armpits. Said teammate just accepts this, his legs folding into a wispy tail, and head rolling against his shoulders.

“This is Phantom!” Bart holds him up higher. Phantom waves. Wally’s only heard of him through Max’s updates, the same way he would hear about Preston or Carol, but with more wariness about the supposed ghost.

Actually looking at the pale face and glowing green eyes contrasting against the darker than dark jumpsuit, Wally’s a little more ready to accept his claim at being undead.

“He stress cleans,” Bart explains, moving to carry Phantom under his arm. Wally bites down the urge to tell him to put him down, but only because Phantom doesn’t resist the hold, only moving to get into a more comfortable position. His hands are touching the floor. “So what happened?”

Bart directs the question downwards, and Phantom heaves a very dramatic sigh. Definitely a teenager. It does raise the question of who exactly this kid’s mentor is. Hopefully he does have one. Maybe he’s the Spectre’s kid?

Phantom phases through the arm holding him only to lay on top of Bart’s hair. “I accidentally called Richard dad. And then fled.”

Bart nods sagely. “Classic. One time I accidentally called Max dad, so I had to start a fire to distract him.”

Phantom sighs again, almost dreamily. “Genius.”

Wally doesn’t have time to unpack all of that. Well he does, but he’s not going to, because there’s really only one Richard that comes to mind that might have the heart to take in a dead kid, even if he doesn’t go by his full name.

But surely Dick would have told him, or any other Titan, if he had adopted a kid. Right?

But there’s still a little shadow of doubt. Maybe Dick wanted it to be a secret, or it was really new or had a rocky start. Phantom doesn’t seem to hold himself like a Bat, but it’s not a guarantee Dick would have trained him.

“The lodge looks nice,” Wally offers out loud, which Phantom shrugs at and wraps his tail around Bart’s head to keep secure. “Anyway, Impulse. The file on Myrg?”

“Oh yeah!” Again, Bart disappears then reappears a few seconds later with a paper file. They really need to start digitizing more of these things. “That’s the planet where we played baseball so that they wouldn’t destroy Earth!”

“You what.”

The prospect of Dick following in his dad’s footsteps is forgotten in the face of what the hell Young Justice got up to on Myrg.

Three

Tim may be in a…Predicament.

It’s not his fault. Really. He knew what he was doing. He couldn’t let a civilian fall for the trap. But they were already so close, so he just, kinda, pushed himself into the rope instead.

So there Robin is, tied upside down in a warehouse, with the Joker below next to an overly complicated control panel. The clown’s rambling about bombs hidden all over the city that Tim knows Batman is already tracking down with Batgirl.

Tim’s not really paying attention to the rant because of that, more focused on wiggling enough to get the spare mini-birdarang out of his glove to cut the rope without notifying the Joker.

“Yikes, bad time?” Asks Phantom’s voice beside him. Based on the source and accounting for the slight echo, he’s floating with his head near Tim’s, likely upside down. “Want some help?”

Tim gets the birdarang out and starts sawing at the thick rope. They should be fine anyway, but stalling the Joker for extra time would be helpful. “Can you possess the Joker? Just hold him still.”

“The correct term is overshadow, but sure.” The voice disappears, and a few seconds later the Joker freezes.

His body jerks forward, then backward, and a laugh chokes out of his throat. His hand claws over his mouth at the noise and he hunches over. All movement halts before he rights himself, shaking out his hands and rolling his shoulders. Phantom looks up at Tim and his eyes are glowing.

Tim cuts through the rope, kicking and using the momentum to right himself and land on his feet. He brushes past Phantom in Joker’s body to handle the control panel. He turns off the radio broadcast and dismantles the bomb strapped to the panel.

Threat handled, he turns to Phantom and holds up some handcuffs. “Let me arrest you?”

Phantom obliges, turning the Joker’s body around and putting his hands behind his back. Tim lets him walk by himself out of the warehouse and moves the handcuffs around a lamppost. The Joker’s body jerks again, then slumps forward, just as Phantom reappears next to him, scowling down at the unconscious body.

“That felt really slimy. Zero out of ten, would not do again,” Phantom grouches.

“Why’re you in Gotham?” Tim asks. It’s not like Phantom makes a habit of visiting. The last time he came into the city, he complained about feeling the dead under the streets. Fortunately, that let Tim uncover a few tunnels that Talons travel through. Phantom, however, was unnerved by the Talons and left quickly.

“Oh, Solomon Grundy’s back in our sewers. Richard said I should probably tell one of you Gotham heroes, since you keep track of those guys.” He shakes out his hands like they were cramped in the Joker.

They hadn’t seen Grundy in a while. Tim assumed he was currently in a less violent personality. “What’s he doing?”

Phantom shrugs. “Just chilling. Mostly underground. I tried to talk to him but he only grunted back at me. He also tried to pick me up, dunno what that was about.”

“Maybe because you’re both dead?” Tim guessed. That would be a surface level connection. Ivy and Woodrue have had more luck working with Grundy than anyone, and Phantom definitely doesn’t have the connection to the Green that’d help with that.

Police lights turn around the corner, and Tim shoots a grapple to get to the roof above them. Phantom follows, but disappears as soon as they’re on the roof. Going back home, probably.

Cass drops down from the roof she was listening on. “Richard?”

“Not the same one.”

They both stick around long enough to watch the Joker get put into the cop car.

Plus one

A spaceship landed in the forests of New York, and Cassie’s team was the first to respond to it. Technically not respond, but check it out, since there wasn’t any alert or anything.

Still, Wonder Girl has Empress, Robin, and Superboy on the other side of the ship, watching what looks like the back door, while she, Impulse, and Phantom watch the other door and main window. She has binoculars, but the windows are so tinted she can’t quite make anything out.

