#they really just want this place to be Hell don’t they?

[alohajix]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑻𝒂𝒑𝒆

Description: she said she wasn’t nervous. She said she'd never done this before. But then he walked in—and made her forget every lie she told herself. The Casting Tape — you only need to watch it once to come back for more.

Warnings: this one-shot includes explicit sexual content, including fingering, oral sex (M/F), face-fucking, rough grinding, dirty talk, praise kink, light choking, spanking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), and graphic language. Readers +18.

Words count: ~ 7K.

I understand you guys really enjoyed “First Time for Everything”. So here’s a new one-shot I've been working on for a while, featuring pornstar!harry once again.

please enjoyyy💕

*****

I almost didn’t walk through the door. It looked too normal from the outside—just a nondescript black building sandwiched between a vape shop and a custom auto wrap place. No sign. No logo. Just a metal door and a tiny keypad. I stood there for a full minute, staring at my reflection in the door’s narrow glass panel, wondering what the hell I was doing. My fingers fidgeted with the zipper on my hoodie as I debated bailing. But then I remembered rent. And how many hours I’d spent reading that post.

“Paid casting opportunity. Professional, safe, filmed. No pressure to continue. Just be yourself.”

So I buzzed in. A soft click, and I stepped inside. The air was cool, sterile, quiet. A short hallway led to a room that looked more like a YouTube set than anything porn-related—white walls, gray backdrop, soft box lights aimed at a plain black leather couch. A camera was already set up on a tripod, its little red light blinking lazily like it was waiting. There was no one else in the room, just a low table with a water bottle and a clipboard. I approached it like it might bite.

“Hey there,” a voice called from behind me—low, male, casual. “You can grab a seat. We’ll start in a second.”

I turned to find a guy with a headset leaning against the doorframe, sipping coffee. He looked more like someone who worked in tech support than adult film, and he barely glanced at me. That helped a little. I gave him a tight smile and sat down on the couch, tucking one leg under the other. The camera stared back at me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my denim skirt.

“You go by your real name or a stage name?” the voice asked.

I hesitated. “Stage name.”

He chuckled. “Smart. What should we call you?”

“…Lola.” I don’t know where it came from. I didn’t even know anyone named Lola.

“Cute,” he said. “Alright, Lola. We’re just gonna ask you a few questions. Keep your eyes on the camera, speak clearly, be yourself.”

I nodded once. The camera light turned solid red.

“Tell us how old you are and why you’re here.”

My voice came out a little too fast. “Twenty-two. I—uh—I heard about this through a friend of a friend. Thought it might be… interesting.”

“And have you done anything like this before?”

I forced a smile. “Not professionally.”

He chuckled again, friendly but disinterested. “Good answer. So—this is a soft casting. No pressure to do anything you’re not comfortable with. We just want to see how you come across on camera. If it feels natural, maybe we’ll try a short chemistry test.”

My stomach flipped. “Chemistry test?”

“With a partner,” he clarified. “Clothed or not. Touching or not. Totally up to you.”

I swallowed hard. “And who’s the partner?”

“Hey, man,” the guy said suddenly, glancing over my shoulder. “You mind stepping in for a quick test?”

I didn’t hear footsteps. I felt them. Slow. Heavy. Purposeful. And then I heard his voice.

“Yeah. I’ve got time.” I turned. And immediately forgot how to breathe.

He walked in wearing a black T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair tucked under a gray beanie, tattooed arms on full display. Calm. Comfortable. Like he belonged here. And when his eyes met mine—green, curious, knowing—I had to look away before I gave something away.

I knew who he was. Everyone who’s ever dipped into amateur porn knew who he was. He wasn’t just a pornstar—he was the pornstar. The one known for making people cry in the best way possible. The one who ruined girls for normal guys. The one I may or may not have watched the night I sent my application in.

“Hi,” he said softly, voice like silk. “I’m Harry.” Of course he was.

I tried to remember how to smile. “Hi.”

He looked me over—slowly, respectfully, but definitely. His gaze dragged from my hoodie to my bare thighs, then up to my lips before meeting my eyes again.

“You okay to keep going?” he asked. “Or just here to talk?” His tone was soft. Patient.

I bit my lip. I should’ve said no. I should’ve kept it simple. But the way he was looking at me… “Let’s try,” I said quietly.

His mouth curled into a half-smile. “We’ll go slow.”

He sat beside me on the couch, leaving just enough space between us that it felt intentional. His thigh brushed mine every time I shifted, and I wasn’t sure if it was on purpose—but I hoped it was.

The camera was still rolling. “You nervous?” he asked, his voice low and almost amused.

“A little,” I admitted. “You’re not exactly a nobody.”

He smiled at that—soft, slow, like he was letting the compliment soak into his skin.

“Well, I’ve done a few of these,” he said, tilting his body slightly toward me. “So if you want to stop at any point, you say the word. We good on that?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Safe word or something?”

“We can use red. If you want to pause, say yellow. But honestly? Just talk to me. I listen.”

God, that shouldn’t have made my stomach twist—but it did. His hand landed gently on my knee. Just a touch. Nothing dirty. But the weight of it made my heart skip.

“Can I touch you a little more?” he asked.

I swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

He slid his hand up my thigh, slow and deliberate, until his fingers curled around the bare skin just beneath the hem of my skirt. His pinky brushed the side of my underwear. He didn’t move further. He just… held me.

“See? You’re already shaking a little,” he said, voice soft like a secret.

“I’m not,” I lied.

His thumb moved lazily across my thigh. “You are. That’s okay, though. Nervous is normal. But you look good nervous.”

I smirked despite myself. “Is that your line?”

“No,” he said, leaning in just a little. “That’s the truth.”

His other hand reached up, fingers playing with the zipper of my hoodie. He didn’t pull it down right away—he just watched my face.

“Can I?”

I nodded again. “Yeah.”

He tugged the zipper down, slow as hell. I didn’t wear a bra on purpose—I’d told myself it was about being comfortable, but I’d also known what kind of job this was. I’d wanted to feel like I was ready for it, even if I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. He pushed the hoodie off my shoulders, revealing my thin tank top underneath—white, ribbed, tight. My nipples were already hard beneath the fabric.

His eyes dropped for half a second. “Fuck.”

“What?” I teased.

“You’re hot.” His voice dipped lower, rougher. “Didn’t expect that.”

I grinned. “You didn’t look me up before this?”

He leaned closer, lips near my ear. “Didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Fuck. That got to me. I shifted in my seat, squeezing my thighs together, and his hand didn’t miss it.

“You get turned on easily, don’t you?” he murmured.

“Only when someone says shit like that.”

He chuckled, and it vibrated straight through me. “Alright then. Let’s see how much you can take before we even get your clothes off.”

He turned to face me fully, his hand now resting between my thighs, thumb pressing lightly at the crease where leg met hip. I was still covered, but it felt dangerously intimate.

“Look at me,” he said. I did.

His hand moved to my waist, sliding under the hem of my shirt. His palm was warm on my bare skin, fingertips grazing my ribcage, tracing just under the curve of my breast. His thumb brushed upward, catching the edge of my nipple through the fabric—and I gasped, barely holding still.

“Sensitive?” he asked, eyes still locked on mine. I nodded, biting my lip.

He pinched lightly—just enough to make me jerk—and then soothed the spot with his palm.

“You’re already breathing like you’ve been at this for an hour.”

“Maybe I just like the way you touch,” I whispered.

He grinned again. “Yeah?”

His other hand cupped the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair as he leaned in. “I’m gonna kiss you now. Okay?”

I nodded. “Please.” And then he kissed me. Slow. Firm. One hand holding my jaw just right while the other teased under my shirt. His lips moved against mine like he had all the time in the world. He tasted like mint and something just a little bit sweet—god, it was unfair how good he was at this.

My mouth opened for him on instinct, tongue brushing his as he deepened the kiss. I whimpered before I meant to, and he smiled against my lips.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He pulled me onto his lap. I didn’t even realize I’d moved until I felt his thighs beneath mine, the stretch of my skirt riding up, the thick press of him already hard beneath me.

“You wanna keep going?” he asked, hand splayed on my lower back.

“Yes.”

“You wanna keep your clothes on for now?”

I nodded again. “Let me stay like this.”

He gave a slow, approving nod. “Smart girl.”

I started to grind—tentatively, testing—and he held me tighter.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. Just like that.”

His hands stayed on my waist, guiding me. My panties were soaked through already, and he hadn’t even touched me properly. His cock pressed up against my center through both layers, and the friction was delicious.

“Feel what you’re doing to me?” he whispered. I nodded. “Good. Don’t stop.” I didn’t.

I rocked against him slowly, rhythmically, trying to match the pace of his hands, trying not to let my moans get too loud. But the fabric was slick, and I was clenching around nothing, desperate for more. He leaned up to kiss me again, slower this time, while grinding back into me with little thrusts of his hips.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he whispered. “Using me to get yourself off. All clothed. So dirty, baby.”

God, baby—the way it rolled off his tongue nearly made me come.

“I wanna see you fall apart,” he said against my lips. “But not yet. Gotta take my time with you.”

I whimpered, hands clutching his shoulders. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it to be unforgettable.”

I didn’t mean to drop to my knees. It just happened. One second, I was straddling him, moaning into his mouth, and the next, I was slipping down between his legs, hands trailing over his thighs like they belonged there. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t say a word—just leaned back on the couch and watched me with that slow-burning smirk, his chest rising and falling like he already knew what I was going to do next.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice husky.

I nodded as I settled between his thighs, reaching for the waistband of his sweats. “You’ve been hard since I got here.”

His brow ticked up. “And you think that means you get to do something about it?”

I looked up at him, tilted my head innocently. “I know I do.”

He grinned. “Cocky.”

“I learned from the best,” I said, tugging his sweats down just enough to free him. And fuck.

I’d seen it before—on screens, in videos—but nothing prepared me for the way it looked up close. Thick, long, already leaking at the tip. Veins along the shaft. His entire body was unfair, but this? This was just cruel.

I wrapped my hand around him slowly.

“You gonna stare at it all day, or you gonna do something?” he teased.

I licked a long stripe from the base to the tip, just to shut him up. His breath caught.

“Mouth open,” he murmured. I obeyed, letting my tongue hang out as I stroked him slowly. He was heavy in my hand, warm and twitching, and when I finally took him into my mouth, I moaned like it was for me, not him.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, his head tipping back. “You’re better than half the girls I’ve filmed with.”

I pulled back just enough to say, “That supposed to make me feel special?”

He looked down at me with a grin. “It should.” Then he shifted his hips forward a little, his hand slipping into my hair. “Hold still,” he said. “Let me fuck your mouth a little.”

I whimpered, nodding as he gathered my hair in his fist and guided me back down. His thrusts were slow at first, controlled, testing. He pushed past my lips and onto my tongue, letting me feel every inch. I hollowed my cheeks around him, drool already sliding down my chin. The angle made my throat ache—but I didn’t care. He watched every second.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Look at me. Eyes up. Fuck—just like that.” I moaned around him, and he groaned in return, gripping my hair tighter. “You like this?” he asked. “Being used a little?”

I blinked up at him, spit trailing from my lip to the base of his cock. “Yes.”

“How filthy are you, baby?”

I swallowed him deeper before answering. “Wanna choke on it.”

He smirked, that filthy edge sharpening in his eyes. “Greedy girl.”

He held my jaw and started to fuck into my mouth harder, sloppier. My mascara was running—I could feel it—and my knees were going numb, but I didn’t care. Not when he was groaning and panting above me, thumb wiping spit from the corner of my mouth.

“Open wider,” he growled. “Let me all the way in.”

I did. He pushed in until the tip hit the back of my throat, and I gagged—but he didn’t stop. He stayed there for a second, watching the tears spill down my cheeks before pulling back with a wet, obscene pop.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” I blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, lips puffy and slick. “You want me to come in your mouth?” he asked.

“No.” He raised a brow. “I want more than that.” He stared at me for a beat. Then he reached down, grabbed my arm, and pulled me gently to my feet.

“Take your clothes off.”

I hesitated, chest heaving. “All of them?”

“All of them,” he said softly. “Want to see what kind of mess I’ve made.”

I peeled off my hoodie first, even though it had already been unzipped. My tank top followed, sticky with sweat. Then my skirt. Then my panties—soaked, clinging to my thighs. His eyes drank me in.

“You’re soaked.”

“You made me like this.”

He stood up—slow, deliberate—and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then my neck, then lower, until he was kneeling in front of me.

“You ever squirt before?” he asked, voice low.

I swallowed hard. “No.”

He smirked. “Might today.” Then he leaned in and dragged his tongue across my inner thigh.

He didn’t go for my pussy right away. Instead, he kissed every inch around it—my thighs, the crease of my hip, the patch of skin just above my mound. His hands wrapped around my legs, holding me steady as he took his time. The anticipation had my stomach fluttering, my cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to be touched.

“Please,” I whispered, shifting.

He looked up at me from between my legs, his lips shiny with spit. “Yeah?”

I nodded, breath shaky. “I—I need—”

He slid one finger up my slit, slow as hell. “You need this?” he asked, teasing my clit with the lightest touch. “Or my mouth?”

“Both.”

He grinned. “Good answer.” Then he dove in.

His mouth latched around my clit like he’d missed it, like he owned it. His tongue flicked and sucked, alternating between slow pressure and fast strokes that made my legs tremble. I cried out, one hand gripping the back of the couch, the other tangled in his hair. He moaned against me when I tugged, and I felt it vibrate through my whole body.

“F-fuck,” I gasped. “Harry—”

“You taste so sweet,” he muttered between licks. “Could stay here all day.”

He pushed two fingers into me while his tongue kept working, curling them just right. My back arched off the couch, a moan ripping from my throat so loud I was sure the mic picked it up.

“That’s it,” he said. “Let them hear how good I’m making you feel.”

I was already on the edge, too fast, too intense—and he knew it.

“You close?” he asked, sliding his fingers faster, deeper, hitting every nerve ending I had.

I nodded, gasping. “Yes—yes—fuck, don’t stop—” He stopped. Pulled back. Fingers still inside me, but barely moving. I whimpered. “Why—”

“Cause I want you to come on my cock, not my tongue.”

“Fucking mean,” I whispered.

He smirked. “You like it.” I hated how right he was.

He stood and kicked off his sweats fully this time, leaving him completely naked—tall, lean, toned. Tattoos stretched across his chest, down his arms. His cock was heavy and thick, standing up proudly, still slick from my mouth. He grabbed a condom from the table behind him—but I stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“Don’t,” I said softly. His eyes locked on mine.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I’m clean. On the pill. I want to feel all of you.”

His jaw clenched. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.”

He climbed back onto the couch, pulling me into his lap again. This time, we were both naked. Skin against skin. He lined himself up with one hand, the other gripping my waist.

“Take it slow,” he murmured. I did. I sank down on him inch by inch, gasping at the stretch, the burn, the way he filled me up so deep I thought I might break.

He kept eye contact the whole time. “Look at you,” he said. “Taking it so well.”

I whimpered when I bottomed out, thighs shaking.

“So fucking tight,” he growled. “You weren’t made for this, were you?”

I moaned. “Maybe I was made for you.” That broke something in him.

His hands gripped my hips, and he started to move—slow thrusts upward that hit just right. I rocked against him, chasing friction, rolling my hips as he fucked up into me.

“Say my name,” he ordered.

“Harry.”

“Louder.”

“Harry.”

“Tell me how it feels.”

“So fucking good,” I gasped. “You’re so deep—fuck—it’s so good.” His hand came up to my throat, not squeezing, just holding.

“You’re gonna come like this?” he asked. “Like a needy little slut in my lap?”

I nodded frantically. “Yes—please, I need it—I need to come—”

“Then come.”

I shattered. The orgasm hit like a wave, crashing through me in pulses that left me crying out his name, clinging to him, hips still rocking even as I trembled. He held me through it, whispered praise into my ear.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “So fucking good for me.” But he wasn’t done. He flipped me over onto the couch, face-down, ass up. “Not finished with you yet,” he growled.

He slid back into me easily, grabbing my hips and fucking into me hard now—rough, deep, animalistic. My cheek pressed against the cushion, mouth open as he pounded into me.

“You want it rough?” he panted. “You want to feel how hard you made me?”

“Y-yes—fuck—yes—”

He slapped my ass, hard. “Say you love it.”

“I fucking love it.”

“Say who’s fucking you.”

“Harry—Harry’s fucking me—please don’t stop—”

He leaned over me, one hand tangled in my hair, the other holding my throat as he fucked me from behind. Skin slapping, breath ragged, everything filthy and perfect.

“Gonna come on you,” he groaned. “Wanna see you dripping.”

“Yes,” I begged. “Do it—please—come on me—”

He pulled out just in time, stroking himself fast before spilling hot all over my lower back and ass, groaning through gritted teeth. I lay there, trembling, dripping, wrecked. Breathing like I’d run a marathon.

He exhaled a long breath, letting it hang in the quiet between us. The only sound now was the soft hum of the camera still rolling. The red light blinked steadily, like it had witnessed every filthy, raw second of what just happened. Harry sat back, eyes scanning over me like he wasn’t sure if he was done yet—or just trying to memorize how I looked. Wrecked. Flushed. My hair a mess. My thighs still trembling.

“Stay there a sec,” he said, voice a little rougher than before.

I blinked up at him, cheek still pressed to the couch cushion, and nodded. He disappeared for a moment and came back with a warm towel. He didn’t rush—just knelt beside me, gently wiping me clean, taking his time like he actually cared. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just good at playing the part. But something about the way his fingers grazed my skin, soft and unhurried, made my chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, gaze flicking up to mine.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… that was a lot.”

A slow grin pulled at his mouth. “Good lot or bad lot?”

“Really good.”

He handed me the towel and stood up to grab water bottles. When he tossed one to me, I caught it with shaky hands.

“You looked like you’ve done that before,” he said, sitting down beside me again—close, but not touching.

“I haven’t,” I replied, twisting the cap off. “Not like that.”

He raised a brow. “You sure?”

I smiled. “Trust me. I’d remember if someone ever made me feel like that before.” He went quiet, watching me sip.

“You ever actually plan on watching the footage?” I looked at him. At the blinking red light still recording.

“I kind of want to,” I admitted.

He nodded slowly. “I’ll show you mine… if you come back and film another one.” I stared at him, half smiling, half stunned.

“You saying that to everyone who comes through here?”

“Nope.” He leaned in just slightly, voice lower. “Just the ones who moan my name like they mean it.”

I laughed, flushed, and shook my head. “You’re dangerous.”

He smirked. “Only on camera.” I didn’t believe that for a second. But I wanted to find out.

[moniquesha]

issues

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Summary: You wait for your new therapist, and you also meet Bucky.

a/n: i can't move on from bucky in tfaws, plus this is just so short and cute and very realistic. then maybe i'll continue exfil tonight if i'm up for it.

You sit in the waiting room, hands folded in your lap, trying not to think about how many therapists you’ve been through already. Four, to be exact. None of them worked. But according to your research, the one you’re waiting for now is the best.. At least by reputation. The internet spoke of her impressive roster of clients: super soldiers, unnamed heroes, people who lived through impossible things. You didn’t care about that. Well, maybe a little. If she helped them, maybe she could help you too.

You arrived early. Two hours early, to be exact. The receptionist barely looked up from her screen before instructing you to sit and wait. So you did. And you’ve been waiting ever since. An hour has passed. Boredom claws at you, but the thought of leaving your perfect spot, of somehow being skipped after the hell of booking this session, keeps you locked in place.

Then, the couch shifts.

A presence. Subtle, but heavy. You don’t look at first, too lost in your own head, but eventually, curiosity wins out. A glance to the side, and Bucky.

Yes, that Bucky.

He looks just as out of place as you feel. Maybe more. In his metal hand, he holds a small bouquet of flowers, fingers idly gripping the stems. You don’t pry. You could, but that would require speaking, and you’re not entirely sure you remember how to do that properly. Others would ask for a picture. Maybe even an autograph. You would too, if you had even a shred of confidence in your system.

But damn.

You live in a world with wizards, aliens, reality-warping stones, and tech so advanced it defies logic. And here you are, stuck in your own head, unable to even figure yourself out.

Embarrassing.

Surprisingly he's the one to speak first.

“You here for Doc too?”

It takes a second for your brain to register that, yes, Bucky Barnes just spoke to you.

“Sorry, what?”

He huffs out a small breath, like he expected that response, like he’s used to people not keeping up with him right away. His fingers tighten around the stems of the flowers for a second before he nods toward the office door.

“Doc Christina,” he repeats. “You waiting for her too?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah.” You shift in your seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how stiff you’ve been sitting this whole time. “Took forever to get an appointment.”

Bucky lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. She’s got a long waitlist.” He pauses, then adds, “Worth it, though.”

That means something, coming from him. You don’t know his whole story, but you know enough. Enough to understand that if anyone needs therapy, it’s him. Silence stretches between you for a beat. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it’s not easy either.

“Those flowers for her?”

He glances down at the flowers like he just remembered he was holding them. His fingers flex around the stems before he shrugs.

“Nah,” he says. “For someone else.”

You nod, not pushing for more. If he wanted to elaborate, he would. But something about the way his jaw tenses tells you that whoever they’re for, they mean something. Maybe too much.

Silence settles again, but this time, it’s different. Less awkward, more… understanding. Two people waiting for the same therapist, carrying baggage too heavy to unpack in casual conversation.

Bucky shifts in his seat, then glances at you. “She’s good, you know,” he says, almost like an afterthought. “Doc. She doesn’t fix you, but she helps.”

You swallow down something complicated. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah.” Then, a small smirk. “But she’s brutal.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “But.. She’ll help right? Because my healthcare can’t take another beating right now.” you laugh awkwardly, mentally cursing yourself for even speaking too much.

Bucky actually huffs out a quiet laugh. Just a breath, really, but it’s something. He tilts his head slightly, considering you for a moment before nodding.

“She’ll help,” he says, like it’s a promise. “But you might leave every session feeling like you went ten rounds with a heavyweight.”

You grimace, sinking further into your seat. “Great. Love that.”

He smirks, but there’s something softer in his expression now. Maybe he sees a little too much of himself in you. Maybe he just knows what it’s like to sit in this exact spot, dreading whatever comes next. For a moment, you forget who he is. Forget the history, the stories, the headlines. He’s just another person waiting for help. Just like you.

“What are you here for?”

You freeze for a second, caught off guard by the question.

It’s not like you don’t know the answer. You do. It’s just.. saying it out loud feels different. Feels real. You glance at him, expecting impatience or regret for even asking, but he just looks at you. Calm, waiting. Like he actually wants to know.

You exhale, shifting in your seat. “I, uh..” You hesitate, then force a small, awkward laugh. “Honestly? I don’t even know how to sum it up.”

Bucky nods, like he gets it. Maybe he does.

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. “I guess I just feel.. stuck. Like my brain keeps running in circles, and no matter what I do, I can’t get out of my own way.” You glance at him, suddenly self-conscious. “That probably sounds dumb.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Hey, it doesn’t.” He leans back against the couch, staring ahead. “Sounds about right.”

You sit in silence for a moment before you finally ask, “What about you?”

His jaw tenses slightly, his grip on the flowers tightening again. For a second, you think he won’t answer.

