#hr reports were filed

[3-aem]

FINALLY HOME FROM THAT GOD FORSAKEN WORK TRIP MY GOODNESS I AM

*throws bag, flops onto bed*

dont talk to me im going to draw gojo for the next 72 hours straight

[hexmaniacchoco]

So, Target has decided to fire employees who purchase a Stanley cup. Yeah the same Stanley cups that have lead in them. Target's reasoning is that they violated a policy which doesn't allow employees to gain an "unfair advantage" over customers when it comes to purchasing limited items. Managers' reasoning for allowing employees to buy the cup is that it's a cup and why on Earth should people not be allowed to buy them. My opinion is scalping is bad and a problem that needs to be better addressed by companies. The solution is not to fire employees for buying limited items, even if they put one to the side for themselves to purchase after work. I think a much better solution is one we already use, which is the good old fashioned purchase limit paired with not making only like 1 of something per every hundred of people wanting it. You want to buy a few? Sure, maybe you're buying the others for friends or family or something who also like the thing. You want to buy 10? 50? The entire stock on display and all in the back? Absolutely not, sir madam or other.

Also if you're a Target employee who got fired, definitely make sure to file for unemployment and have the state investigate for unlawful termination. It might not be considered as such because it was a stupid policy but still a policy, but might as well find out and have them go after Target if it is. (And no, "at-will" does not mean that an employer can fire you for absolutely any reason. They just want you to think that so you don't bother to track conversations in written (text/e-mail/etc) form and have state labor departments investigate when you get fired and are applying for unemployment.)

[bitchesuntitled]

Wrong Delivery

Summary: Sleepin' with the hot construction guy doing the remodel at your work, he winds up buying flowers for someone else...

Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI go on get! No outbreak/pre outbreak(you decide), fluff, smut, miscommunication, cussing, oral f!receiving, unprotected piv(don't do that, make smart choices), cream pie, Joel being a dork.

A/N: First time I've ever actually finished a Joel story I started working on! Many thanks to @strang3lov3 for the encouragement and taking a look at this, @jay-zzle as always for giving me ideas and making moodboards for me because I hate doing them myself! ❤️❤️❤️

🌹This is for @morallyinept’s flora & fauna challenge! 🌹

Divider provided by @saradika-graphics

Masterlist||AO3 Link

As you rush into the building, trying to avoid the construction team surrounding the place, a timid smile crosses your face when you spot Joel, the man responsible for why you’re running late this morning. Instead of getting ready for work like you were supposed to, Joel Miller decided he wanted to spend his morning coaxing another orgasm out of you, as if the three last night weren’t enough. It’s been a couple of months of this. 

It had never been your intention to start sleeping with the hot contractor who had been doing construction at your place of work, you both just happened to be at the same bar one night. One thing led to another and now it’s been this, whatever this is.

“Mornin’ guys,” you say passing the crew, each giving their own sort of greeting back, be it a grunt of acknowledgment or repeating the greeting.

“Mornin’ ma’am,” Joel says with a cheeky smile, “Runnin’ a little late?”

“Yeah, woke up late,” you shrugged, feeling your face heat up.

“There you are!” Becky shouts, making her way towards you, “Angie is up my ass right now about where you are with those reports you said you’d get done yesterday.”

“On it,” you sigh, “Nice talking to you Joel.”

“Oh!” Becky said with a smile, grabbing his bicep, “Hi Joel! You guys sure have been working hard on all of this.”

You try to keep your eyes from rolling at Becky’s consistent attempt at flirting with Joel. She has definitely tried her hardest to get his attention, made cookies “for the crew” but only handed some of them to Joel, tries to talk to him every chance she can, wearing lower cut tops so her cleavage is on full display, batting eyelashes and laughing at any dumb thing he says. It’s starting to get on your nerves, if you’re being honest. Making your way to your desk you open the drawer, shoving your purse inside before closing it and turning on your computer. You open the teams app, sending Angie a quick message to let her know you’ll put the file with the reports in the folder outside her door, grabbing the file and making your way to her office.

Becky is still talking Joel’s ear off and you have to stifle your laugh, watching his eyebrows scrunch together and his polite nod before excusing himself. She catches you as you're on your way back to your cubicle to start the work day.

“That Joel Miller is a man,” Becky sighs, walking beside you, “The things I would let him do to me.”

“Oh jeez,” you laugh awkwardly, sitting down at your desk.

“I wonder what his dick is like,” she continues, “I bet it’s big.”

You turn to your computer hoping she can’t see the look on your face because then the jig would be up.

“Uhm,” you say, clearing your throat, “You better be careful. Don’t wanna get turned into HR.”

—

“Hello,” a frazzled delivery guy announces himself at the entrance to your cubicle. “I have a delivery for you, miss.”

“For me?!” Becky asks excitedly, seeing the bouquet of flowers. The delivery guy nodded, handing her the flowers. “Who are they from?!”

“Uh… Joel Miller?” The guy says, looking at his sheet. Your jaw drops upon hearing his words. Why on earth would Joel send Becky flowers?