No aliens have come out yet, and she hesitates to have anyone go in, in case whoever inside does turn hostile.

Impulse has offered to run through a total of five times already, and it’s a testament to his restraint that he hasn’t, and a testament to Cassie’s that she hasn’t yelled at him yet. Phantom at least isn’t being annoying, but he’s not necessarily helpful, either. He’s not even watching the spaceship anymore. Now he’s trying to make a flower crown out of dandelions.

“Door’s opening on our side,” Robin says from the comms. “But no one’s coming out.”

“Alright, good enough to try to get in,” Cassie decides. She turns to Phantom, who’s closing off the circle of flowers. Beside him, Impulse has since pulled out a gameboy. “Phantom, go in invisibly through the open door and report back. Try to see what their plans are.”

“Oh, sure. One second.” Phantom finishes the crown and tries to put it on Bart’s head. It doesn’t quite fit over his mane of hair, but Phantom shrugs and leaves it sitting there anyway before going invisible.

“Maybe I should shave my head again,” Bart says as his game character dies.

He gets a resounding no in response.

Half an hour later they have a very annoyed Green Lantern lecturing them about league jurisdiction and knowing when to call someone else.

Apparently, the alien ship was just stopping to complete some maintenance, and did not appreciate any spying on them, and especially did not appreciate who did it. Green Lantern was more than happy to explain that Wonder Girl’s team is not really a part of the Justice League and he can help with their maintenance. They denied his help and left to find a place with less people in it.

“-and you!” Green Lantern rounds on Phantom next, but Cassie knows none of them are really listening. Sure, they messed up by freaking out the visiting aliens, and yeah maybe they should have contacted the league about it, but they’ve dealt with stuff worse than this! It’s not Cassie’s fault she thought that this would have stuck to the formula.

“Who even are you?” Green Lantern runs a hand through his black hair, stupid green gauntlets shining in the sunlight. “Do I need to call your mentor?” He frowns. “Or do they know you mess up alien technology by just being around it?”

Phantom scoffs and rolls his eyes. “How was I supposed to know their tech would go all fuzzy when I came in?”

“You wouldn’t have to know if you just stayed out of the spaceship!”

“Hey!” Cassie cuts in. “Technically that was my call. It’s not all on Phantom.”

“I still could've been more careful,” Phantom says to her, ignoring Green Lantern as they argue about blame.

“Cut it out for a second, okay?” Green Lantern puts a hand between them and they stop to glare at him. He pulls the hand back. “Look, can I just talk to one of your adults about this?”

Robin glares. “We don’t need an adult. We have this under control.”

“Only because I’m here now.”

“I’ll call my mentor,” Phantom says. Kon opens his mouth, most likely to offer to call Superman instead in hopes of a lighter sentence, but Bart covers his mouth, smiling like he knows something Cassie doesn’t. Tim and Anita share a look, and don’t intervene as Phantom pulls out a phone from his chest.

It rings once before it’s picked up. Cassie can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but Kon’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “Hey, do you think you can pick me up? Green Lantern wants to talk to you.” Phantom looks Green Lantern up and down then says, “No, this one doesn’t have a cape.”

Phantom says goodbye after rattling off their coordinates, hangs up, and stares at Green Lantern in silence for a few seconds.

And then a swirling mass of black seeps into the space next to Phantom. The end of a cane steps out of it, followed by a leg, then the rest of the immaculately dressed man holding the handle of the cane that’s shaped like a bird’s head.

“Phantom,” The man says. His voice drips with condescension in only a way a british accent can, yet Phantom smiles up at him. The shadowy portal behind him disappears. “What, exactly, happened?”

“That’s the fucking Shade,” Anita hisses to Robin, who shrugs noncommittedly at her. Green Lantern seems to recognise him too, taking a step back and clenching his hand that holds his ring.

“Well, the team and I were staking out this spaceship–super cool, by the way–and I went inside to check it out, but my presence messed with their tech–which was an accident–and they freaked out, so I freaked out, and then we kinda got into a little fight until Green Lantern came to mediate.”

“Hm. Is that right?” The Shade asks Green Lantern, who nods slowly, still anticipating an attack. “It seems like the problem’s fixed, then.”

“Well, yes, but–”

“And it does seem about time for these kids to get home, doesn't it?” The Shade pulls out an actual pocket watch, chain and all, from his suit pocket and takes his time in checking it. “I’ll see them home.”

Shadows grow from behind the team, swirling until they become a giant, gaping maw that swallows them up and spits them out in a different forest, or maybe just a different part of the same forest.

Either way, Cassie has to take a moment to make sure she doesn’t throw up from the sudden vertigo the shadow portal caused.

The Shade looks at Phantom, and raises an eyebrow. “You can’t expect me to always bail you out.”

Phantom shrugs, looking guilty. “I know. Thanks, Richard.”

Oh, so that’s who Richard is. Annoyingly, neither Tim or Bart look surprised by this revelation.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #this post was brought to you by me recently finishing starman 1994 #which i totally recommend it was rlly good and im happy i was able to read the physical version because there are some double page spreads #that were beautiful and i just know the online ver would've butchered #this is also part of my put danny in opal agenda!!#come on guys!! partially if not all powered by cosmic energy #missing heroes other than like benetti and the shade as far as i know #and used to have a ghostly curse on it!!! perfect place #also it's no-pulse coded because im still rotating them in my head like a microwave #the gl is supposed to b Kyle but sry if he's off i only know him from his appearances in yj and hitman #and i tried to do a read more thingy because it got long i hope it works

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