Then, quietly, he says, “Trying to make peace with a past that won’t let me go.”

It’s simple. Honest. Heavy.

You don’t push, and he doesn’t say anything more.

But somehow, just sitting there waiting, together, feels like a small step forward.

You exhale, staring ahead. “Well, I hope for a better us. In the future. If that's possible.”

There's silence after that, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It just lingers, settling between you both like a shared thought neither of you knows how to put into words.

Bucky shifts slightly, then leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “It will,” he says eventually. “Just takes time.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “Time’s kind of a pain in the ass, though.”

That earns a smirk from him. “Yeah. That, it is.”

The receptionist calls a name. Not yours, not his. The waiting continues, but at least now, you’re not doing it alone.

Bucky lets out a quiet scoff, watching as someone disappears into the therapist’s office. “Finally, the line is moving.”

You nod, stretching your legs out slightly. “Guess that means we’re one step closer to getting our brains picked apart.”

He smirks, shaking his head. “Yeah. Brace yourself.”

You chuckle, but there’s a nervous edge to it. The thought of actually stepping into that office, of unpacking everything you’ve been carrying, feels heavier now. But at the very least, you’re not the only one feeling it.

After some time, the receptionist finally calls your name.

You exhale sharply, nodding as you stand. Before heading to the office, you turn to Bucky and give him a small smile.

“Hope your girl likes those flowers. They’re beautiful.”

There’s a brief pause, and then because your brain refuses to let you leave without making it worse. You awkwardly add, “Or boy… if you’re into that. Yeah, I’m going.”

Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard. Then, to your absolute surprise, he actually chuckles, showing his charming smile.

You nod to yourself, as if that somehow saves you from the awkwardness, and turn away. But just as you reach for the doorknob, you hear him say, “They’re for a friend.”

You glance back, and he’s still smirking, shaking his head slightly like he can’t believe you just said that. But there’s something softer in his expression, something almost appreciative.

“Good luck in there,” he adds.

You huff out a breath, gripping the doorknob. “Yeah. You too.”

And with that, you step inside, ready. Sort of.. To face whatever comes next.

a/n: see! cute!

divider from: omi-resources

[fear-is-truth]

Bestie hehe whose pullout game is worst and whose is best out of the characters Evan plays???

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑬𝑽𝑨𝑵𝑺 — 𝑷𝑼𝑳𝑳-𝑶𝑼𝑻 𝑮𝑨𝑴𝑬

ft. tate langdon ‧ kit walker ‧ kyle spencer ‧ jimmy darling ‧ james patrick march ‧ kai anderson ‧ peter maximoff ‧ colin zabel — nsfw ; MDNI 18+

a/n: hey bestie i love your mind

⟢ 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐃𝐎𝐍. (3/10)

his intentions are good. his execution? terrible. pull-out game is WEAK purely due to incompetence.

“fuck—wait, wait, oh shit, i was supposed to—”

feels guilty as hell afterward. “you don’t think i did it on purpose, right? you believe me, don’t you?”

⟢ 𝐊𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑. (2/10)

kit TRIES to be responsible. really, he does. but he’s also a man who fucks deep and loves even deeper.

a very passionate lover and in the heat of the moment, he forgets everything else.

honestly, he doesn’t even try that hard.

if you reminded him, he’d listen. but if you didn’t? yeah, he’s finishing inside.

if you got pregnant, he’d step up immediately. his pullout game is terrible but he’s a great dad.

⟢ pre death .ᐟ 𝐊𝐘𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑. (10/10)

doesn’t take risks; he’s got a good head on his shoulders.

his timing and self control are actually great. the pull-out game is strong with this one.

even before he met you, kyle doesn’t sleep around like most of his frat brothers, even though he totally could.

⟢ 𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆. (6/10)

jimmy knows he can’t afford to be reckless. he’s working in a freak show—not exactly the best place to raise a kid.

he also worries about passing on his ectrodactyly. even though you tell him constantly that it doesn’t matter.

most of the time, he cums on your tits or ass.

but when he’s drunk, he’s super impulsive, emotional. all self control flies out the window.

if you got knocked up, he’d have a mini breakdown and go on a two day bender but would also step up.

he will also propose immediately (after he gets his shit together)

⟢ 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇. (10/10)

he is nothing if not disciplined.

if james ever decided to give you an heir, that decision was made long before the act.

lowkey has reservations because of bartholomew.

⟢ cult leader .ᐟ 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍. (0/10)

kai never pulls out. he never intended to in the first place.

at first, he’ll act like it was an accident—just for plausible deniability. he’ll moan about how tight you are, how good you feel, and then when it happens:

“fuck—couldn’t help it. you feel too good, baby.” he’s fake guilty, kissing your shoulder, murmuring “next time i’ll pull out, promise.”

next time never came. (but he did. inside you) at some point, he just stopped pretending.

“this is how it’s supposed to be. why would i waste it anywhere but inside you?”

if you tell him you’re not ready for kids, he’ll say “women are biologically wired to want children. you’re just brainwashed by feminism.” (i hate this guy)

0/10 cos he’s actively TRYING to fail.

if you got pregnant? he’d be ecstatic.

⟢ 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐗𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐅𝐅. (5/10)

thinks he has great control, but he really, really doesn’t.

he’ll pull out last second. but he cuts it close EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

sometimes he miscalculates timing.

“uh. okay, okay—don’t freak out, but I MAY have just—wait, are you on the pill?”

⟢ 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐍 𝐙𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐋. (9/10)

very responsible. colin respects boundaries and never pressures you into risky sex. always wears condoms unless you explicitly ask not to.

“you sure? ‘cause, uh, i got condoms—like, a lot. not a weird amount, just… y’know, normal.”

lowkey wants to have kids with you… but suppresses the “selfish” fantasy.

his one weakness? when he’s tipsy.

the one time you were both drunk, making out on the couch, which led to hot and sloppy sex. you felt so good and he was so lost in it, and then—

“oh, shit.”

immediate panic. full-body guilt. buys you plan b, also flowers and coffee because he feels guilty.

overall he’s very reliable, just that one slip-up.

[kirabug-tumbles]

NOTE: I AM NOT A LICENSED TRADER OR ADVISOR. GO TO A GROWN UP WITH THE RIGHT LICENSES FOR QUESTIONS ABOUT YOUR MONEY.

These are shares being bought and sold by employees. When you work for a company that is publicly traded you can only trade during certain times of the year (“trading windows” to make sure that your knowledge of the company doesn’t give you an advantage. For example at my last place of work I could only buy or sell shares of [workplace] during the three weeks *after* the quarterly earnings went out, so that I couldn’t influence the earnings numbers.

So because of a bunch of paperwork you fill out as an employee, the company knows what employees are trading and when. (They’re required to and this info is also shared with regulatory folks like the SEC.)

Now, some employees are considered high risk for their trading even above and beyond me, your friendly neighborhood web designer. Like the CFO or the Vice President of Product. Those people know market-moving levels of information about the company. And we don’t want them manipulating the share price either. So for example if the CFO wants to sell 10,000 shares to buy a yacht, they can’t intentionally sell those shares the day before the company announces a total failure of a product line because they’d get a higher price selling the day before the announcement as the day after, and that’s manipulating the price.

So for those individuals, the regulatory rules state that they have to announce to their compliance department that they intend to sell [x] shares (or buy, as the case may be) and then the compliance department replies back with what date their shares will trade — I think it’s 30 days after whenever compliance clears the trade.

The screen above says that “Tesla insiders are dumping shares” followed by Employee Stock Trades in the Last 3 Months.

Now I’d argue that this isn’t “Tesla insiders” trading unless it’s only the people with the special trading rules being reported on. The janitorial staff really don’t have any more “insider” information than you and me — and if they do, somebody is breaking a hell of a lot of compliance regulations.

But either way this shows that the employees sold 745,228 shares in the specified quarter and didn’t buy any.

To be fair, there are a lot of folks not buying stock for the simple reason that none of us know if some dingus CEO is going to try to replace us with AI right now and we’d rather have cash on hand.

But there’s usually at least a few employees who are willing to buy even when nobody else is because “buy low sell high” is solid investment guidance (that is really hard to actually do) so having NO employee purchases is a vote of no confidence by the employees who were allowed and able to purchase that quarter

So if the employees are selling but not buying, who’s buying those shares? The rest of the people on the stock market, which might include you if your 401k or IRA or HSA or other investment vehicle is invested in a mutual fund that includes TESLA.

If the stock’s in demand, the price is going up and the employees are likely making money on their shares. In the case of TESLA where the stock is the opposite of in demand, they’re just trying to not-lose any more money than necessary.

Oh and if your CEO *isnt* telling you that you need to keep buying the company stock? Run like hell because that’s part of their job, to convince *you* that your work will make you rich not just in your salary but by benefiting the company and thus the stock price.

Do not obey in advance.

[gregheiferly]

LOVEY-DOVEY

first comes love

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. established relationship, hurt to comfort, angst, fluff, leon’s mental problems, future smut, ddlg

note. the first of hopefully 3 chapters?!! i have lost the ability to write im ngl,,, i promised this fic over a year ago and never got it out but i forced myself thru it bc it’s been sitting around like unfinished for a year LMFAO so it’s clunky.. doesn’t make sense… and also i do want to make clear this isn’t supposed to be a baby and marriage = happy marriage sort of fic i just see that ending for this couple in particular.. anyway ignore typos,, ignore any mistakes and pretend it makes sense. feedback / rbs always appreciated!

i would also appreciate if you read this post about plagiarism by a user on both tumblr and ao3

lovey dovey

“I used to hear Hola! and jump—Oh, gosh, I’m not racist or anything, I voted—“ Ashley adjusts her monogrammed scarf, looking at him with her new face. It’s the same, but different. Tighter, brighter, when her eyes widen her brows don’t raise and when she pouts her chin doesn’t dimple. 

“Ashley.” Leon interrupts to get her back on track before it gets any worse. 

D.C. does its best to dampen his mood, torrential rain soaking him to the bone, but you’re wearing these tiny winter booties that make his day a little better. 

“I just bet, I mean I know Leon never tells you anything about Spain, or anything at all.” She waves her hands in a flourish, not a hair out of place. “I signed an NDA, I don’t know how long they last, but I’m sure it must be over by now, I don’t really believe in them to be honest–What is a piece of paper going to do? I mean, it’s not like the piece of paper knows who I’m telling.” 

“She’s too little to know,” Leon says out of instinct. He takes the role of Daddy very seriously these days. 

“Leon.“ You frown at him, it’s so cute he’ll think about it for hours. 

“Sorry.” Is all he can come up with. 

“Anyways, I wanted to ask about plans,” Ashley says, the exchange going unheard by her. 

(If she’s not talking she doesn’t really seem to care about the conversation at hand.)

“Plans?” Leon doesn’t follow, and neither do you.

“Oh, you know.” She dabs at the corner of her lip with a handkerchief that matches her scarf, her lipstick leaves a pink smear on the edge of her cup. It’s heart-shaped. Fucking Cupid over here. “Haven’t you ever thought about babies, Leon? You’re pretty old now.” 

That’s not her card to play. Shouldn’t he be asking her about babies? She’s only getting older, not many eggs left in her basket. But, y’know, that’s not very PC, and Leon really isn’t that bad. He’d like nothing more than for her to move at her own pace - it was hard enough seeing Sherry grow up, passing her off to a guy nearly ten years younger than her—And Leon is in no place to talk about age gaps, but guys are immature and stupid, he would know.

“Ashley,” he interrupts once more, though he has nothing to say at all. Marriage. Babies. Jesus Christ, you are the baby. He’s got jackets older than you. 

“We haven’t thought about it—I mean, I ask him about it sometimes, but nothing serious,” you tell her honestly, the corners of your mouth drooping downwards in a frown.

You are one unhappy little girl and he is in for one hell of a ride back home. 

“I never make plans that far ahead,” he says, rehearsed, before your soured mood runs off the edges of your face and into the rest of the room. Distemper in a dogfighting ring. 

“Hm.” You make a noise beside him, knee bumping his under the table. It’s a touchy subject. An untouchable subject, actually, because he refuses to sit down and talk about it, he shuts it down immediately. You can’t make babies with a baby, that’s just plain wrong. 

(But you can fuck said baby every which way. You can spit in the baby’s mouth and spank her raw. That’s perfectly normal.) 

“The next time I see you, Leon, it better be at your wedding,” Ashley warns him, a burnt orange blazer draped over her slender shoulders as she primps herself up enough to face a camera or two. “I’m happy to help with, well, with everything, I have a lot of time and money to waste so don’t think you’re bothering me. Oh and another thing—Leon?”

“Yeah?” He shifts from foot to foot, the arm circling your waist drops to his side limply. 

“You can call me anytime, you know that, right?” She stares at him, right through him with her big brown eyes. “And you know I can see when you’ve read my texts, right?” 

Leon nods stiffly, he stands there like a fucking scarecrow when she wraps her arms around his neck.

“I know,” he mumbles into perfumed hair. 

When you ask him, “Why didn’t you hug her back?”

He tells you, “I didn’t want to make you jealous.”

“I don’t get jealous.” That’s right. You’re a very self-assured little girl with your head screwed on right, he can’t go around telling such obvious lies. 

“Dunno, just felt weird,” Leon admits, plucking the fuzz off your sweater to keep his hands busy, “haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“That’s your fault.” You walk ahead and he knows you’re pissed. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

The air crackles with tension, heavy enough to shift the layout of Leon’s home a little to the left—Or maybe you really have gone and done that without telling him, taking over his world with parts of your own - it wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary. That’s got to be some form of gaslighting. He can’t even see the TV from this angle. 

“Baby?” Leon calls out.

You poke your head out of the kitchen. 

“Did you move my chair to the left or am I losing it?” He shifts in his seat, moves from left to right, leans back to try and understand what has gone on. 

“You’re losing it, I moved it to the right.” You wipe your wet hands on your skirt, it borders on frumpy, makes your hips look even wider. He pretends that he hasn’t ever thought about knocking you up. 

“Why, baby?” You’re testing his patience, being short with him, huffing and puffing and sticking your nose in the air.

“Because it looks better, but I can’t do it when you’re home ‘cause you never get up.” Carefully, you edge towards him, skirting around the room until you find yourself in daddy’s lap. 

The weight is grounding, his hands find your hips in no time, fingers dimpling the fat as he squeezes down to ease whatever is going on inside of him. “You can’t stay mad at me, baby.”

“Yes I can.” 

“Who’s gonna take care of you then, hm?” Leon asks, sliding his cold hands under shirt to grope your heavy tits. He pretends that he hasn’t thought about running his fingers over your lace bra to find milky wet patches. That he hasn’t thought about you, glassy-eyed and in desperate need of daddy’s help, pushing your leaky tits against his chest and begging him, pleading with him to take on the role of dairy farmer for the day.  

“I can take care of myself.” You shrug. So cold, so cute. “But you, daddy.” You kiss his nose. “Without me, you can’t even remember to take your meds.” 

That’s right. You did well without him. You didn’t need a daddy until you found the right daddy. You wanted a daddy so dearly, but you can take care of yourself just fine. You can pour your own juice and you can tie your laces and fix your hair just fine, it’s just better when daddy does it for you. 

“True,” Leon mumbles, he kneads your breasts contemplatively,  “but it’s good to ask daddy for things, I don’t want you getting hurt doing it on your own.” 

“I have bandaids.” Comes your rebuttal. 

“Baby, you’re being mean.” Leon’s voice verges on a whine. 

“I’m not being mean, Leon.” You let yourself melt into him, fat tits spilling through the gaps in his fingers. His hands are small and there’s too much of you to contain. “Why don’t you want to marry me?” 

That’s a loaded question. One he can’t quite answer because there’s no real answer and he doesn’t really want to answer it.

“You’re too good for me.” 

“Oh my goood,” you groan, rolling your eyes so hard you age backwards, and it really makes you look like a teenager—A little girl—It makes him feel like your father. Not your daddy, but your father. And hell, he’s old enough to play the part. 

“What?” 

“It turns me off when you say shit like that, like ohhh I’m such a old loser, I can’t even get it up, baby, why are you even with me?” You do your best Leon impression, it almost makes him smile. “You literally want everyone to feel bad for you all the time, and you know what, Leon?”

“What?” Leon says again. He’s feeling parched. Lightheaded. Sick. Psychotic. Bad. Just fucking bad. Everything gets so bad when you’re not smiling at him.

“I can’t feel bad for you if you don’t tell me what’s going on—You don’t tell anyone what’s going on so nobody feels bad for you.” You stand up, his hands are left cold and empty. “Only you feel bad for yourself, you literally sit around all day drinking and feeling shitty about sitting around and drinking—You don’t even want to do anything anymore, you didn’t even want to see Ashley today! She loves you so much, she’s your friend and you can’t even text her back because, because… Well, I don’t even know!”

“Baby—“

“You don’t go to therapy and you forget to take your meds, and, and I have to remind you all the time and—“ You take a breath, your lips moving soundlessly as you count to ten. “I don’t mind doing that for you, I like taking care of you and I like when you take care of me—It makes me happy that you let me y’know do that…” You gesture to a stray pacifier on the coffee table. “And I love you, Leon, but it’s just like you never want to fix anything, you just want to stay like this and I don’t want that, Leon—“

“Babe–“

”I told you that I wanted to get married, I told you that it would be a problem for me if you didn’t want kids, Leon—I don’t want to be with you if you don’t want that with me, I told you that before we got serious and you said yes and now—“ You throw your hands in the air, cutting yourself off with a half-aborted sob and splitting his heart right down the middle.

“It’s not like that, baby,” Leon starts gently, pushing up out of his armchair so he can hold you like you need to be held, “I didn’t… It’s not you, you know that don’t you? You’re perfect, you’re a good girl, it’s just…”

“What?” You press your face into his chest, searching for comfort as you run your hands over his back. “It’s what?”

“It’s me.” 

“Oh my god, Leon.” Your voice breaks, and you look up at him. For a minute it’s like you’re in soft-focus, like you’re a love letter gone yellow with time, sepia-stained and unspeakably tender and—and the reel is burning away because you’re too beautiful to last forever. You’re the most fragile little package, stamped to handle with care and he’s tossed you onto someone's lawn and you’re going to be plucked away by a porch pirate and—God, he’s such a fuck-up. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”

Might be cliche, but it’s true. It’s him, not you. It’s always him. It’s why he’s been alone for so long. It’s not work, it’s not what happened in Spain or Talk Oaks, not even Raccoon City—Not mom, not dad, not Ada or Jack or Ashley or the fucking President, it’s not some grand, tragic circumstance—It’s just him. 

“If I marry you…” Leon’s mouth dries up while he flicks through a mental Rolodex of excuses. 

I drink too much. I’m depressed and probably bipolar. I’m infertile. You’re a baby, I can’t have babies with a baby. You’re too young. I’m too old. Especially for kids. I look like I could be your dad. I’m suicidal and needy and if we have kids what if you like them more than me? I work a lot. What if I put our kids in danger? What if I put you in danger? What if I’m a shit dad? What if you stop liking me after we tie the knot? You’re so young, you have your whole life ahead of you and you want to marry an old man? You should leave me for someone younger. Please don’t leave me. 

All of it is true, although none of it is an honest answer to your question—The answer is quite simple really—Leon won’t marry you because he refuses to be happy. 

“If I marry you,” he says again, eyes flickering from your eyes to your pout, “what will Sherry think?” 

Your hands are in tight fists by your sides, bottom

lip trembling as you struggle to remain impassive—And he knows you like the back of his hand, like the veins in his dick—That wrinkled nose could only mean one thing. You’re not about to cry, you’re mad at him. 

“Leon.” Your jaw tightens, grinding your teeth into a fine powder. “You know Sherry isn’t thinking about you, right?”

“How could you say that?” He asks, somewhere between hurt and confused. 

“I’m just… Like, fuck, Leon!” You angle your face away from him, cycling through every stage of grief as you gather your thoughts. “It’s not about what Sherry wants or what she’s thinking or whatever, it’s about what I want and what you want.” 

“But—“

“She isn't a part of our relationship, Leon, nobody is.” You tilt your head back, looking up at the ceiling and squeezing your eyes shut. Praying or doing a breathing exercise. “Like… Like you don’t like Jake and she still married him because he makes her happy, Leon—Why don’t you want to be happy with me, Leon?”

“I am happy,” he lies. 

“Don’t lie to me, Leon—Do I not make you happy, is that what it is?” You look at him helplessly and he stands there with nothing to say. 

“You do make me happy,” Leon insists softly, you’re the only thing that makes him happy. Light of his life, apple of his eye, the centre of his whole entire world.

“I just don’t get it anymore, Leon.” 

Oh, god.

“I don’t… I made it clear that I wanted something serious, I want to marry you and I want to have kids with you—I don’t get why you would lead on me like that.” You cross your arms over your chest, bracing for his answer. “Has all of this been for nothing?”

To be entirely frank - Leon is being selfish. 

He’d rather keep you in limbo than let you move on with someone else. He doesn’t want to think about you in bed with someone else, calling someone else daddy, letting them touch you and take care of you—It makes him dizzy, he’s getting jealous of a guy he made up in his fucking head. You’re the only good thing in his piece of shit life and he has no intention of letting you go—He really should, and he probably would if you asked him a year ago, before the D word but now—

Leon feels out of place. 

If he’s not your daddy, then who is he? 

“You’re just… You’re just freaking out ‘cause Ashley put it in your head,” Leon retorts childishly, “we don’t need a baby to be happy.” You’re the only baby he needs to be happy. 

“Are you kidding, Leon?” Your nose is running and you wipe at your face with balled up fists. “Don’t make this about Ashley, you know that isn’t the problem—I really can’t believe you, if you're not serious about me then why are you still with me?”

Truthfully, he didn’t mean for all of this to go so far - then your toothbrush joined his, your Sylvanians found a nice spot on his mantle next to the potpourri, the whole daddy thing happened—

And all of that means that this is not a midlife crisis or a fling or a distraction. 

It means that you’re his girlfriend, the woman he loves.

“I am serious about you.” 

We just want different things, would be the right way to put it. It’s not entirely true, but Leon doesn’t know how to tell you that peace is unrecognisable to him. He doesn’t know what it feels like, it scares him, the finality of marriage and kids and all of these childish dreams he had so long ago—It’s scary, and it takes a lot and Leon could shoulder the whole fucking world if he had to and the whole fucking world is a lot. He’s done it before. Jesus Christ, he’s fought creatures that go beyond the scope of human understanding, but all of it comes to an end. Fights end. Missions get completed. Damsels are saved and monsters are slain and Leon gets home okay as he can be. 

But this… Marriage. There’s no way out—Like, there’s divorce, obviously, but something about marriage is permanent. He can’t shoot a gun and get out of a marital dispute, and he can’t outrun a missed birthday because ultimately he has to come home to you.

Coming home to you sounds good. It is good. It’s the reason he bothers coming home after work instead of bumming around in bars like he used to. But, but, but it’s about trust and working together and while nothing will really change you’ll legally own him and he’ll legally be yours and that’s a lot of responsibility for someone so young to take on and technically you’re already doing all of these responsible things for him and—Marriage is just different, okay?

“I don’t think you are, Leon.” You blink at him slowly, sadly. 

“I am,” Leon insists because he is serious about this. About you. He loves you and he knows that, but he’s fine with what you have now. Girlfriend-Boyfriend. Daddy and baby. “I am, baby, but don’t you think that we're moving into this too fast?”