“Oh my god!” Becky squeals with delight, grabbing the card, “Aw! Look! It says darlin’ on the envelope!”

Becky opens the card, reading it aloud:

“Figured a pretty lady like you should have some flowers to look at. Been havin’ the time of my life gettin’ to know ya and would love to take you out. He signed it off with a heart and J. Miller! How sweet is that?!”

Beside yourself on handling this, the only thing you could think of was finding the man himself. If this entire thing between you two was just for fun so be it, but you needed answers.

“Real sweet,” you mutter standing up, “I’m…  uh… I’ll be back.”

“Okay.” Becky hums dreamily, staring at the flowers on her desk.

You make your way to the front of the building, spotting Gus, one of the construction guys.

“Can you tell Joel I need to talk to him?”

“Sorry ma’am, he had to leave earlier, something about Tommy.” Gus shrugs. 

“Uhm… okay.” You nod, deciding to make your way to the breakroom, sitting at one of the tables trying to collect your thoughts. Maybe it’s for the best that he left. That way the entire building wouldn’t see you blow up. Are you even still supposed to see each other tonight? That had been the plan when he left this morning. What the actual fuck, you think to yourself, give annoying ass Becky flowers to ask her out, and then fuck you? That two-timing son of a bitch!

“So fucking stupid,” you mutter to yourself.

—

You make it through the workday, as best as you can, trying not to think of Joel and how mad you are all while Becky continues to talk about him all day. What should she wear, wondering where he’d take her, what they would do, should she sleep with him on the first date. Hopefully, the Excedrin will kick in soon to help with the teeth grinding headache you’ve had all day. Walking to your car Becky’s shrill voice rings out wishing you a good evening.

“Yeah, you too,” you grumble, pulling your car door open and throwing your purse inside. You’re still so mad, fuming, seeing red as you drive towards your place. Once getting home, you quickly change into comfy clothes, and see you have a text from Joel.

JMiller: Can’t wait to see you beautiful ;) Leavin’ Tommy’s

You scowl looking at the text. How do you even respond to that? Petty, that’s how.

You: K.

You see the text bubbles pop up, disappear then pop up again before his face shows on your screen with an incoming call.

“Hello,” you snap.

“Hey,” Joel says hesitatingly, “Bad day at work?”

“Well, Becky got some lovely flowers delivered at work.”

“Oh?”

“Yep,” you say with a harsh pop at the end.

“And?” Joel asks, “Is that it?”

“Delivery guy and card said they were from you.”

“Fuck me,” Joel groans “Those were not for goddamn Becky!”

“Sure about that?”

“I got them for you.” Joel argues.

“Yeah, okay.” You huff into the receiver, rolling your eyes. “Look, I get it. It’s fine if you didn’t want this going anywhere but you could’ve been honest with me about it.”

“Fuck, darlin’,” Joel groans, “I do want this going somewhere! Like I said, the flowers were for you!”

“Sure,” you say, shaking your head, “Just be honest, Joel. This has just been fun, that’s it. You’re getting your dick wet, stringing me al—“

“God damn it! I am telling the truth!” Joel growls, cutting you off. “I even have proof!”

“What proof?!” You spit back, “The proof of the flowers you sent Becky? Yeah, I saw them, and the card too. Sweet touch signing it off with a heart and then your name.”

Suddenly there is a knock on your door. You cock your head to the side, hearing the knock sound through the phone as well. Of fucking course, Tommy’s is a five minute drive to your place, making your way to the door you swing it open to see Joel standing there. His nostrils flared, phone held up to his ear, dropping it and angrily stuffing it back into his pocket.

“Just give me five minutes, I swear, they were meant for you and I have fuckin’ proof,” Joel says, holding up a piece of paper.

“What the fuck, Joel?” You groan, smacking your phone onto the entry table.  “Why are you here?”

“I was on my way home from Tommy’s. Figure I’d come here first,” Joel says, holding the paper out to you, “Go on, look at it.”

You grab it, glancing it over. Farrah’s Flowers printed at the top, with your name listed as the order’s recipient, eyes bulging out of your head as you look at him.

“Told you.”

“Wait, then how the fuck did they get to Becky then?”

“Somebody fucked up, that’s all I know but that is my copy of the receipt for buyin’ them in the first place, and that is your name on it,” Joel smirks in triumph, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

Your shoulders relax as you open the door wider, motioning your head for him to come in. He gives a subtle nod, making his way into your home, you slump against the door once it’s closed.

“Joel,” you start, “What the fuck are we?”

He cages you against the door, pushing his lower half into you. You sigh, looping your arms around his neck, looking at those dark chocolate eyes.

“Well,” Joel says, kissing your cheek, “I want you,” placing a soft kiss against your lips, “More than just for sex,” he whispers, against your lips breathing in each other's air causing you to feel a dizzying arousal. Lips collide with him in a hungry kiss, tongues rolling against one another, gasping when his hands creep down to hook around your thighs lifting you, grabbing onto your ass before pulling you away from the door and carrying you to your bedroom.