“It’s been two years, Leon.” Another slow, sad blink, you look off to the side. “I told you I was dating to marry, Leon, I told you what I wanted, I want kids with you—And I’m sorry but you’re not getting any younger, if you’re just wasting my time—“

Something sharp and ugly takes hold of his chest. ”You just think I’m gonna blow my brains out before I give you a baby, that's all you want from me.” That isn’t what Leon wanted to say, but the room is getting too small and that struck a fucking nerve. 

“Excuse me?” 

Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. A rotten sole-crushed peach, that's all he is, it’s true. And he doesn’t deserve you, but he doubles down selfishly. “You think I’m gonna blow my brains out before I give you a kid,” he repeats, “that’s why you’re freaking out about this now.” Leon’s so very talented at fucking things up. Paperwork, his liver, his entire fucking life. 

“No… That’s not—Are you kidding me? Is that all you got from this, Leon?” You’re looking at him with these accusatory eyes and you’re not calling him daddy or tugging at the back of his shirt for attention. “How could you say that about me? Is that what you think of me?”

Leon would like to say no and he’d like to apologise, instead he fumes silently, teeth clenched so tightly they’ve started to ache. “C’mon, use your big girl words and tell me the truth.” He’s not very tall, but he’s taller than you - he looks down his nose at you. 

“Don’t talk to me like that, Leon.” The shift in his behaviour is new, you’re used to his self-loathing, his laziness and reluctance and his general unlikeability, but this—Leon has never been mad at you, and he doesn’t want to be mad at you and he’s more mad at himself than he is you—But still, like, he looks mad at you and he can see the way you’re trembling, puffing out your chest and standing your ground to appear so much bigger than you are. It breaks his heart, he’s the worst daddy ever. The most dick-headed jerk of a boyfriend and you’re still here. Fighting for him, well, with him, you’re here and you’re fighting with him, that’s still something. 

“Why not?” Leon tilts his head to the side, his face softening in faux confusion. “You like it so much, don’t you?”

God, maybe he’s not so normal after all, and you haven’t fixed him, and bad thoughts always come back, and if he was normal he wouldn’t be wanting to jump off every balcony and walk into every main road and disappear into bodies of water.

Leon isn’t normal. Big surprise.

He’s just starting to realise that it doesn’t matter how many people love him, it doesn’t matter how many medals he’s awarded, it doesn’t matter that he’s a treasure to some degree, an old gun worth keeping—None of it matters, Leon realises, none of it will ever fucking matter because he is who he is. 

Leon is going to lead a miserable dogshit life because he can and he will and it doesn’t matter how many good or bad things happen to him, it doesn’t matter who he falls asleep next to - he’ll still feel shitty in the morning. 

(At the end of the day, he’s a Kennedy, and no Kennedy has ever been particularly lucky.) 

“I’m trying to be serious, Leon, and you’re acting like a child!” Your bottom lip quivers, and you’re probably wondering where your daddy has gone. “I can’t… I can’t believe you’re talking to me like that right now.” 

Neither can Leon. 

Guilt coils in his gut like a snake, constricting and hissing in the back of his head that he should know better, he’s so much older, he’s your daddy, and he’s meant to take care of you. That’s what daddies are for.  

“I don’t want to… I don’t want to force you into this, Leon, I don’t want to make you marry me if you don’t want me—“ He does want you. He wants you so bad. “—I don’t want to force you to have kids with me if you’re not ready, I just wish you had told me before I moved in with you—“ The hurt that crosses your face strikes him right in the heart, teardrops beading your gossamer lashes. 

“No, no, no, I’m sorry, baby,” he says softly, quietly, earnestly, not daring to take a step closer because he doesn’t deserve to feel you or smell you or touch you, “I want to be with you, I love you.” 

“I don’t know anymore, Leon.” You look to him helplessly, blinking up at him with these big doleful eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to do.” 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, equally as helpless, “I don’t know.” 

He’s your daddy, he’s meant to know, but he doesn’t, so he just stands there like an idiot. 

“I’m sad,” you tell him honestly, “I’m going to go upstairs now.”

Leon goes to follow you.

“Don't follow me.”

Leon goes back to standing there like a fucking idiot. 

[personapeters]

𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡

— a jj maybank one shot

✰ when y/n wears a new skirt out to brunch with the girls that her boyfriend, jj, thinks is simply too short

rating: sfw — cw: suggestive language/situations

“i don’t get it — why would anyone want to make breakfast and lunch one thing? taking two perfectly good opportunities to eat and turnin’ ‘em into one,” jj vented to his girlfriend who was hidden just behind the cracked bathroom door and all she could do was smile to herself as she finished applying her lipgloss.

“i’ll be back around noon then we’re good for a surf, yeah?” y/n questioned as she swiftly emerged into the living room, grabbing her bag from beside her boyfriend who sat slouched on the couch, snacking on whatever he could find.

“hell yeah,” he agreed, blue eyes lazily focused on the tv as he absentmindedly flicked through the same channels over and over again, “tell the girls i said— woah.”

“what?” y/n deadpanned, frozen in place as her boyfriend was now staring up at her with wide eyes, watching as his gaze trailed up and down her tanned legs before resting near her hips. his mouth went dry as he attempted to formulate the next words to say — the right words to say.

“i— uh, that’s… that’s new,” he commented in reference to the short frilly skirt that tightly hugged his girlfriend’s hips, stopping just above her mid-thigh and leaving the plush flesh on full display.

“yeah, it is,” y/n smiled brightly, clasping her hands in front of her waist bashfully, lightly twisting side-to-side to show off the flowy material, “sarah got one to match; you like it?”

jj pursed his lips before swiping his tongue over them, unsure of how to correctly answer. “i do,” he assured honestly with a slow nod, though his tone indicated there was a little more to it.

“but…?” y/n trailed off, becoming self conscious as she crossed her arms over her chest. “exactly,” he continued, pushing himself off of the couch before peering down at her through his messy blonde hair.

“what?” y/n laughed lightly, eyebrows furrowed as she tilted her head. “y’don’t think it’s a little… little?” jj reasoned, resting his hands on her waist before running them down her hips, stopping at the hem of her skirt and lightly tugging it playfully in emphasis.

“jay, it’s like a hundred degrees out,” y/n sighed, her heart slightly sinking as she lightly pulled away, “i thought you—.”

“hey, hey, no — you look good,” he rushed out, before a small smile pulled at his pink lips as he tugged her towards him again, “like, really really good.”

“stop,” y/n rolled her eyes playfully, lightly hitting his defined, tank-top covered chest, “seriously — does it… bother you?”

“you don’t bother me,” jj muttered, gently placing his hands on either side of her face, “men with their beady little eyes do.” y/n laughed softly at the disgusted look on his face, though jj couldn’t have been more serious; the idea alone made his jaw clench.

“i mean, they can look,” she shrugged before pressing a quick kiss go the corner of his mouth, “but they can’t touch.”

“damn right,” jj mumbled with small smirk before planting a firm kiss on her lips while sliding his hands down her hips. “mm, i have to go,” y/n softly laughed against his mouth, slowly pushing him back by the shoulders before breaking the kiss, knowing one thing leads to another very quickly with him.

“right,” jj agreed, swiftly leaving a light slap on her butt with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “have fun.” y/n let out a surprised yelp, shooting him a playful glare with an uncontrollable smile on her face before spinning on her heels and heading for the door.

he couldn’t help but watch as she walked away, his lids low over his crystal eyes as he chewed on the inside of his lip, his eyes running along her body from her hair down to her feet — he’s still not at all sure how she is his.

“later! i love you!” y/n yelled giddily as she nearly skipped out the door. “i love you, babe — call me if you need me!” he yelled after her just before the door shut, though it went without saying; if anyone ever tried anything, or even stared at his girl for a little too long (which truthfully was any amount of time at all), he’d happily get comfortable in the back of a cop car — again.

 personapeters 2025 — all rights reserved • masterlist

[seitmai]

Again, many thoughts

You sighed, feeling your tank top getting wet with blood. It felt like an out of body experience, Natasha’s voice echoing somewhere inside your head; “Your brain is in shock trying to process the pain. Get the blade out, press on a cloth and get the hell out of here before one of them wakes up.”

Nat helping her sister out even if she's not really there 🥺💔

“Let’s go.” He led you towards your room, and despite knowing there was no chance of you being followed, you still looked over your shoulder.

A hard habit to break I assume

The room suddenly felt too small, the taste of metal heavy on your tongue. “whoa!” Joaquin grabs your left side before you fall to the floor, his eyes find yours, and it is then you see the hidden fear in his eyes. He acted fine until now, witnessing the amount of damage on your body. The last thing you felt before blacking out was the burning sensation of rubbing alcohol on your skin and Joaquin’s hand holding yours.

Uff this is rough but just the simple gesture of Joaquin holding her hand 🥺

The smell of spirit lingered in the air, as you were woken up from deep sleep by a gentle voice. Opening your eyes, you see the bedside digital clock showing 02:18, and your eyes travel to Joaquin sitting on a chair next to the bed. His white vest had spots of blood, your blood, on it. His right hand was bandaged poorly, and the cut above his eyebrow had two butterfly tapes.

He's probably sitting in the chair to not fall asleep and keep an eye on her 🥺

“You scared me for a while.” He says while gently caressing your forehead. “What happened?” you groaned, trying to sit up, he placed a pillow behind you as you leaned back on the headboard. You look down at your body to find your tank top gone, and you wore Joaquin’s Air Force T Shirt. You look at him again to see his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, his eyes heavy. He hadn’t slept the entire night.

He took care of her 🥹

Joaquin holds your hand, and you feel the rough bandage on your skin, “are you alright?” you look at him and his line of vision, which were trained on your hand. “yeah.” You sit up straighter, and take his hand in yours, “I’m fine Joaquin, hey,” you gently hold his face that makes him look at you, “I promise.” You smile.

I think they both needed that little moment 🥹

You rest his injured hand on your lap and open the bandage to redo it properly. The next few minutes are spent in silence, the occasional honk and sound of passing vehicles outside being the only noise. You take a proper look at his hand after you’re done, and you bring it to your lips to kiss.

A kiss to make it all better 🥹🥰

“I thought I would lose you today.” He says, his eyes flickering from yours to your lips. “I ain’t going anywhere Joaquin. I’m right here.” Your voice came out as a whisper, and he held your face in his hands.

🥹🥹🥹

He looks into your eyes again, silently asking for your consent, and your reply wordlessly by leaning towards him. You savor it; the warmth of his body, his breath on your face, his hands on your waist. He continues to kiss you as his hands traveled your body, and you didn’t open your eyes in fear that it was some kind of dream. 

They both more than deserve this after the day they had 🥰

He cautiously pulls you down on the mattress, your back meeting the sheets of your motel bed. Joaquin gets on his knees to take off his vest, tossing it on the floor. Your eyes couldn’t leave his toned torso, and his broad shoulders covered you entirely when he leaned forward, trailing kisses on your neck. The contrast in the touch of both his hands; one bandaged and one not… you closed your eyes yet again to just feel his touch on your skin. You couldn’t breathe by the way he bit your neck, and you arched your back as his hands gathered the t-shirt to roll it up to your ribs.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

“We can stop if you want to.” He says in between kisses, and you moan, “no, please… don’t.” “As you wish…” he says, his breath hot on your neck. He kissed you right in the valley of your breasts, and sucked on your skin.

Her wish is his command😌

His hands caressed your thighs, and his gaze lingered on your body. The intensity of it made you shiver, but it wasn’t lust you saw in them. He wanted you, needed you. Recalling the kiss that you shared earlier today; this was the complete opposite of it. This was pure adoration. 

🥰🥰🥰

Joaquin caressed your waist, “take it easy, y/n.” as he shifted his gaze to your injured shoulder. “Sure.” you breathed out, heart racing, as you lifted yourself up while he removed his boxers. As soon as you touched him to stroke, he fell back on the bed, his brows knit in pleasure. You laughed; watching how he was reacting to your touch. “Huh… that wasn’t funny, querida.” he huffed, and you gasped as he grabbed your waist to pull himself up.

I love these little moments of laughter even when it hot and heavy 🤭

“Ow!” you buried your face on the nape of his neck, as he stiffened within you. “Told you to take it easy.” he whispered as he caressed your hair, “you wanna stop?” “No,” you whined, lifting your face to look at him, “no… I…” you huffed out, “I want you.” He exhaled, replying with a warm smile, “okay.”

After the day they had, these tender moments hit extra hard 🥰🥹

Joaquin gently held both of your wrists and brought your hands to his face to let you hold on to his neck, and you gladly did. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and closed his eyes before leaving a kiss on your lips. He pulled you closer as you lowered yourself on him, moaning in each other’s mouths. As you moved, he kept on kissing you. 

No words just 🥰😮‍💨🥵😍

Your pace increased as you felt his heartbeat on your skin, his hands grabbing your back. He kissed your face as you lifted your chin, leaving trails on your face and reaching your neck, but you grabbed his hair, pulling him back and exposing his neck to you. Sucking on his neck, you hugged him back, the sharp jab on your shoulder now least of your worries. He pushed into you as you continued to suck and bite his skin wherever you could. He tried his best not to pull your hair, but failed as he grabbed a handful by the end only to bring you closer.

I too would forget my fucked up shoulder that was actively bleeding and trying to kill me a few hours earlier if I would hold onto his gorgeous locks and bite his neck 🤭😌

Fighting for air, you kissed him on his mouth… stroking him even after he came inside you. You shifted to your uninjured side and you held him while resting your head on his chest; groaning, he adjusted himself so you could lay your head in his arms and stroked your hair

So soft for each other 🥰

Both you and Joaquin couldn’t tear your eyes away from each other. He was a sight to behold—his unruly hair sticking to his forehead, his face flushed, and the marks you left on his skin gradually shifting in color.

A beautiful sight 😌🥰

“Penny for your thoughts?” you tease, poking his cheek. “You are…” he sighs, his voice serious but amused. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re really skilled with what you did earlier.” You raise an eyebrow, unable to suppress a giggle. “You mean the way I body-slammed a Flag Smasher? Or are you talking about…” “Uh…” He glances up at the ceiling, and you swear you see him blush. “Both.”

🤭🤭🤭

You both burst into laughter, and he pulls the covers over you, tucking you close to him. As your eyes meet, your heart skips a beat when his fingers trail over your bare back once more.

Them just laughing together is everything to me 😍

“Can’t we stay like this forever?” he asks, his voice soft. “This feels like a dream.” “It’s real.” You reach up, your fingers gently brushing the cut over his eye. “And even if it is a dream, it’s the best one I’ve ever had.”

The last three weeks had been the most peaceful stretch you’d had since the Thanos attack in New York. After a brief visit to Sarah’s newly renovated house—where Sam had to fight you off when you offered to pay for everything—you and Joaquin were finally heading to Arizona. He was finally going to take you to see the Canyons, a promise he’d made all the way back in that attic you two had shared.

Ahh they are keeping their promise 😍

Sarah leans forward, utterly bewildered, “So you dropped a kid midair because he webbed you to an escalator?” Bucky stops her with a laugh, “In our defense, he was on the opposite team!” You couldn't help teasing him, “Still, you attacked a kid.”

I have a feeling this is not the first time that Sarah and her team up to egg on Bucky (and probably Sam too) 😅

“We have something to tell you guys,” Joaquin said, his voice a little too casual for the tension in the air. He reached under the table to take your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin. You squeezed his hand in return, giving him a warm smile before you turned to look at Sam, Bucky, and Sarah.

So exciting (and probably nerve wrecking) but they can do it together, hand in hand 🥰

The table went silent for a second, and then Sarah’s face lit up, her eyes sparkling. “Oh my god, I’m so happy for you both!” Sam laughed loudly, throwing his head back, while Bucky froze, fork halfway to his mouth. Bucky stared at the two of you in disbelief, his fork clicking loudly as it dropped to his plate. “Wait a minute... how long has this been going on?”

The whole variety of reactions in those three 😂

“I swear, if you hurt Y/N—” Bucky's voice turned deadly serious, his Vibranium arm rising as he pointed it at Joaquin. “I’ll make sure you regret it.” Joaquin quickly held up his hands. “I would never—” “Good.” Bucky nodded, satisfied. “Just making sure, You two gross me out.” Bucky side eyes you as you respond by leaving a loud smooch on Joaquin’s cheek. “Yeah, I’m gonna throw up.” Bucky grimaces and gets up from the table with his beer.“ Get outta here old man.” You scream, all in playfulness as he slams the porch door. Bucky had a knick of theatrics, and you knew deep down he was happy for you.

Hahah Bucky the drama queen 😂

“He didn’t mean that, Buck’s a secret romantic and I bet you ten bucks he’s crying happy tears on the back porch.” Sam tells you both as you begin to clear out the table.

I 100% believe that 🤭

Joaquin groaned, “You know, I’m starting to think Bucky’s secretly shipping us.”

You chuckled, glancing over your shoulder. “We’re sleeping on the couch, babe.” His hands moved slowly to your hips as he nuzzled your neck, “Wanna take this to the couch then?” His playful tone was backed by the softest puppy eyes you’d ever seen.

Who could say no to that?

I'm sure he is 🤭😅🥰

Under the Same Sky Part 2

Pairings - Joaquin Torres X fem!Reader (TFATWS AU)

Premise - You have your heart guarded for the longest time. But when you encounter a stranger on the same mission, will you be able to do the same?

Word Count - 4.2K

Warnings: Gore, blood, SMUT, minors DNI

a/n - I'm sorry for being late about the second part, a relative of mine passed away after new year and I was with family. This part is dedicated to all the lover girls by heart out there. may you find your lover and have an amazing story. Hope you guys like it <3 Take care.

The wind picked up speed as Lucas and his team stepped on the backyard of the Wilson Residence. Guns drawn, stance ready, they took the steps to the back entrance.

Nadia and Artie moved in first, Matt in tow and Lucas in the end. They hear not a single sound around them. Matt signaled clear after checking the rooms and the kitchen, Nadia let her shoulders relax watching him sign.

“Where are they?” Artie whispered.

The radio in the kitchen turns on its own accord…

Can't stay at home, can't stay at school

Old folks say, "Ya poor little fool"

Down the streets I'm the girl next door

I'm the fox you've been waiting for!

Lucas shoots the radio; the broken device fell to the floor with a thud. A scratched-out sound of Cherry Bomb still playing on.

“That’s a shame…”

Nadia was too slow to turn before you hit her head with the butt of your Glock, “I love that song.”

Artie fell on the floor as Joaquin kicked him in the back, you advanced towards Matt. The first thing that bastard did was to kick off the floor and punch you square in the jaw, but you duck in record time, just to kick his feet off the ground and lose your Glock in the process.

Joaquin got busy with Artie and Lucas, who had teamed up to defeat him. Lucas ducked a kick on his chest, and Artie tried to stab him in the neck. Joaquin got a knife out of his belt and fought with all his might, after throwing Lucas on the kitchen table.

Matt was twice your size, he got up in no time trying to throw you off your feet but you were smarter than that, you ran on the wall, kicking off it and using the velocity to climb his shoulders. You pull a hidden wire from your wrist, falling back and choking him in the process. Matt fought hard to get a hold of you, but you pressed on harder. His movements slowed down, and eventually he stilled as you released the wire.

Joaquin was pinned down on the ground with Artie on top of him, his blade inches away from his windpipe. Joaquin pushed hard on his end of blade, trying to nick off his collarbone. Lucas came rushing towards them now recovered from being thrown on the table… Joaquin threw off all his strength to turn his entire body sideways, which in turn put Artie on the side, giving him a chance to stab him just where his neck met his shoulder.

You got up to rush to Lucas, but fell face first feeling a stronghold on your ankle. Turning, you meet a very pissed off looking Nadia with blood covering her face.

She held a Glock, your glock, aiming at you. You kick her in the face, grabbing your knife in the holster. You sit up to stab her in the back, just an inch away from her heart.

So why was it that you felt a sharp jab on your shoulder?

You look at the source, only to see a blade sticking out of your right shoulder. Nadia’s hand being the holder. She looked you right in the eye as she twisted the blade deeper. You grunt, stabbing the woman again and again until she stopped.

Unbearable pain clouded your senses, but Joaquin’s voice brought you back to your senses, turning towards him to see him spar with Lucas, taking punches and pulling ones. You got on your knees to snatch your Glock from Nadia’s dead fingers, keeping an eye on Joaquin.

Blood ran down his elbow from his palm, he staggered on his feet trying to get a jab at Lucas, but found himself covered in his brains once you shot Lucas in the forehead.

You sighed, feeling your tank top getting wet with blood. It felt like an out of body experience, Natasha’s voice echoing somewhere inside your head; “Your brain is in shock trying to process the pain. Get the blade out, press on a cloth and get the hell out of here before one of them wakes up.”

“y/n, look at me.” Joaquin grabbed your face, making you look at him. He glanced at the knife sticking out of your body. “This might hurt.” Saying so he pulled on the blade, prying it off.

You screamed out loud as he pressed hard on your shoulder with a cloth bandage.

How are you lying on the floor?

Joaquin lifted you up like you weighed nothing, “We gotta go. Come on…” resting your head on his shoulder, you try not to pass out looking at the blood running down his face.

------------------------------

Seeing double with an open stab wound was never good news. Joaquin’s jacket did enough to hide the blood and bandage on your shoulder, but it was only a matter of time until some keen observer in the hotel lobby looked at you long enough to know you were unwell.

Leaning on the wall next to you, you watched as Joaquin came towards you and wrapped his arm over your shoulder, careful of your wound, he whispers, “you alright?”

“Kinda.” Your words came out slurred.

“Let’s go.” He led you towards your room, and despite knowing there was no chance of you being followed, you still looked over your shoulder.

As soon as the door opened, you limped towards the bed and Joaquin closed the door and the blinds. Taking off your jacket, you made the rookie mistake of taking a glance at yourself in the mirror.

Your hair was unkempt, your tank top’s strap was torn to pieces, the entire right side of your body covered in blood. The open wound right under your collarbone stared back at you through the mirror.

The room suddenly felt too small, the taste of metal heavy on your tongue.

“whoa!” Joaquin grabs your left side before you fall to the floor, his eyes find yours, and it is then you see the hidden fear in his eyes. He acted fine until now, witnessing the amount of damage on your body.

He helps you sit on the bed, and lean back on the headboard while pressing his jacket on your torso before tearing off your straps. Holding out a piece of rolled up fabric, he holds out to your mouth, “you’ll need this.” You’ve been through this before, never on this scale; but you don’t argue with him before biting into it.

The last thing you felt before blacking out was the burning sensation of rubbing alcohol on your skin and Joaquin’s hand holding yours.

----------------------------

The smell of spirit lingered in the air, as you were woken up from deep sleep by a gentle voice. Opening your eyes, you see the bedside digital clock showing 02:18, and your eyes travel to Joaquin sitting on a chair next to the bed. His white vest had spots of blood, your blood, on it. His right hand was bandaged poorly, and the cut above his eyebrow had two butterfly tapes.

“You scared me for a while.” He says while gently caressing your forehead.

“What happened?” you groaned, trying to sit up, he placed a pillow behind you as you leaned back on the headboard. You look down at your body to find your tank top gone, and you wore Joaquin’s Air Force T Shirt. You look at him again to see his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, his eyes heavy. He hadn’t slept the entire night.

“You passed out while I was cleaning your wound, I woke you up to give you some medicines, and you fell asleep.”

“I don’t remember that.” You huffed out, looking at the ceiling.

Joaquin holds your hand, and you feel the rough bandage on your skin, “are you alright?” you look at him and his line of vision, which were trained on your hand.

“yeah.” You sit up straighter, and take his hand in yours, “I’m fine Joaquin, hey,” you gently hold his face that makes him look at you, “I promise.” You smile.

You rest his injured hand on your lap and open the bandage to redo it properly. The next few minutes are spent in silence, the occasional honk and sound of passing vehicles outside being the only noise. You take a proper look at his hand after you’re done, and you bring it to your lips to kiss.

Joaquin inhales sharply as your lips touch his fingers, and your eyes lock on his.

“I thought I would lose you today.” He says, his eyes flickering from yours to your lips.

“I ain’t going anywhere Joaquin. I’m right here.” Your voice came out as a whisper, and he held your face in his hands.

He looks into your eyes again, silently asking for your consent, and your reply wordlessly by leaning towards him.

The kiss was gentle.

Joaquin’s lips were featherlight on yours and you closed your eyes to feel him whole. Holding the back of his neck you brought him closer as you fell back on the headboard, and he climbed the bed to hover over you.

You kiss each other slowly, letting go of the fear of losing each other flow through it.

You savor it; the warmth of his body, his breath on your face, his hands on your waist. He continues to kiss you as his hands traveled your body, and you didn’t open your eyes in fear that it was some kind of dream. 

He cautiously pulls you down on the mattress, your back meeting the sheets of your motel bed. Joaquin gets on his knees to take off his vest, tossing it on the floor. Your eyes couldn’t leave his toned torso, and his broad shoulders covered you entirely when he leaned forward, trailing kisses on your neck. The contrast in the touch of both his hands; one bandaged and one not… you closed your eyes yet again to just feel his touch on your skin. You couldn’t breathe by the way he bit your neck, and you arched your back as his hands gathered the t-shirt to roll it up to your ribs.

“We can stop if you want to.” He says in between kisses, and you moan, “no, please… don’t.”

“As you wish…” he says, his breath hot on your neck. He kissed you right in the valley of your breasts, and sucked on your skin.

You locked eyes with him as he carefully removed the t-shirt off of your body, leaving you in only your jeans. You grabbed a fistful of his hair as his lips left open mouthed kisses on your nipples, you heard him moan as he squeezed your breasts, a sound that made you pull on his hair harder, which only made him louder.

Joaquin made quick work on his belt as you quickly removed your jeans, but he clutched your hand halfway, “wait…” stumbling on his words, “uh… you’re hurt… let me…” he held your jeans and you let them go, as he pulled them down your legs and on the floor.

His hands caressed your thighs, and his gaze lingered on your body. The intensity of it made you shiver, but it wasn’t lust you saw in them.

He wanted you, needed you. Recalling the kiss that you shared earlier today; this was the complete opposite of it. This was pure adoration. 

You were his reverence.

While the shadow of his tousled hair masked his forehead, he locked eyes with you. As he lowered his body bringing his face closer to your thighs, you didn’t dare look away. You arched your back as Joaquin’s arms held you down, his muscles flexing as he kissed your inner thigh, and a loud whine left your lips as he tasted you on his tongue. 

He stopped only when your moans turned into screams, and when you looked at him while heaving for breath, he was gasping for air, his pupils blown, but the gaze still gentle.

You locked your legs on his waist before you could stop yourself, and tossed him on the bed. Now he was under you, and you could feel how eager he was as you looked down at his tented boxers.

Joaquin caressed your waist, “take it easy, y/n.” as he shifted his gaze to your injured shoulder.

“Sure.” you breathed out, heart racing, as you lifted yourself up while he removed his boxers. As soon as you touched him to stroke, he fell back on the bed, his brows knit in pleasure. You laughed; watching how he was reacting to your touch.

“Huh… that wasn’t funny, querida.” he huffed, and you gasped as he grabbed your waist to pull himself up.

Joaquin was now inches away from your face, his chest pressed to yours as he locked his arms around your waist. You tried to wrap yours around his neck, but you hissed as a sharp pain shot through your injured shoulder straight to your neck.

“Ow!” you buried your face on the nape of his neck, as he stiffened within you.

“Told you to take it easy.” he whispered as he caressed your hair, “you wanna stop?”

“No,” you whined, lifting your face to look at him, “no… I…” you huffed out, “I want you.”

He exhaled, replying with a warm smile, “okay.”

Joaquin gently held both of your wrists and brought your hands to his face to let you hold on to his neck, and you gladly did. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and closed his eyes before leaving a kiss on your lips. He pulled you closer as you lowered yourself on him, moaning in each other’s mouths. As you moved, he kept on kissing you. 

Your pace increased as you felt his heartbeat on your skin, his hands grabbing your back. He kissed your face as you lifted your chin, leaving trails on your face and reaching your neck, but you grabbed his hair, pulling him back and exposing his neck to you. Sucking on his neck, you hugged him back, the sharp jab on your shoulder now least of your worries. He pushed into you as you continued to suck and bite his skin wherever you could. He tried his best not to pull your hair, but failed as he grabbed a handful by the end only to bring you closer.

Fighting for air, you kissed him on his mouth… stroking him even after he came inside you.

Joaquin fell back on the bed, bringing you into his arms; exhausted, spent, the two of you fighting for breath. 

You shifted to your uninjured side and you held him while resting your head on his chest; groaning, he adjusted himself so you could lay your head in his arms and stroked your hair,

Both you and Joaquin couldn’t tear your eyes away from each other. He was a sight to behold—his unruly hair sticking to his forehead, his face flushed, and the marks you left on his skin gradually shifting in color.

“You good?” he whispers, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your bare back.

“Yeah. You?” you murmur, feeling the weight of sleep beginning to settle in.

A chuckle bubbles in his throat, and you can't help but smirk when he slaps a hand over his eyes, letting out a soft laugh.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you tease, poking his cheek.

“You are…” he sighs, his voice serious but amused. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re really skilled with what you did earlier.”

You raise an eyebrow, unable to suppress a giggle. “You mean the way I body-slammed a Flag Smasher? Or are you talking about…”

“Uh…” He glances up at the ceiling, and you swear you see him blush. “Both.”

You both burst into laughter, and he pulls the covers over you, tucking you close to him. As your eyes meet, your heart skips a beat when his fingers trail over your bare back once more.

“Can’t we stay like this forever?” he asks, his voice soft. “This feels like a dream.”

“It’s real.” You reach up, your fingers gently brushing the cut over his eye. “And even if it is a dream, it’s the best one I’ve ever had.”

His gaze softens at your words, and with a gentle kiss to your forehead, he confesses, “Stay right here, will you?”

You nod, your voice a quiet whisper. “Yes.”

And with that, you slip into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

--------------------------------

Three Weeks Later, Wilson Residence

Karli was dead, the Flag Smashers were wiped out in a mysterious blast (which Zemo swore he had no part in), and John Walker had vanished off the radar. Sam was now Captain America. You and Joaquin had managed to sit that one out due to injuries, and life—relatively speaking—was almost back to normal.

The last three weeks had been the most peaceful stretch you’d had since the Thanos attack in New York. After a brief visit to Sarah’s newly renovated house—where Sam had to fight you off when you offered to pay for everything—you and Joaquin were finally heading to Arizona. He was finally going to take you to see the Canyons, a promise he’d made all the way back in that attic you two had shared.

It was night now, the kids were asleep, but the dinner table in the Wilson residence was anything but quiet, as Sam and Bucky were recounting the first time they met Spiderman.

“…and we got this kid climbing on the roof, he slams Bucky onto the floor, and screams out something about impressing Tony…”

“…and then he webs you to the escalator…” Bucky grumbles in-between.

“…I was getting to that! Anyways, I let redwing take care of the rest and send him flying through the airport and dump him midair. Ha!” Sam laughs, waiting for a reaction.

Sarah leans forward, utterly bewildered, “So you dropped a kid midair because he webbed you to an escalator?”

Bucky stops her with a laugh, “In our defense, he was on the opposite team!”

You couldn't help teasing him, “Still, you attacked a kid.”

Sam threw a baby carrot at you. “Okay, okay! Stop throwing food, Sam. What are you, five?”

Sam was about to throw another one at youtube bucky grabbed the baby carrots bowl and passed it to sarah, who gladly put it out of his reach.

You shifted your attention to Joaquin, who was looking at the whole ordeal trying not to laugh. The cut above his eye had almost healed, only a faint trail of new skin the only sign that there ever was any injury. 

“We have something to tell you guys,” Joaquin said, his voice a little too casual for the tension in the air. He reached under the table to take your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin.

You squeezed his hand in return, giving him a warm smile before you turned to look at Sam, Bucky, and Sarah.

Joaquin looked at you, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, and then he said it: “Y/N and I are dating.”

The table went silent for a second, and then Sarah’s face lit up, her eyes sparkling. “Oh my god, I’m so happy for you both!”

Sam laughed loudly, throwing his head back, while Bucky froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

Bucky stared at the two of you in disbelief, his fork clicking loudly as it dropped to his plate. “Wait a minute... how long has this been going on?”

You winced. “About three weeks, maybe?”

Bucky groaned as he leaned back in his chair. “Three weeks? So, you’ve been hiding this from us?”

Joaquin shifted nervously in his seat. “Yeah, about that.”

“I swear, if you hurt Y/N—” Bucky's voice turned deadly serious, his Vibranium arm rising as he pointed it at Joaquin. “I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Joaquin quickly held up his hands. “I would never—”

“Good.” Bucky nodded, satisfied. “Just making sure, You two gross me out.” Bucky side eyes you as you respond by leaving a loud smooch on Joaquin’s cheek.

“Yeah, I’m gonna throw up.” Bucky grimaces and gets up from the table with his beer.

“Get outta here old man.” You scream, all in playfulness as he slams the porch door. Bucky had a knick of theatrics, and you knew deep down he was happy for you.

“He didn’t mean that, Buck’s a secret romantic and I bet you ten bucks he’s crying happy tears on the back porch.” Sam tells you both as you begin to clear out the table.

“I know.” You laugh, helping Joaquin with the dishes.

As Sarah and Sam left for their rooms, you and Joaquin took over cleaning the kitchen. The house fell into a quiet rhythm, the only sound the soft hum of the water running in the sink as you both washed the dishes.

“That went well,” Joaquin said, nudging your shoulder as you stacked the plates in the drying rack.

“Don’t worry, Sam and Sarah adore you. Bucky does too, he’s just... well, too stubborn to show it.” You rolled your eyes, feeling his hands wrap around your waist from behind, pulling you close.

He kissed your neck lightly as you finished stacking the last of the plates. “That was the last one,” you said, leaning back into him, letting yourself enjoy the closeness.

“Mmm-hmm...” You smirked, resting your hands on his as he tightened his grip around your waist.

“Everyone’s asleep,” he whispered, his lips brushing the back of your ear.

“I know,” you murmured, leaning back further into his chest. You could feel the warmth of his body against yours, his breath soft in your ear.

“Can we take this to the bedroom?” he grumbled, his voice low and inviting as he hugged you tighter.

You chuckled, glancing over your shoulder. “We’re sleeping on the couch, babe.”

His hands moved slowly to your hips as he nuzzled your neck, “Wanna take this to the couch then?” His playful tone was backed by the softest puppy eyes you’d ever seen.

Before you could even consider it, footsteps echoed down the hallway.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Bucky’s voice rocked through the silence, causing both you and Joaquin to spring apart. You quickly went back to acting busy with the already stacked plates, trying to look as innocent as possible.

Bucky sighed loudly, his eyes toward the ceiling. “Please, for the love of god, tell me you two weren’t... doing that in Sarah’s kitchen.”

Joaquin let out a nervous, “...no.” His face flushed, making you stifle a laugh.

Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. “I swear, you two...”

“Bucky,” you said, turning toward him with a teasing smile. “Were you crying?”

His eyes went wide, and he immediately shot you a glare. “No. I’m just... tired.” He slumped his shoulders dramatically. “And I’m taking the couch.”

He threw up his hands in exasperation. “You two can take the mattress on the floor. But if I hear so much as a whisper from either of you, I’ll kick you out myself.”

With that, he stormed off, muttering under his breath.

You turned to Joaquin, fighting back a grin. His face was bright red, and his embarrassment was almost too adorable to handle. “Looks like we have to wait until we’re in Arizona,” you said with a sympathetic swat to his arm.

Joaquin groaned, “You know, I’m starting to think Bucky’s secretly shipping us.”

You shot him a wink as you walked out of the kitchen, “He’s just really protective. Come on.”

You patted his arm sympathetically, but then, with a mischievous grin, said, “What about the attic?”

Joaquin raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

You opened your mouth to say yes, as your heart raced just by remembering his touch on your skin, but before you could, Bucky’s voice shouted from the other room.

“I swear to god, I will get a restraining order against the two of you! Don’t even think about it!”

--------------------------------------

Taglist

@tuiccim @parkjammys @akinrawsx @asteph22 @iamthebeth  @thefandomqueenuno @onlyhereforthefics @yikesdameron  @savedfanfics1992 @amigaytho @samwilson-mylove @jenniweaslee-faves @anna-phora @fluffyprettykitty

A/N - Thank you everyone for sticking with me till the end of this fic! if you liked it please let me know through the asks and the comments. Love y'all, Take Care!

[anime-potato-san]

Let me hold you. (AK! Jason x Reader)

I finally got it done! If I have energy later, and once I get my cold war fic finished (first chapter), I'll make more fluffy stuff. Enjoy Jason being a softie for you!

Jason couldn’t fall asleep, no matter how hard he tried. Normally, at least the past few months, he could actually fall asleep no-problems, once he checked the place to make sure it was secure, of course. He had his gun on the nightstand, safety on - he didn’t want to risk shooting when he didn’t need to, like because of a nightmare - just part of his nightly rituals. He couldn't have the love of his life, or himself, get hurt. 

But tonight, for some Godforsaken reason, his brain just wouldn’t let him. The memories spent in Arkham… The Hell he was put through at the hands of the Joker… The brand on his cheek… They just wouldn’t leave him alone. The memories just wouldn’t let him be.

Jason ran his hand through hair with a groan, then glanced down at you, sleeping and smiled slightly. You truly were one of the best things in his life. Like a ray of sunshine, an angel. You stuck with him through so much, when he wasn’t in the best mental health state, when he first started as Red Hood. Life has been pretty good since he’s had you in his life. Since he’s reconciled with Bruce. Since he started going to therapy. He’s… Happy.

You started to shift in your sleep, face contorting into fear or something. Nightmare, Jason thought. That won’t do. You, the best person in his life, does not deserve to suffer through nightmares. Not like he has to on a regular basis.

“Sweetheart,” He murmured, gently waking you up, caressing your cheek. Once you shifted awake, he pulled you into his arms, letting you curl into him. “You don’t need to tell me about it, but you can if you want.”

“...I don’t really want to talk about it.” You mumbled back, nuzzling into his neck for comfort. That nightmare was just… Not something you want to go into detail about.

Jason hummed, starting to run his hands through your hair. He understood. He didn’t really talk to you about his nightmares, he needed to spare you from the horror. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe.” 

“I always feel safe with you.” You replied, resting your hand on his chest, calming down from the dream you had. “You’re like a guard dog.” You added slightly teasingly, but not in any way mean.

Jason chuckled and pressed a kiss to your head. “Scariest one out there. All for you.” He finally laid down and got comfortable, holding you protectively. “I’ll keep the nightmares away.” He murmured softly. “Just go back to sleep.”

You nodded, mumbling an ‘I love you’ and shortly afterwards, you did, face peaceful as you held onto him. No more nightmares for you tonight.

Jason smiled, looking at you lovingly as he held you close. Knowing you trusted him, knowing that you were safe, that he was the one to make you feel safe, it put his mind at ease. Stop the memories from harassing him. He gave you a kiss on the forehead, muttering “I love you,” before he finally fell into a peaceful sleep.

(For people who encouraged me to write this and wanted to read this: @nouveau-nymph @princesschimchim1325 @omnicrush333 @knivxy @cliosunshine)

[kamykan]

☆ Dating Jackie Taylor HC’s 🐇 ⋆｡°✩

Pre-crash Jackie Taylor X GNC!Reader

Request: No

Warnings: N/a

. ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

🐰 Jackie is definitely one of those girls who seems like she’s going to be super bitchy and mean but is actually really sweet and kind.

🐰 You’re nervous as hell confessing to her because, well… she’s Jackie Taylor. The queen bee, the soccer captain, the girl everyone either wants or wants to be.

🐰 But to your surprise, Jackie doesn’t laugh or brush you off—she smiles, all soft and curious, and asks, “Are you asking me out?”

When you nod, she grins and says, “Well, I guess I should say yes before someone else tries to steal you away.”

🐰 Jackie is super cliché with where she takes you on dates—movies, the fair, dinner at some cute little place where she insists on stealing fries off your plate. She takes you out for burgers and milkshakes, something classic and fun.

🐰 She’s super affectionate during your dates and in general—honestly, a total PDA freak. She’s always holding your hand in public, kissing your cheek and nose, nudging her knee against yours under the table, brushing your hair out of your face. Hell, maybe even making out a little when she’s feeling especially bold.

🐰 When you two walk home after your dates, she lingers at your doorstep, eyes flickering to your lips. She’s waiting for you to make the first move—Jackie like the type who loves being pursued. She kisses you all the time, sure, but when it comes to the really romantic moments, she wants you to initiate.

🐰 Unpopular opinion, but Jackie actually cares about her grades—at least somewhat. People assume she’s the type to put off schoolwork to party, and while that’s not totally incorrect, she always gets it done eventually. She’d rather cram last minute than let her grades slip. Because of that, you two have cute little study dates—maybe with Shauna tagging along.

🐰 Speaking of Shauna, she 100% does not like you at first (jealous much?). It’s not that she hates you, but she’s naturally wary of people, and the fact that you suddenly appeared in Jackie’s life and got so close so fast? Yeah, it’s a lot for her.

“God, you two are insufferable,” Shauna huffs when Jackie crawls into your lap while the three of you study together, but Jackie just waves her off, grinning.

🐰 When she goes to parties, Jackie loves showing you off in very obnoxious ways. You two are annoyingly cute. She always finds a way to keep you close—her arm around your waist, fingers linked with yours, pulling you onto the dance floor even if you insist you don’t dance.

🐰 Jackie can be a bit overwhelming and kinda forceful at times, especially if you’re the antisocial type. She’ll drag you to her games, make you sit with her friends at lunch, and pull you into every social event she can. If you really don’t want to go, she’ll sigh dramatically and act like she’s giving up… but then she’ll show up at your house anyway like, “Get dressed, we’re going.”

🐰 When Jackie gets jealous, she gets really touchy and clingy. Her arms are wrapped around yours, her head pressed against your shoulder as you talk to another girl or guy who’s obviously interested in you.

“Babe,” You two are at a party and she tugs on your sleeve, trying to pull you away from said person, her voice a little whiny. “Come on, let’s go dance.”

🐰 She isn’t the type to start fights, but she will absolutely sabotage any potential competition in the pettiest ways. Blocking them with her body, making snarky comments disguised as jokes, kissing you right in front of them just to make a point.

🐰 Late-night phone calls are a must. She always calls to say goodnight, even if you just spent the whole day together.

“Okay, last thing before I let you sleep—do you think I could pull off short hair?”

🐰 Half the time, you both fall asleep still on the phone

🐰 Okay now time for some angst. Jackie has a lot of pressure put on her. She's the captain of the Yellowjackets and the golden girl of Wiskayok High. Everyone expects her to be perfect.

🐰 Her parents are always on her case about the smallest things. If she gets a c, if she doesn’t play well enough, if she’s seen with the wrong people.

“Do you really think that’s leadership behavior, Jacqueline?” Her mom’s words stick.

🐰 You can see when it gets to her. She gets quiet and distant. The usual playful Jackie fades into something tired, something unspoken. She still for everyone, and still laughs at the jokes, but when it’s just you two, she lets it slip.

🐰 The worst part? Nobody notices. Not her parents, not her teammates. They just think Jackie Taylor has it all together. Thankfully you notice and you're there for her

After soccer practice, she buries her face in your chest, and you run your fingers through her dirty blonde hair as she talks about her day, her algebra test, how soccer practice went.

🐰 Speaking of soccer, you attend every one of her games. She lets you wear her letterman jacket while she plays. You support her in soccer, and she’s equally supportive of you in your after-school activities. You can bet she’s there for every science fair, track meet, spelling bee, concert, stage play, or any other thing you participate in.

🐰 She hugs and kisses you hard when after she wins the game that gets the Yellowjackets to Nationals. While you’re flying commercial she’s flying on Lottie’s dad’s private plane.

“Babe, we’re going to celebrate so hard when we get back from winning Nationals!” she says with a big grin. “I’ll even let you hold the trophy!”

Yeah, when she gets back from Nationals

. ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

An: First post ahhhhhh!!!! Don't be afraid to send me a request 😼

[yukioos]

izuku who is so attractive when he explains things to you

“‘zuku, can you come here for a second?” you called over your boyfriend without looking over, hyper-focused on your homework.

a math problem didn’t make sense, not even momo could understand it, and she was one of the smartest people in your class. eventually, she gave up and decided she would ask the teacher how to solve it tomorrow. but you didn’t give up, and you wanted to understand how to solve the question. maybe it would be helpful in the future.

you sat on a chair at a four-person table, bouncing your leg and leaning your head against your hand. finally, izuku came over and smiled, then sat next to you.

“yeah? what do you need?” he exclaimed, ready to help with whatever he could.

he was always so eager to be useful to you, wanting to do anything to please you. you tried hard to not crumble around him, but the way he always seemed to keep a smile on his face even when you were sad, always brought you up.

you glanced at him, staring into his green eyes and his disheveled, soft hair. you mumbled, “i’m having a hard time with this problem, it just doesn’t make sense to me. if you understand it, do you mind explaining it to me?”

he nodded and stated, “of course! so first,” he began to explain everything, pointing at certain numbers and symbols, and writing steps on a separate sheet of paper.

the green-haired boy began to explain concepts you didn’t understand, trying to keep it as simple as possible. you attempted to pay attention to him and his words, you really did, but of course, failed. how were you supposed to focus on the problem when he looked so attractive?

his freckles peppered all over his face gleamed in the moonlight, making him appear more angelic than he already was. the way his biceps flexed every so often, and his scars were so out in the open, was a silent reminder of how much he’s gone through. sometimes he would voice his insecurities, about how he never liked the scars he gained from fights, but you would reassure him that they’re beautiful. they sure as hell looked great on him.

his hair was extra soft today, which you knew from playing with his hair when you slept together in your room. his shirt was a little loose on his body, and he wore grey sweatpants which he knew drove you crazy. you lay one of your legs on his and scooted your chair closer to his, emitting a soft gasp from his lips. he looked at you with sweet puppy eyes, his bottom lip sticking out a bit more, forming his lips into a pout.

“keep going, baby,” you mumbled words of encouragement, rubbing his back as he stuttered then continued explaining.

but izuku felt your eyes on his the whole time, which made him more nervous. you most likely didn’t notice his stuttering or shivers because you were too focused on his face and arms rather than what he was saying. he couldn’t take it anymore, he was too embarrassed, and became flushed whenever you looked at him for so long. who knew what you were thinking about him?

he turned to you and immediately recognized your eyes on his, sultry and a small grin on your face. he glanced away, feeling himself get warmer by the second. he asked, “why ‘re you looking at me like that?”

you apologized, “‘m sorry baby, you just look too good today. don’t know what happened, but i just wanna eat you up!”

you giggled then grabbed his face with your hands, placing them on his soft cheeks. he gasped and leaned into you, knowing he wanted a kiss as much as you did. god, he was so inexperienced, he never knew where to put his hands, so he just gripped the fabric of his sweatpants.

eventually, you leaned even closer to him, wanting to be as close as possible, until your chests were touching. he whimpered, feeling your soft breasts against his chest. he gently rubbed your back, nervous for one of your classmates to walk in and catch you.

suddenly, a loud, booming voice shouted, “get a room! i don’t want to see you two sucking face at eleven at night!”

your boyfriend yelped and appeared scared, before apologizing and rubbing his neck, still rubbing your hip with one hand, “s-sorry kacchan! we didn’t mean to—“

the blonde quickly interrupted him and pointed a finger, “shut it, nerd! i’m just trying to walk through this room when—“

“dude, come on! we’re trying to sleep, you’re waking everyone up!” another voice stepped in, eijiro, who smiled at the two of you and waved.

katsuki began to argue with the redhead, so you grabbed the papers from the homework and held onto izuku’s hand, who blushed at the touch. once the two of you retreated to your dorm, you worshipped him and his looks to another level.

AHHH first izuku writing i love him so much!! he’s so cute, i hope you guys like this ones!! reqs are open for him btw

[star-and-moon-shipper]

i know i wrote this like over a month ago but id like to put a little bit of explaining behind this

i am a trans person. one day i hope to get top surgery and possibly go on t

however, i am in high school and still living with my parents. there is no way in HELL they would let me on t, let alone have top surgery, and i’ve made peace with this no matter how much it sucks

in so many of the fics that have trans regulus in them that i’ve read, regulus has had both top and bottom surgery, and has been on testosterone for YEARS. (and he’s like 19-20)

are we forgetting that he grew up in an abusive household? you think walburga and orion would’ve done anything but abuse him when they found out he was trans??

you think if he ran away he would’ve had the financial stability to get multiple very expensive surgeries? (or had the resources to if it takes place in the 70s, but most trans regulus fics are modern au’s)

i wish that people didn’t treat transitioning medically like it’s the only way to be trans. like that’s what every trans person has to want and to “complete” your journey you have to medically transition.

SO many people in this community haven’t medically transitioned. some because they can’t safely, because they can’t afford it, because they don’t want to, or a plethora of other reasons

obviously it’s not like we shouldn’t write fics/ draw fanart/ make headcanons about regulus post transition, but have the only fucking trans regulus be post transition regulus who has been on t since he was a teenager hurts

when i was getting into the marauders fandom, i was so happy that regulus was trans. its that kind of childish joy and you point to the screen and say “they’re like me!” and suddenly you feel less alone, less wrong.

but this makes me feel behind. it makes me feel like each second that slips away is a second that i’m losing to be on t younger, and therefore i can develop more masculinly. it makes me feel as if im not “really trans” because of my body

i hope that pre t regulus becomes more popular, not just to reflect me, but to reflect the majority of trans teens (and most of the marauders fandom is teens/young adults)

(have your own opinions please! if you draw/write regulus post transition obviously that’s very much fine)

give me pre t regulus

give me regulus who doesn’t transition medically until later in life

give me regulus who only comes out to a few people because he’s scared

i love regulus always and forever but sometimes it hurts a little to have the only trans regulus rep being him post medical transition, especially at a young age

[mahowaga]

THE (NOT SO) SUBTLE ART OF BEING A NUISANCE | K.C. — PART ONE

SUMMARY: you're a sound tech. he's a dj. you hate him. he hates you. (allegedly.) but that's okay, because who needs love when you can be a complete and utter nuisance and make his life hell?

PAIRING: dj!choso x sound engineer!fem!reader GENRE: rivals (mild annoyances) to lovers, romance, fluff, crack, profanity TEASER: here NOW PLAYING: honey (are you coming?) by måneskin WC: 12.0k WARNINGS: they swear a lot, choso is insufferable, mc is a little demon

part two | b-sides and rarities (1, 2, 3)

— Cooperation? Absolutely not. Here’s some animosity at 120 bpm instead

Red Scale is playing tonight. He’s meticulous about his craft. Don’t mess this up.

These are the words playing in your head, spoken to you by your boss, the owner of Death Painting, a nightclub strategically constructed in the heart of the city, as you watch the aforementioned Red Scale spinning his way through his set.

You’re about to mess this up.

It’s not your fault, though. It’s his.

Kamo Choso (government name) has absolutely no regard for the speakers or the audience’s ears. It’s like he’s trying to create a sonically induced blackhole, and as fun as that sounds, it’s your job (unfortunately) to make sure he doesn’t cause any tears in the time-space continuum.

Choso moves his head to the music, his headphones snug over his ears, protecting him from any outside noise, his hands flying over the CDJ, mixing and spinning like he was born for this. He’s a natural.

Except when it comes to balancing the bass levels, it seems. It’s way too loud, and not in the this is a club, the bass is supposed to be synonymous with your heartbeat type of way. It’s more along the lines of the speakers are about to vibrate right off the walls and murder someone if they haven’t already lost their hearing.

You swear you can see a light fixture flickering.

From your booth, you tightly press your headset against your ear, grimacing.

“Shit,” you mutter, adjusting the levels for the fifth time in the past two minutes. Is this guy trying to turn this place into a seismic event?

Guess what happens next?

No, really. Guess.

That’s right. The levels spike again.

You grit your teeth. He’s going to piss you off. What kind of DJ doesn’t know how to balance his own mix? Most of the time, you (a live sound engineer) don’t even have to do that much - just raise a few sliders and sit back for the rest of the set. Kamo Choso, however, seems to want you to work for that paycheck.

Asshole.

You narrow your eyes towards the DJ booth, where Choso - who you’ve only ever heard of in passing - is completely lost in the music, head still nodding in time to the beat. 

He’s tall, you notice, hence why he’s slightly hunched over the player even though his stance is wide - an attempt to cut a few inches off of his height, though it seems to be doing nothing for him. His dark hair is tied up into a messy bun (which somehow looks way better than yours ever could) and wisps of hair escape the prison of a hair tie, opting to frame his face like he’s a work of art instead. (You beg to differ.) His brows are permanently furrowed, drawn together as if they are magnetic, as if they cannot bear to be apart - TL;DR: he’s perpetually brooding.

He’s also, it would appear, an absolute menace towards every single piece of audio equipment at the club.

You try to turn down the bass subtly. It works for less than a millisecond before he cranks it back up.

You’re seeing red now, you’re sure of it. There’s no way this man is challenging your decisions right in front of you without a care in the world.

Fine.

You roll your shoulders back.

You wish you could say you warned him, but you doubt he would’ve even listened to you. Plus, blatantly disrespecting you and your job is just asking for trouble. And you’re not afraid to cause a little ruckus.

(Sorry, boss. It had to be done.)

You reach over your console and mute the set completely.

The music cuts out.

For a moment there’s just a deafening, blinding silence - the sound of absolute shock and, for Choso, the consequences of his actions. Then, the low rumble of confused murmurs from the clubgoers who’d just been vibing and dancing their hearts out to Choso’s mix. Some of them look at him, hoping he has an answer, while others retire to the bar to get some more drinks (you don’t blame them - after almost losing your hearing you’d want something to down the horror, too).

The lights pulse to no beat in particular one last time before everything stills.

You keep your eyes trained on Choso. You want him to meet your eyes. You want him to see who he’s dealing with.

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he lifts his head towards the sound booth.

His dark eyes find yours, and it feels like an arrow has hit its target.

Bullseye.

You watch, unimpressed, enjoying the way realization dawns across his face like the sun rising on a cold, winter’s day, followed almost immediately but pure, unfiltered rage.

He rips his headphones off and tosses them onto the CDJ before exiting his booth, all while pointing at you, as if he’s going to personally grab you and send you to DJ hell. (If DJ hell is real, you hope he’s playing banger after banger.)

Now that he’s making his way over to you, you realize that, hey, maybe you don’t actually want to deal with a guy who looks like he’s ten seconds from combusting into-

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Okay, so you’re going to have to entertain him.

You raise a brow, because there’s no way you’re letting this man think he can intimidate you (he does, a little) into doing his bidding. 

Who pissed in your drink? you want to ask. But you don’t, because that would be rude.

However, if you were his barista, you think, you would spit in his coffee. Most definitely.

You squint at him, then, trying to imagine if he drinks coffee or tea.

“What are you doing?” he snaps, yanking you from your thoughts. (Deserved. This is a critical moment. You can’t get sidetracked by anything. Not even if it’s something as important as determining his beverage choices.)

You lean forward on the soundboard, careful not to accidentally knock any of the sliders or press any buttons, and rest your chin in your hand. “Doing everyone a favor and saving them from an early death via catastrophic bass overload.”

“You-” He exhales sharply, placing his hand on the edge of the table as if to steady himself. You can tell he’s seething. It’s kind of hilarious. “Turn it back on.”

“Turn the bass down and I will.”

“The bass is fine.”

You roll your eyes. Honestly, the gall of this man to straight up lie to your face. “Hey, buddy. You see these walls?” You gesture to your dimmed surroundings vaguely. “Yeah, these babies are shaking. Unfortunately for you, this place is a club, not a damn natural disaster simulation or wherever it is you usually play at.”

His jaw tenses. His hands clench into fists. You want to tell him that all that frowning and clenching will give him wrinkles and make him age faster, which would be a shame because he’s actually decent looking, but you don’t. If he wasn’t such an idiot, you’d probably enjoy his sets, simply because you’d get to look at him in peace.

But life is not fair.

His eyes are on you, and it feels like there’s a gun to your head. You half expect him to lunge forward and pull you into a headlock like some kind of DJ-turned-MMA-fighter. It wouldn’t surprise you at all, at this point.

“If you mute my set ever again,” he says, with barely restrained (not restrained at all) anger, “I swear to God I’ll take one of these cables and wrap it around your neck.”

You roll your eyes. So dramatic. Well, two can play at that game.

Choso stares at you, frustration burning in his gaze, as you clutch your chest and stumble back two steps, letting out the most wobbly-voiced sob imaginable.

“I fear for my life,” you wail. “I’m so scared of you, DJ Dumbass. Spare me!”

(You throw in a few extra over-the-top sniffles just to seal the deal of how terrified you are of this man’s meagre little cable threat. That’s got to be the cherry on top for the day.)

He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You sober up, satisfied with your performance. You should be in movies with these acting skills.

“I just love giving self-absorbed pricks like you a really hard time.” You shoot him a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth. “Take a look at my resume. It’s why I was hired.”

Choso takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as if he’s actively resisting the urge to strangle you with an aux cord. Or maybe he’s moved by your acting chops and doesn’t want to cry in front of you. You get it, you really do. 

But then he leans in close - too close.

Close enough that you catch the faint scent of something dangerously nice (warm spice, a little like cinnamon, which is offensive, actually, because he doesn’t deserve to smell this good).

His voice is lower when he speaks. “Put my shit back on, and I won’t tell your boss about this.”

Oh, the audacity. The gall. The absolute brass-plated balls this man has on him to be out here in your sound booth, at your job, dangling your job in front of you like a threat.

He needs to be put down.

You raise your eyebrows, your lips parting in a quiet, flabbergasted gasp. “Oh my God.” You place a hand against your chest, to calm your racing heart. “You’re blackmailing me.”

Choso crosses his arms. His big strong arms. (Get a grip.) “I’m giving you a chance to fix your mistake.”

You want to scoff. Your mistake? Get a load of this guy. Sorry for trying to make sure the club’s patrons don’t die of a bass overload.

You’re not letting him win. Not now, not ever, no matter how popular or meticulous or whatever else it is that he can be and get away with.

“Oh yeah?” You tilt your head, fake-thoughtful. “You know what else needs fixing?”

His patience is probably hanging on by a thread, and you are playing jump rope with said thread, but he sighs anyways. “What?”

Your face splits into the most devious grin known to man - the obnoxious customer-service smile that tells you you’re not getting that refund back so you can shove it up your ass.

“Your fucking bass levels, asshole.”

And, because you love being a menace to him, you hit the unmute button for a split second before hitting mute again, just to watch him lose his mind.

Choso freezes. Like, actually freezes. His muscles lock up and it’s almost like he’s a mannequin for a hot minute.

Provoking this dude brings you an insane amount of joy. If only this could be your full-time job instead of being a sound engineer to DJs who clearly can’t tell the difference between balance and straight up sonic assault.

For a second, for one blissful second, you bask in the stunned silence. It’s like music to your ears, so to speak. (Better than losing your hearing with his atrocious bass mixing skills.)

His jaw tightens, his fingers twitching at his side as if he’s seriously contemplating whether to take your soundboard and smash it over your head. You wouldn’t put it past him to do something like that. He’s probably destroyed a ton of CDJs over the course of his career because of his apparent short temper.

He looks at you, then at the soundboard, then back at you. (You can’t gauge what he’s thinking.)

Then, ever so slowly, like the way a fog takes over a marshland in the dead of night, his entire expression darkens.

“What. The. Fuck.”

He’s livid. You swear by the stars that you can hear his teeth grinding. You bite back a laugh.

Suddenly he isn’t scary anymore. He’s basically an angsty teenager who gets mad when he doesn’t get his way. He’s never been told no before.

He’s got a big storm coming, because you are nothing if not the reigning ambassador of telling people no.

“You-” he starts, his voice a growl, but he has to pause to inhale through his nose, visibly reining himself in like a man on the verge of committing an unspeakable crime. “You’re actually insane.”

Takes one to know one, you want to say.

“You’re actually deaf,” you shoot back, resting your chin on your palm. “I told you to lower the bass. You didn’t listen to me. In fact,” you point a finger at him now, “you noticed me lowering it and still kept increasing it. This,” you spread your arms, “is just a learning opportunity.”

That should teach him for messing with you, the sound engineer.

Choso’s eye twitches. You’re counting down the minutes till he completely crashes out. “Turn it. Back. On.”

“Hmm,” you hum, fake-considering, tapping a finger to your chin and looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t know, DJ Dumbass, I’m kind of enjoying this, if you can’t tell.”

You gesture to the rest of the club outside of your little booth, where the clubgoers are once again confused, since you’d let the music play for a moment before cutting it off again, and the club’s owner, AKA your beloved boss who specifically told you not to mess this up, is glaring daggers at you from the bar, most likely debating if to even step in and deescalate the situation or not.

Choso’s entire body is tense, the mere personification of rage, but then- he moves.

Before you can react, he reaches over you, aiming for the unmute button.

Son of a-

You slap his hand away.

He tries again, huffing.

You slap his hand away again. (When is he going to realize that you’ll forever slap his hand if you have to?)

“What are you, five?” you taunt, immediately dodging when he tries to switch tactics and go for the faders instead. “No cheating.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he growls.

“You’re so fucking bad at your job,” you chirp back. “A DJ that doesn’t respect sound levels? Now I’ve really seen it all. That’s like, I don’t know, a chef who doesn’t respect fire, or a pilot who doesn’t respect gravity, or-”

Choso gives up on arguing with you. Words clearly aren’t his forte. He must be allergic to communication or something. Instead, he lunges for the entire soundboard.

With the speed and precision of someone who has now dedicated their entire life to being a menace towards this specific man, Kamo Choso, you slap the master power switch before he can even touch anything.

Everything shuts down.

Every. Single. Piece. Of audio equipment.

Choso’s eyes widen, just a fraction, his entire body going still as he processes the reality of what you’ve just done.

You, for one, are quite proud of yourself.

The club has now been drenched in complete silence, somehow even more pronounced than last time.

A guy on the dance floor stands frozen mid-dab, which cracks you up because you’re pretty sure there was no music playing at all from the moment you’d muted Choso’s set the first time. Someone else, mid-drink, chokes violently. The murmurs and mutters of confusion grow louder, and now people are actually looking to the sound booth, your humble abode, because that’s where they last saw their precious DJ go after his set completely stopped being a vibe and started being silence.

Choso, very slowly (you think he just likes doing things slowly at this point), turns toward you.

“You,” he says, his voice eerily quiet, “are actually the devil.”

You smirk, reaching for your headset. You think he’s learned his lesson. You also don’t want to lose your job. So, naturally, you’re going to pin the blame on Choso. “Hey boss?” you call into the headset. “Just a heads-up, we’re gonna need a new DJ.”

Choso makes a sound so deeply frustrated that it quite literally transcends language - then lunges over to the soundboard again.

You scream and duck.

You barely dodge as Choso charges at you like some sort of feral animal.

“You absolute gremlin,” he seethes, and you swear his eyes flash red - or maybe it’s the lights - either way, he looks absolutely pissed off. (Mission accomplished, yay!) His arms barely miss you as you scramble under the table, ducking beneath the soundboard. “Turn my shit back on - right now.”

“You really need to work on asking nicely,” you taunt from your safe haven (which really isn’t safe because he can just crouch down and pull you out), just barely out of reach (unless he really tried) while he looms over the soundboard, contemplating if the jail time is worth strangling you. (It absolutely is. You should egg him on.)

“You just shut down the entire club,” he hisses. “Do you understand how hard I worked on that set? How much effort goes into mixing live?”

You blink up at him, expression flat. Of course you know. Your entire job is to make sure DJs don’t make the place explode when they’re playing. “And yet, despite all that practice, somehow, your bass levels were still ass.”

Choso inhales sharply. You’re like, ninety percent sure he just had the most liberating vision of himself dropkicking you into the sun.

But then, something shifts in his expression. His shoulders relax - not in defeat, you’re unsure this man could ever take a loss, but in calculated patience.

No. Absolutely not.

He takes a step back so that he can see you from your hiding spot, his lips curving into the smallest, most infuriating smirk ever.

“Fine,” he says smoothly, way too agreeable for someone who was just thinking about the pros and cons of murder just a second ago. “You win.”

You narrow your eyes. This is a trap, isn’t it? “What?”

“You win,” he repeats, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, casually watching you emerge from beneath the table like some highly predictable lab rat. “Go ahead. Run the music without me. Since you clearly know best.”

He’s twisting your words now. You want to punch him. Deck him. Throw hands - something.

You stare at him, then at the completely silent venue outside your little box.

The clubgoers are starting to look pissed off. The bartender, in the middle of mixing a ton of drinks, keeps shooting the two of you nervous glances, like he’s mentally calculating the amount of complaints and drink orders he’s about to get.

And worst of all? Your boss is still standing at the bar, eyes trained on you, arms crossed tightly against his chest.

Shit.

You break eye contact first, glaring at the soundboard like it’s personally wronged you as you grab your headset.

“...I hate you.”

Choso hums and tilts his head, clearly pleased. “What was that?”

You roll your eyes so hard you think you catch a glimpse of your own brain. Then, begrudgingly, you start flipping the switches back on, one by one, rebooting the system.

This is what you get for trying to teach a self-absorbed prick a lesson. How unfair.

The strobes, connected to the CDJ, pulse back to life. The speakers hum with power.

And finally, to your chagrin, Choso’s mix begins playing again.

Immediately, the crowd cheers - because of course they do. You bite back a groan.

Choso leans in close again, voice dripping with satisfaction. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it, pretty girl?”

You physically recoil and elbow him in the ribs.

Choso grunts at the impact, but the damn bastard has the nerve to grin like he’s enjoying this. (He’s quite the contradiction - one moment he’s upset and angry and throwing a tantrum, and the next he’s smiling and grinning and calling you nicknames. His brain must be studied.)

“Oh?” he tilts his head, all faux-innocence. You see right through him. He just has to get the last word. “Did I hit a nerve, pretty girl?”

You shudder. “I will actually - violently - vomit if you call me that ever again. What happened to me being a gremlin, or an annoyance?”

He smirks wider, but all he says is, “Noted,” opting to ignore your last comment. Idiot.

(You can already tell that he will absolutely not be noting anything, judging by the way he’s so clearly tucking that reaction away for later torment.)

You glare at him, then aggressively tap on the equalizer settings on your screen. “Just let me handle the bass this time, before I really break your ribs.”

Choso exhales, rolling his eyes (probably at the fact that he has to let you do this before you hold his set hostage again) - but, miraculously, he listens. It’s definitely going to rain frogs tomorrow, you can feel it.

You watch him carefully as he grudgingly lets your settings stand, hands raised in mock surrender as if he’s oh, so benevolent for letting you do your job.

The music is pumping life back into the club, and when the bass kicks in - properly balanced, at that, because unlike him, you actually know what the fuck you’re doing - you see it.

Choso’s expression shifts.

Just slightly. Just enough for you to catch that flicker of surprise before he masks it with a dramatic sigh.

“Huh,” he muses, rubbing his jaw. “Guess it doesn’t sound that bad.”

Doesn’t sound that bad? You want to throttle him.

You blink, though, because did he just-

Your lips curl into a smug, evil grin. (Your favorite type of grin.)

“Oh my God.” You clutch your chest in mock amazement. “Did the great DJ Dumbass just admit I was right?”

Choso’s expression sours immediately. “Don’t push it.”

“Oh, no, no, no-” You step closer, delighting in the way he steps back. “Say it again. Slowly. Maybe into the mic, so everyone can hear. And say ‘pretty girl’ while you’re at it.”

“You’re insufferable,” he mutters, making for the door so he can get back to his own booth.

“And you’re really bad at compliments,” you say in a sing-song voice, adjusting another setting. “But it’s okay. We’ll work on it, won’t we, pretty boy?”

You don’t have to look up to know that he just visibly cringed. Good for him.

This night is the gift that keeps on giving, and it’s also the start of the greatest rivalry Death Painting has ever seen.

The conses of your own quences (totally not your fault at all)

So you got a stern talking to by your boss about, and you quote, “Disrupting the flow of the set, upsetting the patrons and causing unnecessary tension between the staff (how that last one is related to you in any way is beyond you).

Basically a very professional way of saying Stop fighting the damn DJ in the middle of a live performance if you want to keep your job. (And you, sadly, need this job. You quite like buying material things. Food, too. Especially that.)

You, of course, defended yourself.

You: I understand, but, in my defense, he was actively committing sonic terrorism.

Bossman: That is not a real crime.

You: Tell that to our speakers. 

Unfortunately, your boss was not interested in debating audio-related war crimes, which is a shame, because you had quite the line-up of rebuttal points, so you were just given an official warning and told to “work with Choso, not against him, because he’s going to be a regular”.

You’re willing to overlook the regular part. Without it, your boss’s directive sounds great, lovely, even - except for one tiny issue.

Kamo Choso is a petty little shit.

And now, it seems, so are you.

— Love letters are overrated. Hate mail, however-

Over time (read: every Friday night), your mortal enemy status is cemented into club history.

It starts small (if you can count shutting his set down in the middle of it as something minute). But it’s not just that. It’s the passive aggressive exchanges before he starts playing, and maybe even the occasional dramatic sigh from Choso when he decides he doesn’t need your professional expertise to keep the sound system from combusting.

He just never learns. The true definition of a meathead.

But then, it escalates, because if you’re going to be locked in a cold war with this man, if you’re going to become the best nuisance and pain in the ass there ever was, it’s go big or go home.

You’re not a quitter. You’re most definitely not a loser. Those are Choso’s titles.

You’re a very agreeable person.

That’s why, the first time it happens (second, technically), you let it slide.

Barely, anyways.

You’re a professional, after all, and professionals don’t throw hands in the middle of a DJ set just because the bass is so loud it makes your soul vibrate right out of your body. (We don’t talk about what may have happened in the past.) But when Choso decides to be the bane of your existence and cranks up the speakers again, this time so violently that the LED panels and strobe lights flicker in protest, you need to take a moment to take a very deep, very stabilizing breath.

From your rightful throne in the sound booth, you watch in silent, simmering rage as he works the decks, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s single-handedly turned the club into a low-budget earthquake simulator.

The walls shake.

The floorboards shudder.

Your eardrums? Filing a noise complaint as we speak.

Oh, and Choso? That absolute menace of a man? Yeah, he’s just bobbing his head to the beat, entirely pleased with himself.

You know he sees you glaring at him with nothing but death in your eyes. You know this because the bastard has the nerve to smirk at you from across the club, eyes half-lidded in a way that says, What? Don’t like my artistic vision?

Oh, you like it. Love it, even. You love it so much that you want to slam your head right into your soundboard.

But you need this job and you’re too broke to replace it.

So instead, you take the mature approach.

— Exhibit A: Your magnum opus. The letter you write from the bottom of your heart

When next Friday comes around, you grab a sticky note, scribble a very professional, very diplomatic message, and slap it directly onto his CDJ before he comes in to play his set.

MAYBE TRY NOT TO MAKE THE SPEAKERS SOB TONIGHT? I DON’T KNOW. JUST A THOUGHT. OH WAIT. YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS. –YOUR FAVORITE PRETTY GREMLIN

For good measure, you leave him a bottle of water next to it. Because, you see, while you want him to suffer, you don’t want him to dehydrate while committing his sound crimes. (You’re not a monster.)

Satisfied with your masterpiece, you retreat to your booth, putting your headset on and messing around with some settings, stalling until Kamo Choso walks in.

Surely, this will humble him.

Surely, this will teach him not to cross you a second time.

Surely, he will learn.

— Exhibit B: His response, the absolute bastard

Before his set begins, you wander out to the bar to get something to drink. (Don’t drink on the job, but you work at a club, so when in Rome, right?)

You see Choso arrive, his headphones around his neck, a USB in his hands, and nothing else. Why would he need anything more, anyways? All he needs to make magic is the CDJ and his own beats.

He catches your eye as he passes by, raising a brow as he looks at what you’re drinking. You can’t tell if he’s impressed or not (why does that even matter?), but before you can snap at him for even looking in your direction, he simply makes his way over to the CDJ and starts setting up.

You tear your eyes away from him. 

As much as you want to see his reaction to your little note (of love), you have to restrain yourself. You want him to come and find you. You can’t be sitting at the bar, nursing a drink on your lonesome, while staring at the hot DJ who you have the biggest beef under the sun with. It’s bad for your image.

When you stroll back into your booth, a few minutes before he starts playing, you’re feeling incredibly smug. While he didn’t come to argue with you, you’re taking it as a sign that he’s waving a white flag and letting you (a professional) do your job and handle the sound levels.

That’s why when you walk in, ready for a normal, non-structurally-devastating night of work and partially elated at the mere thought of Choso giving in to you, the sight of a napkin taped to your soundboard throws you off-kilter.

That piece of shit.

A napkin. Couldn’t even find himself a sticky note. Honestly, the lack of effort is maniacal.

And the kicker?

It’s written in Sharpie, because of course he couldn’t find himself a pen (like any normal person) and because he is that level of disrespectful.

The words he’s written down, naturally bold because he used the thickest Sharpie he could pull out of his ass, are nothing short of a declaration of war.

MAYBE TRY NOT TO KILL THE VIBE WITH YOUR TRAGIC EQ SETTINGS? I DON’T KNOW. CAUSE IT SEEMS LIKE THE CROWD LOVES ME AS IS. JUST A THOUGHT. OH WAIT. YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS. –YOUR FAVORITE PRETTY DJ

You’re not sure how long you stare at it.

Then you turn your head.

Across the room, setting up his gear and rolling up his sleeves, is Choso.

It’s like he senses your gaze, because the moment you look, he meets your gaze. His arms are crossed, eyes glinting with nothing short of pure amusement. The barest hint of a smirk tugs at his lips.

Oh.

Oh, he thinks this is funny. He thinks everything is a joke.

That fucking egotistic bastard.

Fine, then.

You roll your shoulders.

Game on.

— Love letters are overrated. Hate mail, however- (contd.)

It’s like clockwork after that. One might even say it’s routine. Whatever you want to call it, just know that from that day forward, the sticky notes (or, well, napkins) become a thing.

Every shift, without fail, there’s a new passive-aggressive note tucked away somewhere in your booth. (You drop notes before he comes in, he retaliates right before he starts his set - which, now that you think about it, is actually a genius move, because you’re forced to get to work after reading his response, therefore you can’t leap out of your box and tackle him.)

Some are genuinely helpful (yours, obviously).

Some are unhinged (his, without a doubt).

Some are just absolute, unfiltered pettiness compacted into a handful of letters.

STOP MAKING THE SPEAKERS WEEP. (You, after yet another bass-heavy assault on your sanity.)

STOP MAKING THE SOUND BOOTH A GRAVEYARD FOR FUN. (Choso, after you completely mute his bass mid-set out of sheer frustration. It’s better than muting his entire set like last time. Compromises, right?)

IF YOU TRY THAT LOW-FREQUENCY BULLSHIT STUNT AGAIN, I’M UNPLUGGING YOUR WHOLE CAREER AND SELLING YOUR ORGANS ON THE BLACK MARKET. (One of your sweeter notes, after he intentionally spiked the subwoofers just to watch you suffer.)

TRY THAT AND I’M DEDICATING THE NEXT SET TO YOU, PERSONALLY. (Choso, hinting at the public humiliation you’ll be a slave to should you make good on your promises.)

 It escalates fast.

One night, you find a note taped directly to your headset (a tiny sticky note, because he must’ve forgone the napkins, torn into the size of the pad of your index finger) with the tiniest, most infuriating handwriting you’ve ever known: 

Why don’t you just admit you like my sets?

You swear you black out for a second.

Is this man out of his mind?

Meanwhile, Choso is across the club, done with his set but observing the DJ who’d taken his place, leaning against the booth like he didn’t just commit sonic warfare against you for the millionth time.

He either doesn’t understand you when you speak, he doesn’t listen to you (likely) or he’s just making your life harder for you on purpose.

Oh, he’s so pleased with himself it makes you want to throw up.

You need to up your game. You can’t have this man winning. You can’t.

And if all this isn’t bad enough, by week three, Kamo Choso isn’t just your problem anymore.

This thing between the two of you has turned into entertainment.

The bartenders have started collecting the notes you toss away, taping them behind the bar like some kind of twisted museum exhibit of your hatred for Choso. The security staff have started placing bets on who will crack first. (If they are referring to who will crack whose head in half first, the answer is you. You hope they have their money on you.)

Even the regulars have started filing in early just to peer into the booth for the latest passive-aggressive masterpiece (or horror, in your opinion).

It’s not just a rivalry anymore. It’s a spectacle.

The psychological and tactical sound war starring you, Choso and the mic

The night starts out like any other. The murmurs of the crowd, excited to see what the people’s prince Red Scale, also known as Kamo Choso, will play for them tonight, drinks being shaken, stirred and served, your boss sitting at the bar, making sure everything is in order, and, how could you forget, Choso, the guy who makes your job more chaotic than it should be, shooting you a wink from the DJ booth as he hunches over his CDJ. (You hope he gets a hefty amount of back pain because of it.)

But, because everything is mostly normal (if you can count anything about Choso normal), it means something is bound to happen. That’s why you’re mentally preparing for battle.

Choso is effortlessly mixing a set that he’s definitely not going to stick to, and you’re in the sound booth, gripping your clipboard like it’s a lifeline, but he’s already swapped out two of the songs for new picks. (Choso’s been on a streak of letting you know what he’ll be playing in advance, but when you show up prepared, he flips the switch on you. Asshole.)

This is basically tradition now.

So is the petty little exchange of passive-aggressive notes.

Tonight, like usual, you’d slipped a pink sticky note (you’re aware his favorite color is red, so you’re obviously not going to give him a red one but one that’s slightly off-color) onto his CDJ before he started his set:

Try not to blow the place up. Think of the innocent bystanders. (He won’t.)

Choso had barely spared it a glance before scribbling something in return (on a blue sticky note, with a red pen - fucker) and slapping it onto the edge of your soundboard while you were getting yourself a drink:

Try not to be a control freak. Think of the art. (You won’t.)

You’d huffed, crumpling the note into your pocket to make sure the bartenders don’t get their hands on it.

God, he’s insufferable. You need to up the ante.

Every shift is like this. Every Friday. A constant, three way tug-of-war between maintaining your job security, dealing with his creative chaos and the uncontrollable, bloodthirsty urge to chokeslam him onto the CDJ.

But, and this is going to come back to bite you in the ass, despite the ongoing war between the two of you, you have to admit (begrudgingly) - he’s good.

Annoying? Yes. A menace to your sound levels? Absolutely. Infuriatingly attractive in a way that makes your job unreasonably difficult? Let’s put a pin in that one and talk about it later (never).

The point is, he’s good.

Which is why, despite knowing better, you let things slide.

You let it slide when he ignores the setlist.

You let it slide when he spikes the bass a little too much.

You let it slide when he smirks at you from across the club, fully knowing how much he’s testing your patience, sewing with it like it’s a thread.

But then.

No. Fuck no.

He decides to play God with the subwoofers.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is something you are not letting slide.

You snap.

It starts with the drop, because it always does.

Not just any drop, however - an earthquake (probably a 9.0 on the Richter scale, one thousand percent destined to be catastrophic) disguised as a bassline, something so aggressive that it physically shakes the air. You’re lucky to even be inside the booth, and you wonder what the poor souls out there on the dance floor are going through. If they can even hear anymore, or if they’re dancing to the sounds of their thoughts.

Your stomach lurches from the sheer force of the drop.

The glasses at the bar rattle, vibrating dangerously close to the edge as the bartenders scramble to keep them from toppling onto the ground. The LED panels flicker like they’re experiencing some kind of electrical exorcism. Someone’s drink slides off of a table, crashing to the floor, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

And Choso, that self-absorbed piece of work, is standing behind the decks looking so damn satisfied with himself.

He barely even glances up to look at you, probably already aware of how much you want his head on a pike. He just casually adjusts his fader, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smirk, as if he’s waiting for your reaction. As if he’s waiting to see you crash out.

You narrow your eyes.

He raises an eyebrow.

Oh, he’s challenging you.

And you?

Well, you never back down from a challenge.

Your response is surgical.

A single, infinitesimally small adjustment to the equalizer - so minor that no one in the crowd will notice, but just enough to screw with Choso’s next mic check.

You can’t wait, bouncing on the balls of your heels.

You don’t have to wait long.

Choso leans into the mic for his next transition. His voice is as smooth as ever as he says, “Yo, let’s-”

He stops. Freezes for a single, glorious second. (You love making this man freeze up like an ice block. It’s funny because you can literally tell exactly what his train of thought is.) You see it, the way his eyes widen just the tiniest bit, and the way his fingers tense on the knobs.

Because while his voice did carry through the mic, it’s-

Deep.

Not sexy deep.

Weirdly, unnaturally deep.

Like some kind of budget anime villain with a broken voice modulator.

You’re fighting for your life trying not to burst into laughter.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, and you just outdid the chef.

Across the room, Choso turns his head - slow, deliberate - and locks eyes with you, something dangerously close to fury swirling around in his eyes.

You lift an eyebrow, completely expressionless, because there’s no way you’re letting up that you did that (even though you’re the only person who could have).

You mouth to him since he can’t hear you from outside your booth. Something wrong?

His jaw clenches. Somehow this is when he looks the most dashing.

Oh, he’s pissed. He’s not buying your bullshit for a second either.

Which means you’re winning.

But then his expression morphs.

He smirks, then returns to the set.

A chill runs down your spine.

Shit. He’s got something up his sleeve, and he just gave you your first warning.

The set’s reaching peak energy now. Everyone’s going wild, as if they didn’t just have the bass blow their brains out just minutes ago.

The club is alive, the crowd pulsing, the bassline is building up to a massive drop (you hope this one isn’t as atrocious as the last one)-

And then-

A slow jam.

A disgustingly soft, romantic slow jam.

The kind that belongs in a 90s rom-com montage, not in the middle of a high-energy club on a Friday night.

The entire room stops dead in confusion.

Your stomach drops in horror. God, he better not have-

Before you can even fully process your impending doom (a dick move by Choso, you must say, because he could at least have the decency of letting his victim bask in the horror before he lands the killing blow), Choso grabs the mic.

“This one’s for my favorite pain in the ass - my pretty, pretty girl.”

The entire club loses their minds.

People whistle. Some cheer. The bartenders cackle. The security dap each other up. You rip your headset off and stumble, your back hitting the wall.

What the fuck did he just do?

A group of drunk regulars immediately start slow dancing dramatically, just to be extra. Just to rub it in.

And Choso?

Choso is watching you.

Not the crowd. Not the reaction. You.

His expression is casual. His eyes are glinting with amusement.

Son of a bitch. He made good on his promise of dedicating a set to you, all because you provoked him.

He winks at you.

The nerve of him.

Your brain short-circuits.

You hate him.

You want to throttle him.

You also want to crawl into a hole and die.

And yet.

And yet.

Somewhere, deep inside the caverns of your traitorous heart, something flutters.

Which is unacceptable.

You don’t speak to him or make eye contact for the rest of the set. It was bad enough that everyone except your boss was enjoying the drama between you and Choso, but him being able to break through your defenses like that? You need professional help.

Your silence, however, only makes Choso more insufferable.

When he passes by the booth later, after his set is over and the club is about to close and you’re packing up, he pauses just long enough to slide a napkin (here we go again with the napkins and the Sharpies - you really thought he’d grown out of it and moved on to greener pastures like pens and sticky notes) toward you before leaving.

You don’t trust it. You don’t trust him. You don’t trust yourself.

But you unfold it anyway.

You’re cute when you’re mad.

You swear you’re going to be his ruin. You’re going to destroy him. You’re going to make him regret ever messing with you.

Your heart, unfortunately, doesn’t seem to get the memo, and for that, you wish you could rip it out and stomp on it. 

Kamo Choso is not someone you should be getting butterflies over.

— The world’s most infuriating mouthbreather has a devastating effect on you

You’re already tired.

You’re not sure what possessed you to come in for your shift an hour early (you think it’s because Choso’s doing a two hour long set tonight and you want to make sure you’re fully prepared for the psychological torture that that entails), but here you are, sitting at the bar, conversing with one of the bartenders while nursing your drink - something light and lime-y.

You’re trying to be normal about this.

Really.

But the problem with working in a club filled to the brim with gossipy bartenders and nosy regulars is that no one will let you.

Case in point:

“You know he likes you right?”

You nearly choke on your drink, feeling the burn in your nostrils as it goes down the wrong pipe.

“Excuse me?” You shoot the bartender a sharp look, because he just said something so blasphemous that you’re considering crafting a Molotov cocktail to take the both of you out.

Toji - dark-haired, smug, and entirely too amused for your liking - simply grins and leans against the bar, polishing a glass with obnoxious leisure.

Must be nice to not worry about a certain DJ trying to get you admitted into a mental hospital.

“Choso,” he says, like that clarifies everything (this works because you already knew what he was talking about).

You blink. “Yeah, I heard you. I’m just trying to figure out what kind of brain damage you’ve got to make you even think that.” You snort. “Dude’s bass levels probably killed off every brain cell you’ve got in that dome of yours.”

Toji snorts. “Oh, come on. The notes you guys pass like third-graders? The song he literally dedicated to you? The fact that he spent his entire break last week between sets fixing the EQ levels exactly how you like them?”

Oh. So that’s why Choso’s second set had been smooth sailing.

Still, it gives you pause, because no, that can’t be true.

“...Wait. What?”

Toji’s grin only widens. He’s just as insufferable as DJ Dumbass. “Ah, so you didn’t know.”

You frown, setting your drink down before you choke on it and Toji has to do the Heimlich. You’d never recover from that one, especially because he’d tease you endlessly about how you almost died at the mere mention of Kamo Choso.

“No, no, no. Back up. He fixed the EQ levels?”

“Like, meticulously.” He flicks a rag over the counter. “Sat here with his laptop muttering some shit about ‘if she’s gonna complain, might as well do it right’.”

Meticulously. You recall what your boss had told you the first time Choso was to play at Death Painting.

Curious choice of words. A specific choice, if you’re being honest.

You’re getting off track.

What Toji’s saying… it’s not computing.

He’s saying that Choso, the man who lives to make your life difficult, actually listened to you?

No, that’s too much. You’re going to explode.

You shake your head, muttering, “He’s probably just making sure I don’t sabotage him again, because, trust me, he knows damn well that I will.”

Toji raises an eyebrow. You want to throw your drink at him. “Right, right. And what about the hoodie?”

You stiffen.

Yeah. Okay. He has a point. The hoodie. How do you explain that? (Because you sure as hell don’t know what happened, either.)

That night you’d dozed off in the booth during a particularly brutal shift - almost six hours straight of back-to-back sets with Choso as one of the finishers - and when you woke up-

Warmth. Comfort. Something soft draped over your shoulders.

You’d thought that maybe you’d imagined it, but when you looked up, blinking blearily and fixing your headset over your ears, Choso was mid-set at the DJ booth, his eyes flicking to you for the briefest second before looking away. Like nothing happened. You’d noticed he’d rolled the sleeves of his black t-shirt up (and damn did he look fine, but we don’t talk about that) and was confused for a moment because you were so used to seeing him with a-

…Hoodie.

It smelled like him. Like faint cologne, warm vinyl records and that splash of cinnamon.

You shake your head, pushing the memory away.

Whatever. You’d tossed it at him the moment he’d wrapped up his set anyways, so it didn’t mean anything.

It didn’t mean anything.

It doesn’t.

You swallow hard, shaking your head again, as if that’ll dislodge the memory and eject it from your brain. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Toji hums, entirely unconvinced. “Right. Of course, it doesn’t. Just like how he definitely didn’t watch you leave that night.”

You stare. What is he even talking about?

He grins.

Oh, you’re in so much trouble.

“You’re making shit up,” you mutter, grabbing your drink again. At this point you’re hoping you choke and die.

“Oh, am I?” Toji raises an eyebrow. “Then explain this.”

He reaches under the bar, pulls out a small, crumpled piece of paper, and slides it toward you.

You stare at it, then back at him, unimpressed. Oh joy, a sticky note that looks like it’s been through a meat grinder. “What is this supposed to be?”

“A note,” he says, far too pleased with himself. (Captain Obvious in the flesh right here.)

You snatch it up before anyone else could see. You can’t deal with any more nosy people right now.

You unfold it, and recognize the messy handwriting immediately.

It’s a phone number, followed by:

Let me know if she got home okay.

Your stomach flips. Toji had called you that night to make sure you’d gotten home, and you’d thought it was odd, but now you realize why.

Toji taps a finger against the bartop. “He left that after closing. Didn’t even ask me directly - just wrote it down and walked out.”

You swallow. “Maybe he’s just-”

“If you say ‘just being nice’, I’m gonna pour this drink on your head.”

You clamp your mouth shut. (Toji is the worst for reading your mind.)

He leans in, voice low and conspiratorial. “Listen, I know you think you two are just having some petty DJ vs. sound engineer war, but I hate to break it to you - this is some repressed rom-com bullshit.”

You scowl. Fuck him. “It’s not repressed anything. We just… mess with each other. And he’s a piece of shit.”

“Oh yeah?” Toji’s lips curl into a smirk. “Then explain why you haven’t stopped looking at the note.”

You drop it immediately, your face burning.

Toji just laughs. You’re being humiliated, and he’s laughing.

“You’re such a little shit, just like Choso,” you mutter, shoving the note in your pocket.

He waggles his eyebrows at you. “And yet, I’m still right, because you just kept the note.”

You turn away, hopping off the barstool, gripping your drink tighter than necessary, but you can still feel the note burning a hole in your pocket.

You need to get it together. You can’t have Choso distracting you.

Because the last thing you need is to start thinking about Choso like-

Like he’s more than just an annoying DJ.

Like he’s someone who actually cares.

Like he’s someone you are maybe, possibly, dangerously starting to like, despite all logic.

— Feelings are stupid and unnecessary. Unfortunately, you have them

The way a job works is that you clock in, do your thing, and then clock out.

What you don’t do, especially after a long shift of manning a soundboard and listening to several DJs play their sets back-to-back, is not go home and stay behind because someone wants to work on something before he loses the inspiration. (At least, that’s what you’re assuming is the reason Choso’s still here.)

You don’t know why you even give in to him.

You should be at home, kicking your shoes off, eating something healthy (probably not), and then passing out in the comfort of your own bed.

But no. Life doesn’t work that way. It’s unfair in every aspect when it comes to dealing with Kamo Choso.

That’s why you’re still at the club even after everyone else has left and the party is over.

Because of him.

Honestly, you don’t even know why you bother. (You’re not even going to think about any of the things Toji had told you the other night, either. Living life blissfully is kind of on your bucket list at the moment. Acknowledging the twisted little rom-com whatever that Toji had told you was happening between you and Choso is kind of counterproductive, cause then the euphoria will immediately vanish into nothingness.)

The lights are dim, neon casting lazy streaks across the empty dance floor. The bass from the last set still hums deep in your bones, lingering like a stubborn aftershock. But the music has stopped, the bar is closed for the night, and the only sound left is the low, steady hum coming from the sound booth.

Your booth.

Well, okay. Technically, it belongs to the club, but those are semantics. Besides, you’ve spent more time there than anyone else, so it’s yours now.

And Choso is inside it.

You catch a glimpse of him through the glass - hunched forward, shoulders rounded, the glow of his laptop screen painting the sharp shadows across his face. He’s fiddling with the mixer, fingers moving with practised ease, the signs of a man who’s done this more times than he can count, adjusting the EQs like he’s sculpting a marble statue to rival Michelangelo with nothing but sound.

He looks… focused. His drawn brows, eyes laser-focused on his screen, and his breathing steady, as if he’s meditating. In the Zone, so to speak.

But him being focused is unacceptable behavior. (This is totally not because he always makes sure you are as unfocused as possible when you’re working. Yeah, totally not because of that.)

So, obviously, you have to ruin it.

You step inside.

“You better not be touching my levels.”

Choso doesn’t jump.

No startled reaction. No guilty jolt, which you would’ve liked to witness, seeing how he’s here in your booth, in your chair, his laptop connected to - wait for it - your soundboard, as if he belongs here. Not even the barest hint of a side-eye in your direction. He just keeps on scrolling through his tracks, or whatever it is he’s doing, clicking something, adjusting a knob, fully ignoring the fact that you just caught him using your booth like it’s his birthright.

(Spoiler alert: it isn’t. It’s yours.)

How dare he.

You step further inside, arms crossed, hip propped up against the desk, watching him like a disappointed teacher catching a student mid-crime, which isn’t that far from the truth. “You know, most people would at least pretend to look ashamed right about now.”

Choso, still not looking at you, replies, “Most people aren’t me.”

You squint. He’s truly a specimen of a human being. “I could kill you, you know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I could lock you out of the system forever.”

“Mm.”

“I could delete all your presets, so you’d have to manually reset your levels every single time you play.” You pause. “And I could wipe your USB clean.”

That gets his attention. His head snaps up, brows pulling together even more in genuine horror. “You wouldn’t.”

You grin. This is so easy. “Oh, I would.”

He stares, and for once, you win.

Because instead of some snarky comeback, Choso actually looks hesitant, like he’s debating if you’re serious or just fucking with him.

Which, obviously, means you have to double down. Kick him while he’s on the ground, you know?

Carefully, you lean over, reaching toward his laptop, one deliberate finger hovering dangerously close to his files. “So, which one of these do I delete first? Oh, wait- this one says ‘FinalMix_V3’, which means it’s not actually the final mix, because you’re a chronic liar-”

Choso grabs your wrist.

Warm. Steady. Holding you there.

It’s not firm enough to be aggressive, but it’s not necessarily nothing either. His fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you mid-motion, and oh.

Oh.

This? This is dangerous.

Your pulse jumps slightly, just a tiny, insignificant hitch, but you feel it, clear as day, and you pray he doesn’t notice.

But he does. You want to take a nice nap in a six-foot deep hole approximately the length of your body.

You know he does, because his grip loosens, but not all the way. He doesn’t let go. He just… lingers. Just enough to make you aware of him. (Little does he know just how aware you are of him and how much you don’t want him to realize this.)

Suddenly, the whole damn booth feels so small.

“...Don’t,” he says, voice lower than before, rougher. “I need those.”

So, the smart thing to do would be to pull away from him right?

You do not do the smart thing.

Instead, you hold his gaze, your fingers curling slightly under his, just enough to make his eyes flicker  - to your hand, then to your mouth, then back to your hand.

Huh.

That’s… interesting.

Slowly, you tilt your head, keeping your voice as careless as possible (because you are nothing if not dedicated to being a nuisance to him) despite the absolute warfare taking place in your chest.

You opt to ignore the fluttering going on inside of you. It’s not important.

“Why are you even here? The place is closed, you know. Party’s over, if you haven’t noticed.” 

(You already know the answer to your question, but it’s good to double-check.)

Choso lets go. But only to drag a hand through his dark hair, no longer bound into a bun, exhaling like you’ve somehow exhausted him by simply existing. (Your dream, actually.)

“Because,” he mutters, “I had an idea, and if I didn’t work on it now, I was gonna lose it.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

He glares. You smirk. Equilibrium restored.

With a roll of his eyes, he leans back in your chair - your chair, the audacity - and gestures toward his laptop. “I’ll be done in five minutes. Maybe ten.”

“You said that last time.” (He did - you had to stay behind a few weeks ago because he’d made a mess and took ages to clean it up. You’d been desperate to go home, helping him when you finally lost patience. You did it so you could leave, not because of him. Obviously.)

“This time, I mean it.”

You cross your arms, leaning against the table, and narrow your eyes at him. “Uh-huh. And why do I feel like that’s bullshit?”

Choso doesn’t even blink. He just keeps his hands on the mixer, eyes locked onto the screen, adjusting levels like you aren’t standing there, staring at him like you’re trying to figure out if he’s real.

Because that’s the thing.

You’ve been spending so much time bickering with him that you’ve forgotten to actually look at him. It’s been a hot minute since you really relished in his attractiveness.

A while since you’ve noticed things.

Like the way his hair, usually tied up in that half-bun or man-bun situation, is loose now, falling in dark, messy strands around his face. A little damp at the ends, probably from the high energy of his set earlier that night or from running his hand through it one too many times. Or even how his hoodie is slipping off one shoulder, exposing a lot more collarbone than you were prepared to see tonight.

Or - and this is the worst one - how he’s sitting in your chair like he owns it, like he belongs there. (Yes, you’ve mentioned this before, but you really need to understand how diabolical this is.)

The absolute audacity.

But, you know what? It’s fine.

You’re fine.

This is totally not an issue.

At all.

So, obviously, you do the mature thing. (You’re great at this.)

You annoy him.

Squinting at him, you tilt your head. “Hold on. Let’s back up for a second. You actually have an idea? Like, an original idea? Right now? At this hour?”

Choso’s fingers pause on the dials. You like to play a game you call Is he going to cuss me out or give me a real answer? and right now, you’re at a loss.

Slowly - so, so slowly - he looks up at you.

“...You done?”

So he’s leaning towards cussing you out, then.

“Not even remotely.”

He huffs, shoving his sleeves up to his elbows. You try not to fixate on his arms. “I swear to God-”

“Careful,” you warn, pointing at him with your brows raised. “Blasphemy is a sin.”

Choso rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t strain something (or have his eyes stuck looking at his brain for the rest of his life - that’d be so sickeningly funny). “You’re an actual menace.”

“I know, but here you are anyway.” You gesture around at your surroundings dramatically. “At my booth. In my chair. Messing with my stuff. Suspicious, if you ask me.”

His gaze flatlines. He wants you dead.

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“You’d be bored if I did.”

And that’s when it happens.

He exhales - shaky, barely there - but it’s almost a laugh. Like he’s been trying to hold it in and failed at the very last second. Let it slip when he wasn’t supposed to. (Clearly he doesn’t have enough willpower, unlike you.)

You catch it. Of course you do. Nothing ever goes over your head.

And then, because you’re a terror, you grin. This is so delightful.

“Oh-ho. Was that, dare I say, amusement? Do you actually find me funny, Kamo?”

Choso doesn’t dignify that with a response. He knows you’d use it as ammo against him.

But hey, no answer is still an answer, which means, yet again, you win.

(But also, and don’t tell anyone else, it means you don’t have to acknowledge the fact that, for a second there, you were staring at his hands. Watching the way his fingers move, the way they flew across his keys and the flips and switches of the soundboard - focused and precise and deliberate - and thinking about things you absolutely should not be thinking about.)

You push off the table and take a half step closer to him, placing your hands on your hips.

“Alright, genius,” you say, nodding toward his screen, serious as ever. You’re in business mode now. That and well, you’re not a monster. You’re kind of expected to enable his little ideas at this point. “What’s this big idea of yours?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you, and you’re lost in his eyes when you meet his, twin whirlpools reminiscent of deep space.

You tear your gaze away and fix it onto his screen.

But, and we’re going to simply forget about that brief moment of weakness where you thought his eyes were the most beautiful thing in the whole entire world (because they aren’t), you find his silence interesting.

Why? Because usually, if he’s working on something, he has no problem shoving his headphones in your face, forcing you to listen and have an opinion.

But now?

Now, he hesitates.

You frown, risking a glance at him. “What?”

“...Nothing,” he mutters. “Just- just let me finish it first. It’s incomplete.”

You stare, boggled. Because that’s weird. That’s really weird. He’s never had a problem showing you his works in progress.

You cross your arms, leaning against the table once more as Choso’s fingers fly across the mixer, adjusting levels like he actually knows what he’s doing (he does).

Highly suspicious.

He’s not telling you what this ‘big idea’ is, which only makes you more curious, naturally. And you don’t like being left in the dark - especially not when it’s Choso, because when it comes to him, you know three things for certain:

He is annoying.

He is annoyingly talented.

He is annoyingly handsome.

And that combination has led to some very questionable decisions on your part. Decisions like staying behind after the club has closed when you could literally kick him out and go home. Like, since you’re on the topic, not kicking him out of your booth even though it’s not his and definitely not his chair or his soundboard. Like just standing there, watching him work, and trying so damn hard (fighting demons, basically) not to notice how good he looks while doing it.

(That last part? Super important. Very crucial. Because it means nothing. Absolutely nothing.)

You drum your fingers against the table’s surface, waiting not-so-patiently.

“You do know I have places to be, right?”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t look up. “Like where?”

“Like, oh, I don’t know, home?”

He hums like he doesn’t quite believe you. “Right. And you’re in a real hurry to get there, huh?”

Asshole.

You narrow your eyes.

“This is literally your fault. I’m only here because I have to babysit you.”

“Babysit?” he scoffs. “You’re welcome to walk out.”

“Oh yeah? And who’s locking the door behind you, dumbass?”

“Fine. Then why haven’t you kicked me out yet?”

You open your mouth - ready to argue (even though you really don’t know why you haven’t kicked him out yet, why you’re entertaining his creative endeavors), ready to say something obnoxious, ready to make his like just a little more difficult - but then, without warning, he unplugs his headphones and hits play on his laptop.

The sound that comes out of the speakers stuns you right into silence.

It starts slow - just a low, deep bass, pulsing like a heartbeat, perfectly balanced (so he is capable of mixing properly). Then comes the layering, soft atmospheric chords settling into place, filling the empty space with something warm, almost familiar.

Your eyebrows furrow.

Because there’s something else there.

Something off.

And then-

Then it happens.

A short, light burst of sound, woven seamlessly into the track. Bright. Effortless.

That’s-

That’s your laugh.

Fuck.

You freeze.

You know it’s yours. You recognize it instantly. It’s not one of those generic laugh samples you find online when you’re desperate - it’s your voice, high and carefree, caught in a moment you don’t even remember. And somehow, Choso has taken it and molded it and made it sound like it belongs in the sound, between the synths and strings, blended into the melody like a perfect harmony.

The worst part?

It’s good.

You hate how good it is. How warm it makes you feel.

Your mouth opens and closes, words failing you for once in your life, because- what the hell is this?

Finally, after a long, long moment of being stuck in some kind of hellish DJ limbo, you grab your tongue and force out, “What. The. Fuck.”

Choso smirks.

Not a big one. Not obvious. Just the smallest tilt of his lips, so brief you might’ve even missed it if you weren’t glaring at him so hard.

Which you definitely aren’t. (You absolutely are.)

A flush creeps up your neck.

He keeps his eyes on the screen, pretending like he hasn’t just thrown you into a full-blown crisis. He must think he’s some kind of actor, to play make-believe with you like this.

“Figured I’d try something different,” he says, casual as anything. (There is nothing casual about any of this.) “Thought it fit the vibe.”

You gawk at him. Your head is about to explode (he’d love that, wouldn’t he?).

“Are you serious?”

He glances at you and lifts his shoulders into a shrug. “You don’t like it?”

“That’s not the point!”

This makes him smile - for real this time. Not a smirk, not a grin. An actual smile that turns his eyes into crescents. A smile that’s big enough to be dangerous.

And that’s when it hits you like a sack of bricks.

This was all intentional.

Choso knew what he was doing. He knew exactly how you’d react, knew that hearing your own voice in his track would throw you right off your game, knew that it would leave you standing here, gagged, flushed and completely speechless. (So had he been acting all secretive just to build suspense? That fucker.)

And boy is he enjoying it.

You exhale sharply and narrow your eyes.

He tilts his head.

You inhale deeply, gathering yourself.

Then, calmly, carefully, you say, “So, just so we’re clear. You recorded me without my knowledge or consent?”

Choso, to his credit, doesn’t panic.

“When you put it like that-”

“Wow. That’s crazy.” You nod to yourself. You’re making some good points here. “You know what else is crazy?”

“...What?”

You slam your hand down on the soundboard and crank the bass to MAXIMUM CHAOS.

The speakers explode with sound, rattling the walls, the floor - everything.

“Fuck!” Choso lunges to fix it, practically knocking the chair over, frantically dialing it back before the club’s entire sound system implodes.

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

You grin. You couldn’t let him have the last laugh, after all.

“That’s crazy. It’s almost like the bass needs to be balanced. Hm. Food for thought.”

He turns to you, eyes wild, and you swear, for a second, he looks impressed.

Or maybe proud. (Nope. That’s insane. You’re not thinking about that. Not expanding on it.)

Finally, after getting everything under control, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

“...You’re so fucking annoying.”

You flash him your brightest, most insufferable smile. “You love me like that.”

He stares at you.

You stare back. (You’re aware that the both of you look like two kids having a stare-off on the playground because he stole your favorite toy.)

He reaches for the laptop again. You frown.

He hits play again.

And just like that, your laugh fills the club again.

Soft, effortless. Like it was meant to be there, weaved into the threads of the beats.

Choso watches you. 

You don’t look away.

Well, you don’t look away for a good thirty seconds before you feel your cheeks burning up. How did he make your laugh sound so pure, and warm and sweet?

You shake your head slightly. You need a diversion.

You grab Choso by the wrist before he can do anything else, dragging him away from the soundboard with zero hesitation. (You never hesitate. Anything you do is with your full chest.)

“Shut it down.”

Choso blinks at you, unbothered. “What?”

“Shut. It. Down.” You tighten your grip, pulling him to his feet. “I’m not here to be your soundboard guinea pig, as horrifying as that sounds. I’m here because I can’t lock up until you’re out.”

Realization dawns slowly across his face, followed by something annoyingly smug. (You don’t know why you even thought kicking him out would invoke any other reaction in him other than enthusiasm.)

“You mean-” He leans in just a little, his voice dropping to something stupidly smooth. “You stayed behind for me?”

He’s twisting your words. You had to.

You make a sound that is definitely not human. A strangled, frustrated, borderline feral noise that would probably concern you if you weren’t too bust resisting the urge to strangle him. A noise that would probably have Animal Control out hunting for you.

“No, you idiot. I stayed because I legally cannot leave until your gremlin ass vacates the premises. We literally just had this conversation, or is your brain just full of dust?”

Choso, still being held hostage by your grip on his wrist, tilts his head in mock consideration.

“Sounds a lot like you stayed for me, pretty girl.”

“I swear to God-”

“Careful. Blasphemy is a sin.”

You hiss. He laughs.

Not fair. Nothing is fair. His laugh is not fair. Not when it’s so nice - so low and real and warm, curling into the space between you like a trick of the night.

Your fingers twitch against his skin.

You need to get out of here. Now. You’re already overloaded with the fact that he made a song and incorporated you into it, and that it’s a damn good song, and that-

You let go of him like he burns.

“Pack your shit, DJ,” you order, stepping back. “I want to go home.”

Choso watches you for a second - like he’s debating something. Then, with a lazy smirk (here we go again) that makes your stomach do a thing you refuse to acknowledge at this time, he finally nods.

“Alright, alright. Relax,” he says, shutting his laptop with a definitive click. “I’ll be out in a minute. But tell me, did you like the mix?”

“You have thirty seconds.” (You loved it. You can’t tell him that. Ignoring him is always an option.)

“That’s not a minute.”

“Twenty-nine.”

His exasperated sigh follows you as you step out of the booth, but, mercifully, he starts packing up.

When he finally leaves, lingering next to you as he watches you lock up, you realize that the track with your laugh is still saved onto his laptop. 

And you know, you just know, he’s not deleting it. Not ever.

And you don’t think you want him to. (Don’t let him find out about this.)

NOTE: thank you so much for taking the time to read! i hope you enjoyed this, and part two will be posted soon! i loved writing this i'm ngl! @gojover was literally my cheerleader the entire time, listening to me yap about dj terms (art by omagatokii on X)

[alohajix]

𝑳𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑺𝒉𝒊𝒇𝒕 𝑳𝒖𝒔𝒕

Description: working the late shift at a nearly empty diner isn’t glamorous—but it pays the bills. Savannah’s used to the quiet, the tired regulars, and the occasional flirt. But when a tattooed stranger with a slow smile walks in after midnight, the tension builds fast and burns hot. One cup of bitter coffee turns into a filthy, unforgettable encounter behind the counter.

Warnings: stranger!Harry, soft dom!Harry, kitchen sex, filthy talk, roughness, praise kink, fingering, oral (f. & m. receiving), consent check-ins, light aftercare. Readers +18.

Words count: ~ 6K.

*****

It was nearly 1 a.m. when the diner bell rang. I didn’t even flinch anymore—not this deep into the shift. The sound had become background noise like the soft sizzle from the kitchen or the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. I didn’t look up right away either, just scribbled the last few words of an order on my pad and slid it through the window to Richie in the back.

“Table seven’s still waiting on their eggs,” I called, voice flat with exhaustion.

“Tell ’em to relax,” Richie grunted. “They ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

I rolled my eyes and finally turned toward the front. That’s when I saw him. He was tall—really tall—wearing a loose white tee that clung just enough to suggest the kind of build that made you look twice. Ink crawled up both arms, black lines and shading peeking out from under the short sleeves. He had a mess of brown curls that looked almost too good for someone walking into a grimy diner at 1 a.m., and his jeans hung low on his hips like he didn’t give a damn. But it was his eyes that got me. Sharp and soft at the same time. Like he’d seen too much and still managed to find a reason to smirk about it.

He slid into the booth in the far corner, back against the wall, one arm draped along the top of the seat like he owned the place. I grabbed my pad, stepped behind the counter, and made my way over.

“You know we serve better food before midnight, right?” I asked, stopping at his table.

He looked up slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Then he smiled—and holy hell, it was lazy and crooked and completely unfair.

“Good thing I’m not here for the food.”

My eyebrow arched. “You lost or just feeling bold tonight?”

“Maybe both.” His voice was smooth, with a soft British accent I hadn’t expected. “Got in late. Was driving through, saw the lights on. Figured I’d take my chances.”

“You always gamble with greasy eggs and burned toast?”

“I’ve gambled on worse.”

I bit back a smirk and tapped my pen against the pad. “Well, mystery man, you want coffee?”

“Only if you make it.”

I gave him a look. “It’s from a pot that’s been sitting there since ten. My magic won’t save it.”

He leaned forward just slightly. “I don’t mind it bitter.”

There it was—just a flicker. The tiniest shift in his tone that pulled something tight in my stomach. I hated that. I also didn’t hate it.

“Black?” I asked, already turning.

“Please,” he called after me.

The warmth of his stare followed me all the way back to the counter. I poured the coffee, grabbed a mug, and headed back—ignoring Richie’s snort as he muttered something about me “playing waitress of the year.” I slid the mug onto the table in front of the stranger without spilling a drop. “Try not to cry when it hits your taste buds.”

He took a sip, hissed softly through his teeth, and nodded like he’d just accepted a challenge. “Yeah. That’s awful.”

“Told you.”

“But you brought it anyway,” he said, eyes flicking up to mine again. “That’s sweet of you.”

“I’m not sweet,” I muttered, tucking my pen behind my ear. “Don’t mistake sarcasm for kindness.”

“I won’t. But I like both on you.” Jesus.

He didn’t say it with a wink or a sleazy grin, either. Just…soft and easy. Confident in a way that didn’t feel forced. He was the kind of guy who probably got what he wanted without needing to raise his voice. Or his hands.

I cleared my throat and forced my gaze toward the order pad. “You hungry or just here to flirt with the help?”

He tilted his head. “Depends. What’s good?”

“Nothing after midnight.”

“Lie to me.”

I fought back a smile. “Alright. The pancakes are divine. Light as clouds. Eggs cooked to perfection. Sausage links that’ll change your life.”

He grinned. “You’re not even trying to be convincing.”

“You asked for a lie. That was it.”

He chuckled, eyes dropping to my name tag for the first time. “Savannah.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Your name.” He nodded toward my chest. “Didn’t wanna keep calling you ‘waitress.’ Felt impersonal.”

My face burned. It wasn’t even the way he said it—it was the way his eyes lingered for a beat too long, like he hadn’t just been reading.

I crossed my arms. “And you are…?”

He paused. “Harry.”

“Last name?”

“Do you need one?”

“I like to know who I’m insulting.”

He laughed again—quiet, genuine. “Just Harry.”

“Well, Just Harry, pick something off the damn menu before I decide you’re not worth the caffeine.”

He lifted the sticky laminated menu, held it between two tattooed fingers, and said, “Surprise me.”

“Brave,” I murmured, already writing something down. “You might regret that.”

“Doubt it,” he said, leaning back. “You’ve got a good face for trust.”

I snorted. “You’ve clearly never been here before.”

I slipped the order in with Richie—somehow convincing him to fry up a fresh egg without complaining too much—and found myself glancing back toward the corner table more than I meant to.

Harry hadn’t pulled out a phone. He hadn’t asked for WiFi. He just…sat there. Watching the world with a slight tilt to his head like it was all one big inside joke he hadn’t shared yet. He caught me staring. I rolled my eyes and turned back to wipe the counter even though it was already clean. I didn’t get flustered over strangers. And definitely not over the kind with arms like that and a voice that curled around my spine.

I brought his plate over about ten minutes later—eggs, toast, hash browns, and two sausage links I only cooked because I didn’t want him leaving too soon. He looked up, those slow green eyes locking onto mine like he already knew what I was thinking.

“Didn’t poison it, did you?” he asked, smiling as I set the plate down.

“Too expensive,” I said. “Besides, if you died here, I’d have to mop around your corpse until someone showed up. Doesn’t sound like fun.”

“Mm. Caring and practical.” He dragged his fork through the eggs. “You’re really ruining my whole brooding loner fantasy.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I deadpanned, though my lips tugged at the corners. “Anything else you need?”

He tilted his head, pausing just long enough for it to feel deliberate. “You gonna sit?”

I blinked. “Sit?”

“Place is empty. You look bored.” He motioned to the booth across from him. “Figured you could give me shit for a few more minutes.”

I hesitated. We weren’t supposed to sit with customers—not unless they were drunk or crying or both. But it was 1:30 a.m., and the only other table in the diner was too busy arguing over how toast should be buttered to notice anything. So I slid in across from him, arms folded, keeping the distance casual. He nodded like I’d done exactly what he wanted.

“You from here?” he asked, cutting into the sausage.

I shook my head. “Moved a couple years ago. Couldn’t afford the city anymore.”

“Same.”

“You just passing through?”

He looked up from his plate, meeting my eyes with that calm, unreadable expression again.

“Maybe. I don’t always plan shit out.”

I leaned back. “That supposed to sound sexy or mysterious?”

He grinned. “Did it work?”

I shrugged. “Kinda.”

We sat like that for a few beats—his fork scraping the plate, my eyes drifting to the tattoos curling over his forearms, the way his fingers looked wrapped around the handle of his coffee cup. He was the kind of guy I’d always told myself not to trust. The kind who didn’t talk too much. The kind who knew exactly how long to pause between words to make you lean in closer. But he hadn’t looked at his phone once. Hadn’t acted like he was bored or waiting for something better. He was here, right now, like this greasy, fluorescent-lit hole-in-the-wall diner was the most interesting place in the world.

Or maybe just I was.

“You always work this shift?” he asked, tone low and casual.

“Mostly.”

“Why?”

“Pays more. And I don’t like people.”

He smirked. “You like me, though.”

I scoffed. “I don’t even know you.”

“But you’re sitting here. Talking. Smirking.” His voice dropped slightly. “You don’t sit with just anyone.”

“I sit when I’m bored.”

“You’re not bored,” he said, his eyes holding mine. “You’re curious.”

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong. I hated how quickly he’d figured that out. How easily he could read between my sarcasm and the tired tilt of my mouth. Most people only saw the uniform and the attitude. But not him. Not Harry.

“You’re full of yourself,” I muttered, standing before he could see the warmth rising in my chest.

He looked up at me slowly, letting his eyes drift down just enough to make my skin prickle. Then he reached for his wallet and pulled out a few bills, tossing them on the table.

“You got anything else to clean up?” he asked, voice soft. “I don’t mind helping.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You want to help me clean?”

He smiled. “Not really. Just figured it might give you a reason to talk to me a little longer.”

I should’ve told him to go. That the shift was almost over and I didn’t need help from a charming stranger with too many tattoos and a voice that made me clench without warning.

Instead, I said, “Come on, then.” He followed me behind the counter. And just like that, the air changed.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft click as I led him behind the counter. Technically, customers weren’t allowed back here. But something about the way Harry moved—easy, quiet, hands in his pockets—made it feel like he belonged anyway. Like this wasn’t breaking a rule so much as rewriting it.

I grabbed a rag from the sink and tossed it toward him. “Here. You can start by wiping the bar down.”

He caught it one-handed, cocked his head. “Bossy.”

“I’m not your boss.”

He stepped closer. “Pity.”

I rolled my eyes and turned to the coffee machine. It didn’t need cleaning, but I pretended to tinker with it anyway—mostly so I didn’t have to look at him watching me. But he was there. I could feel it. The heat of his body, just a little too close behind me. The low sounds of him wiping the counter in slow, lazy circles. Like he was taking his time on purpose.

“You always this charming?��� I asked, keeping my back to him.

“You always this guarded?” I froze for half a second, fingers stilling on the carafe. “Didn’t mean it like that,” he added softly. “Just think it’s sexy, that’s all.”

I turned then. “My attitude?”

His eyes met mine. Steady. “Your fire.” God.

I hated how warm that made me feel. How the word fire in his mouth sounded like something private. Something earned.

“You don’t even know me,” I muttered, brushing past him toward the sink. Our shoulders touched—barely—but it was enough to spark something low in my stomach.

“I know enough,” he said.

“Like what?”

He leaned against the edge of the bar, arms folded, watching me without shame. “You’re tired but won’t admit it. Sarcastic to keep people at a distance, but your eyes soften when they’re kind to you. You wear black nail polish because it makes you feel in control, but you chip it off when you’re anxious.”

I looked down at my fingers, lips parting slightly.

“You’re a hurricane in a diner apron,” he added, voice dropping. “And I’d let you ruin me.” Fuck.

The rag in my hand dropped to the floor. I bent to pick it up—and when I stood, he was right there. Chest to chest.

No more teasing distance. No more safety net.

“Careful,” I said, but my voice wasn’t steady anymore.

“Why?” His voice was velvet. “You gonna bite?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I whispered.

He laughed under his breath—low and dangerous—and stepped even closer, crowding me against the counter. His hand brushed mine as he reached past me for the towel on the sink. The contact was small, but intentional. Like everything else he’d done.

“You gonna keep pretending this isn’t happening?” he asked, tilting his head, lips barely a few inches from mine.

I swallowed hard. “You’re the one pretending.”

“I’m not pretending anything, sweetheart.”

The pet name sent a jolt straight through me. I should’ve shoved him away. Should’ve walked out or told him this was a bad idea.

Instead, I leaned in just enough to whisper, “Then do something about it.”

His breath caught—and then he moved. One hand slid to my waist, gripping tight. The other came up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing the corner of my mouth. His eyes flicked to my lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured. I didn’t. I couldn’t. So he kissed me. And it wasn’t gentle. It was filthy. Hungry. Like he’d been thinking about it since the second he walked in—and now he was starving.

His mouth slanted over mine, hot and demanding, tongue sweeping against mine like he was claiming me. His hand stayed at my waist, pulling me in so tight my back arched off the counter. I gasped, and he swallowed it—groaned into it—like he’d been waiting for that sound. When he finally pulled back, I was panting. Dazed.

He looked down at me, lips slick, eyes dark. “Still think I’m pretending?” I shook my head. He smiled. “Didn’t think so.”

The second his lips left mine, I reached for him—fisting my hands in the front of his shirt, dragging him right back. Harry groaned, deep in his throat, as he crashed his mouth onto mine again. This kiss was messier, rougher, and so much worse—because now I knew what he tasted like. And I wanted more. His hands slid under my uniform shirt, fingers spreading wide over the bare skin of my waist. He touched me like he already knew my body, like he had the right. And I let him. Welcomed it.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he muttered against my neck, teeth grazing skin as he pressed open-mouthed kisses down my jaw. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this since I walked in.”

“You didn’t even know me,” I whispered, breath caught as he dragged his fingers higher, pushing my shirt up over my ribs.

“I knew enough.”

He gripped my hips suddenly, spun me around, and bent me slightly over the counter—my hands braced on the cold metal, his chest pressing into my back. I gasped, heat pulsing low in my belly.

“You good?” he asked, voice low, mouth by my ear.

I nodded, biting my lip. “Yeah.”

“Need to hear you say it, sweetheart.”

“I’m good,” I breathed. “I want it.”

“Good girl.” That fucking voice.

He yanked my leggings down, underwear dragged along with them, and the air hit my skin. My thighs pressed together on instinct, but he nudged them apart with his knee.

“Fuck,” he hissed behind me. “Look at you… soaking already.”

“Shut up,” I muttered.

He laughed—soft and filthy. “You don’t want me to shut up.”

One hand snaked between my legs, fingers sliding through my folds like he had all the time in the world. I gasped, hands flexing on the counter as he found my clit with maddening precision.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” he murmured. “Thinking about me doing this to you. Touching you like this… making you fall apart on my fingers.”

I whimpered, hips pushing back into his hand. “Please…”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop.”

That earned me two fingers deep, fast and unforgiving. I choked on a moan as my body clenched around him, legs wobbling.

“Shit,” he muttered, still pumping. “So fucking tight.”

“Harry—”

He pulled his fingers out with a soft wet sound, spun me back around, and dropped to his knees like it was instinct. I barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on me—hot, wet, tongue dragging slow and deep through my folds. My head fell back with a sharp cry.

“Jesus—fuck—”

He licked like he was starving for it. Like every filthy, wet sound I made was his reward. He sucked my clit into his mouth, hummed low in his throat, and slid two fingers back inside me while keeping eye contact. I came so hard I nearly screamed. My knees buckled, but he caught me, pulled me into his lap as he stood. His cock pressed hard through his jeans, and I fumbled with the button, desperate to feel him—desperate for more.

“You sure?” he asked, fingers gripping my chin.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I need it.”

He growled, shoved his jeans down just enough to free himself, then lifted me by the hips and sat me on the counter. I wrapped my legs around his waist and gasped when the head of his cock slid through my folds.

“Condom—?” he asked, breath ragged.

I reached into the drawer beside me and pulled one out without thinking. His brows lifted.

“Goddamn. Always prepared?”

“You’re not the first guy who flirted behind this counter,” I smirked.

He tore it open and rolled it on fast, grabbing my hips again. “Bet I’m the first one to fuck you on it though.” And then he thrust in. We both gasped. “Fuck, Savannah,” he groaned, forehead dropping to mine. “You feel—fuck—you feel so fucking good.”

My nails clawed at his back as he started to move—slow, then fast, then filthy. His hips snapped against mine, the slap of skin loud in the kitchen. His hand tangled in my hair, the other squeezing my thigh.

“You gonna come for me again?” he panted. “Let me feel you clench around my cock?”

“Yes—Harry—yes, yes—”

“Say my name again.”

“Harry,” I cried out. “Don’t stop—please—don’t—” He didn’t. He fucked me through it—my orgasm crashing into me hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. And then he groaned, hips stuttering, eyes locked on mine.

“Gonna come,” he growled. “Fuck—Savannah—shit—”

He spilled into the condom with a low, breathless moan, rocking through it, buried deep inside me. His forehead stayed pressed to mine, our breaths mingling in the thick, charged silence. The air smelled like sweat, sex, and diner grease—should’ve been gross. But somehow, it felt perfect.

Harry was still inside me, his hands firm on my waist like he hadn’t decided whether to let go yet. I didn’t move either. My fingers stayed curled in the fabric of his shirt, clinging like I hadn’t just let a complete stranger fuck me senseless in my workplace kitchen. I felt wild. Spent. Alive. And just a little dazed.

He finally blinked, brushing the tip of his nose against mine. “You okay?”

I nodded, voice barely there. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I whispered again. “Just… wow.”

A slow grin spread across his face, cocky but not in a shitty way. “Yeah. Wow.”

He kissed me then—softer this time. Slower. And somehow that kiss wrecked me even more than the others had. He pulled out gently, helped me down from the counter like I was breakable, and stripped off the condom before tossing it into the trash beneath the sink. Then he cleaned me up with a paper towel—silent, focused, gentle. Too gentle.

“You’re being nice,” I said, squinting at him.

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Feels suspicious.”

He smirked. “Maybe I’m just not a dick.”

I rolled my eyes and tugged my leggings back up. “That’s not what I meant.”

He stepped close again, crowding my space like he hadn’t just been inside me, like there wasn’t still a raw, buzzing tension curling between us.

“What’d you mean then?” he asked quietly.

I looked up at him—at the sharp lines of his jaw, the dark curl that had fallen over his brow, the softness still lingering in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Just… I didn’t expect you to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Sweet.” That made him smile again—smaller this time. Realer.

“I’m not always,” he said. “But I like being that way with you.”

I didn’t have a response for that. Not one that made sense, anyway. He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms, eyes on mine.

“So,” he said, tone lighter, “do you always keep condoms next to the forks, or was that a special surprise just for me?”

I groaned and shoved him playfully. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He caught my hand, pulled it to his lips, and kissed my knuckles. “Never.” God, he was dangerous.

I grabbed a clean rag and started wiping the counter like I hadn’t just come harder than I had in a year.

He watched me in silence for a moment, then said, “You working tomorrow night?”

I glanced at him. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Might stop by again.”

I tried not to smile. Failed. “You might get less than special treatment next time.”

“That a threat or a promise?”

“Depends on your tip.”

He stepped in close, just enough to make my heart stutter again. “I’ll tip you, sweetheart,” he murmured. “But I think we both know you already got the best part of me tonight.” Cocky bastard.

I shoved him again—harder this time—but he just laughed, turned around, and walked back out into the diner like he owned it. Before he reached the door, he looked back at me over his shoulder, eyes still sparkling, lips curved just right.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said.

Then he was gone. And I was left breathless, aching, and already hoping his plate showed up on my counter tomorrow night.

*****

hope you liked this one guysss 💕

[miss-lesbian16]

Seducing the impossible

Warning: none

Being the only daughter and heir of Silco had its advantages: having whatever you wanted, being highly respected by everyone. The downside was that you couldn't mess with his workers, meaning nothing; not even a friendship. The worst part was that you were in love with Sevika, his right-hand woman and the only one who could get close to you, and that was if Silco, your father, allowed it.

Now you were sitting at one of the tables in The Last Drop. You were so bored that you didn't know why, as the bar was blasting music, people dancing nonstop, drinking and consuming shimmer either through smoke or drinks. It was literally a fun night to be bored; really not until Sevika walked into the bar. She passed by all the people in the place to take a bottle of alcohol from a stranger and, quickly climbing up the stairs to the second floor, you followed her without her noticing. You already knew where she would go, but still wanted to know why.

Sevika entered your father's office angrily demanding why he didn't hire more qualified people for the job and not useless ones who messed everything up. Your father told her that whether it was their fault or not, she was responsible for ensuring that the merchandise arrived well and had failed, warning her that if she failed again he would have no choice but to replace her.

You quickly made your way back down to your spot. Seconds later, you saw Sevika approach the bartender to order another bottle of alcohol. The bartender didn’t take long; when he arrived with a large bottle of alcohol, Sevika began drinking uncontrollably.

It was my chance to be with Sevika. So after two hours of watching her drink non-stop until she reached a point where she was swaying, I approached her provocatively.

—Hey, Sevika. I didn’t know you were here —I said in a soft and affectionate tone, pretending to be surprised while smiling provocatively from a few steps away.

—And who the hell are you? —she asked incoherently and too drunk to distinguish people. So much so that she squinted her eyes to try to identify me.

—Sevika, it’s me, Silco's daughter —I replied a bit frustrated and angry because I honestly didn’t think Sevika would get this drunk.

—Uh... the untouchable —she laughed amused while smiling provocatively, grabbing another bottle of alcohol and drinking more—. Don’t take offense, but around here we all call you "the untouchable," since no one can touch you; not a man or a woman. And whoever can do it will have privilege but also their doom with Silco for touching his only daughter —her tone was somewhat mocking but at the same time serious; everything changed when she devoured me with her gaze from my legs to my face. Being too drunk didn’t hide her stare.

Sevika sat down in a nearby chair; without wasting time I sat on her lap and placed my hands on her shoulders. Sevika looked confused by my action.

—What the hell? —she said astonished with a low and incoherent tone.

—Shhh... Sevika, you don’t know how much I would love for you to make me yours —my tone turned sexual and provocative as I leaned closer to her ear whispering—: Come on, don’t be afraid; kiss me, touch me... make me yours, Sevika —saying this I kissed the shell of her ear and pulled back to look into her eyes again.

Her gaze filled with desire, lust, excitement, and mischief as she placed her hands on my waist. I shivered slightly feeling the cold metal of her arm.

—You don’t know what you’re talking about, brat—she didn’t say it seriously, but in a provocative, sexual, and playful way; she was really enjoying this—. You’re just a spoiled little girl—a mocking tone, but satisfied to have me in her lap.

—If I’m a spoiled brat, why don’t you educate me yourself?—I made a slight pout to look her straight in the eyes, with an expression of innocence but also with so much sexuality.

The self-control Sevika had went out the window as she suddenly stood up to pull me outside of The Last Drop. She took me to a somewhat dark alley, pressing my back against the wall and starting a rough kiss, almost as a challenge. Her lips captured mine with a force that left me breathless. There was no softness or delicacy; it was a clash of wills, an act of both rage and desire. I managed to have Sevika in my hands, gripping her jacket desperately.

The cold of her metal arm brushed against my waist as her real hand sank into my hip, pulling me closer to her. The kiss was wet, hungry, filled with contained tension that now exploded uncontrollably. Every movement she made made me feel like I was about to fall, yet I didn’t want to stop; I wanted more than just a hungry and desperate kiss.

After a long time, we pulled away from the kiss due to lack of air, panting and breathing heavily. Without wasting any time, I took Sevika's hand to guide her back to The Last Drop, but this time we didn’t enter the bar; instead, we went through another door that led to a hallway until we reached a couple of doors and entered my room.

Thanks for reading

Part 2?

[caramelarrowswife]

I love your writing and it had me thinking what would dark cacao cookie would do if he was jelly because a cookie was flirting with his husband.

But I hope you have a good day or night!

TONGUES & TEETH

─── ∘°❉°∘ ───

Pure Vanilla Cookie had always enjoyed forming alliances so much more than Dark Cacao Cookie. It just came so natural to the healer - cookies seemed to be attracted to his kindness like moths to a light.

Dark Cacao didn’t mind.. not until Clotted Cream Cookie, at least.

A/N: I'm thinking of doing a tag list for people who want to be updated but is that like. really cringe or outdated or or,,

─── ∘°❉°∘ ───

Pure Vanilla Cookie chuckled at a joke Clotted Cream Cookie told, gently squeezing Dark Cacao Cookie’s arm as the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Isn’t that so amusing, my dear?~”

“Hilarious,” Dark Cacao replied, his dark eyes boring into Clotted Cream’s with a mildly murderous glance.

The young consul paid the angry king no mind, and continued talking to Pure Vanilla with an overly cheerful tone. Hell, if Dark Cacao didn’t know better, he’d think Clotted Cream was flirting.

It turned out, as the night progressed, that Dark Cacao did not know better. The armrest of his chair was starting to crack with how much force he was practicing onto him, and his vicious gaze hadn’t left Clotted Cream once. Even the consul was beginning to notice the dangerous glance.

“Do I have something on my face, sire..?” Clotted Cream asked light-heartedly.

Dishonour and shame, Dark Cacao thought.

“Nothing of the sort,” Dark Cacao said.

The king stood from his chair briskly, Pure Vanilla’s hand falling off of its place on his wrist. The healer looked up, his eyes closed but his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Cacao-”

“You will excuse me,” Dark Cacao muttered, walking out of the room through the main entrance.

“Is he okay?” Clotted Cream asked.

“Oh, he said ‘you will excuse me’ instead of ‘will you excuse me’,” Hollyberry Cookie said dryly. “That means he’s out for blood. You would be wise to watch your tone, consul — Dark Cacao Cookie is already upset by your continuous asking for his Souljam, you really don’t want to mess with him further.”

Clotted Cream opened his mouth to reply when Pure Vanilla stood up as well, albeit a lot softer than Dark Cacao had done moments ago. “I shall check up on him.”

“Oh, please, I insist you let one of the maids do it for you-!” Clotted Cream protested.

“Consul.” Pure Vanilla shot him a strict look. “I will check in on my husband whenever I please.”

As Pure Vanilla left the room, he just barely caught Clotted Cream whispering; “Husband..?”

Pure Vanilla shook his head with a sigh and a small smile, walking to where he knew Dark Cacao would be angrily waiting.

And right his predictions were; Dark Cacao was moodily pacing in the guest room he had been forced to begrudgingly accept by none other than his husband dear. The day Dark Cacao slept in that cold tent outside was the day Pure Vanilla was six feet under.

“Cacao, my dear..” Pure Vanilla murmured, sitting on the bed. “Why did you flee?”

“I did not flee! I am not in there anymore for that.. that wretched boy’s own safety!”

Pure Vanilla raised an eyebrow, egging Dark Cacao on to continue.

“Pure Vanilla, I know you are blind, but you are not an idiot. You knew what he was doing! You knew he was brazenly courting you!” 

Dark Cacao watched in disbelief as a chuckle escaped his husband’s lips. “Vanilla, are you laughing at me?!”

“Oh, I do apologise,” Pure Vanilla smiled, but the corners of his eyes crinkled mischievously. “But you are acting rather silly, my dear.”

“Silly?!” Dark Cacao repeated indignantly.

“Yes, silly,” Pure Vanilla said as he gently pulled Dark Cacao onto the bed beside him. “You know I would never give in to anyone’s advances, my love. You are the only one for me… forgive me for finding it silly that you keep forgetting.”

“I did not forget,” Dark Cacao grumbled, leaning into Pure Vanilla’s touch reluctantly. “But I think it’s ‘rather silly’ that you just let him talk to you like.. that.”

“Are you jealous, Cao..?”

Dark Cacao stared at him. “Someone is hitting on my husband, of course I’m jealous.”

Pure Vanilla laughed again, leaning against Dark Cacao’s chest. “Oh, you silly, hard-headed man.. don’t pout, love. It’s quite endearing when you throw little fits.”

Dark Cacao glared at him. He needn’t say a word, for his eyes portrayed all the indignance he felt for his show of emotion being called a ‘fit’.

“Please, my dearest,” Pure Vanilla murmured softly. “Let us return to the dining room, this time in peace. I know you do not enjoy Clotted Cream Cookie’s presence, but I hope you can rest assured knowing my affections go out to you, and you only.”

Dark Cacao sighed, before nodding.

“Very well.. but I expect to have you all to myself after.”

[i2rizz]

Life Sized Plushie Pt.2

Request from @atlasyaps

Hope u enjoy it darling<3

Isagi, nagi, chigiri, barou, karasu

|masterlist

Isagi Yoichi

Isagi’s first reaction upon seeing the massive plush was pure confusion.

“What the hell is that?”

You beamed. “It’s you!”

His blue eyes widened as he stepped closer, staring at the plush that somehow perfectly replicated his face, down to the determined glint in its stitched-on eyes.

“…Whoa.” He poked its cheek, then turned to you with a sheepish laugh. “This is actually kinda cute.”

You smirked. “I know, right? I figured I’d get it to keep me company while you’re too busy training to hang out with me.”

Isagi immediately frowned. “You don’t need this to keep you company, [Name]…” He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around you.

“I’ll make more time for you.”

You blinked, surprised by his sincerity. “You don’t have to—”

He pulled back just enough to press his forehead against yours. “No, I want to.”

Your heart melted.

The plush stayed—but so did Isagi.

Nagi Seishiro

Nagi stared at the plush. Then at you. Then back at the plush.

“…Why?”

You shrugged. “Why not?”

Nagi sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Seems like a lot of work just to get a fake version of me.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not fake, it’s just—”

But before you could finish, Nagi collapsed onto the couch, dragging you with him.

“Why do you need a plush when I’m right here?” he mumbled sleepily, burying his face into your neck.

You huffed. “Maybe because you are always gaming or sleeping instead of spending time with me?”

His arms tightened around you. “Mm… ‘m spending time with you now.”

You sighed. Damn it. He was too warm to move.

Guess the plush wasn’t needed after all.

Chigiri Hyoma

The second Chigiri saw the plush, he raised an eyebrow.

“…You got a life-sized version of me?”

You grinned. “Yup.”

He sighed, flipping his red hair over his shoulder. “I didn’t know you were that obsessed.”

You gasped. “Excuse me, you should be honored!”

Chigiri chuckled. “I’m flattered, really.” He stepped closer, inspecting the plush. “…They got my hair right, at least.”

You giggled. “I knew you’d care about that most.”

Chigiri smirked, eyes glinting. “So… you cuddle it at night?”

You blinked. “Uh, maybe?”

He tilted his head, amused. “Guess I have competition.”

The next thing you knew, you were thrown onto the bed as Chigiri hovered over you, a teasing grin on his lips.

“Better make sure you still remember the real one,” he whispered.

Your heart stopped.

The plush? Forgotten.

Barou Shouei

The moment Barou saw the plush, his face twisted in absolute disgust.

“…What the hell is that?”

You smirked. “A life-sized plush of you, duh.”

Barou’s eye twitched. “You’re joking.”

You shook your head, placing a loving hand on the plush’s chest. “Nope. And it’s so comfy.”

Barou glared at it like it had personally insulted his entire bloodline.

“Get that thing out of my house.”

You pouted. “Why? It’s just like you—”

“Nothing can replace me,” he growled.

Before you could react, he snatched the plush and chucked it across the room.

Then, in one swift motion, he grabbed you by the waist, pulling you against him.

“You need something to cuddle?” His voice was low. “Use me.”

Your breath hitched.

“…Yes, sir.”

Barou smirked.

The plush was never seen again.

Karasu Tabito

Karasu’s reaction?

Complete and utter amusement.

“Oh, babe, you really love me, huh?” he teased, picking up the plush and spinning it around. “Gotta have me in stereo?”

You rolled your eyes. “I just thought it was funny.”

Karasu shot you a knowing grin. “Mmm, sure you did.”

He placed the plush beside him on the couch, slinging an arm around both of you.

“So, which of us is a better cuddler?” he asked.

You huffed. “Obviously you—”

Before you could finish, Karasu pounced, pinning you to the couch with a smirk.

“Just making sure,” he murmured, lips trailing dangerously close to your jaw.

Your face burned.

Damn him.

Damn him.