Joel lays you down on your bed hovering over you, never breaking away from your lips, licking into your mouth with desperation like this might be his last chance. Arousal begins pool in your underwear. Hands gliding down his back, feeling the warmth radiating from him, lifting the bottom of his shirt until he finally lifts to fling it off.

“Don’t want anyone else,” Joel husks, lightly biting your neck, causing you to moan at the sensation of his teeth against your skin, “Just you.”

“Joel,” you whimper as his hand travels down the length of your shirt, pushing it up to expose your tits, ducking his head down. He sucks a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the stiffened peak before switching to give the other equal attention, kissing a trail down the soft flesh of your stomach until he reaches the top of your leggings.

“Can I?” He asks, looking at you, fingers hooking into your waistband. You give a firm nod and he pulls them off along with your underwear. He sighs once they are off, using his shoulders to spread your legs further apart, “So fucking pretty,” he hums, nipping and kissing along your inner thighs, slowly making his way to your center.

You can feel his breath against your folds, trembling with anticipation for his tongue and lips to make contact, letting out a soft moan Joel begins lapping at your folds, sucking your bundle of nerves into his mouth. Tongue massaging circles against your clit.

“Fuck,” you moan, raking your fingers through his hair and lightly tugging.

Joel’s hum reverberated into your core. His mouth opened and he began to fuck you with his tongue while firmly holding your gaze. You’re back arched at the sensation, letting out a gasp. You roll your hips against his face, his nose pressing deliciously against your clit. He grunts, moving his thumbs to spread your lips, licking a stripe up to your clit and sucking it into his mouth. Your legs begin to shake at the sensation.

“Oh my god, Joel!” You whine, arching your back, feeling the band tightening within your core, begging for release. Joel sinks two of his thick fingers into you causing you to cry out, moving them to massage that sweet spot against your walls, “Yes! Oh my god, fuck!” You could feel the smug smirk on his face, knowing you’re about to come.

“Come on,” he coos, firmly licking your bundle of nerves “Let me have it baby.”

You cry his name out over and over as you feel the waves of pleasure crashing through you. He continues lapping at your folds, wanting to make sure he gets every last drop before you push his head away. He crawls up the length of your body, the denim of his jeans scratching against your skin.

“Good?” He asks, you nod giggling and he smirks, grabbing the nape of his neck you pull him closer to your face, looking into your eyes he whispers a hi. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face, surging forward to kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He groans into your mouth, grinding his bulge against your center, the rough denim providing friction against your core. His hand moves to his belt, swiftly unhooking it and unbuttoning his jeans. Hands sliding down to help him push the denim off his hips, boxers following suit. You grip his hard length, stroking it from tip to base. Palm spreading the precome over his long thick length. Joel lets out a soft moan at the touch.

“Want you inside me,” you whimper, rubbing his cock against your slick heat. “Please.”

He bats your hand away, grabbing his cock to tease your folds more, rubbing his tip up and down your slit. You let out a moan when his tip catches against your entrance. Only for him to slide back up to your clit, rubbing agonizingly slow circles against you.

“Joel,” you begged, titling your pelvis, “Please, please fuck me.”

Joel smirks, sliding his cock back down to your entrance, feeding you his bulbous head. You writhe, feeling the stretch. He sinks into you slowly, filling you up until his tip kisses your cervix. Fingers gripping his back, each of you letting out a satisfied moan.

“Fuck, darlin’,” Joel murmurs into your neck, nipping and sucking on your pulse point, letting you adjust to his size, “Best pussy ever,” placing gentle kisses along your jaw.

“Joel, move,” you plead, hitching your legs up on his waist, “Need you to move.”

He pulls out slowly before snapping his length into you again, letting out a shaky breath at the harshness of his thrust. Your grip on his back tightens, sinking your nails into his skin. He lets out a hiss as he rocks his hips into you, trying to find that spot that makes you see stars. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, “Don’t want anyone else, darlin’.”

Breathy moans shared between kisses, sweat slicked skin gliding against each other. He pushes your thighs back further into a mating press, finding that sweet spot inside your walls.

“Oh my god,” you whine, back beginning to arch, “Right there!”

His cock massages that spot with every stroke, causing your muscles to tighten. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, walls beginning to flutter around his shaft as he drills into that spot over and over.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel growls, feeling the heat of his skin slapping against yours, “I need you to come, baby. Ain’t gonna last much longer.”

You moan wantonly as you feel his dick twitch inside of you. Joel holding out to make sure you come first. The coil in your belly finally snaps, sending you over the edge, white hot electricity flowing through every limb. He thrusts into you harshly half a dozen more times before his hips stutter.

“Only you, darlin’, only want you,” he grunts, as he empties himself inside you, painting your walls with his sticky release, “only want you.”

Joel collapses, holding himself up by his elbows on either side of your head, nuzzling his nose against yours, placing soft kisses against your lips.

“Only want you,” he sighs.

—

You spent the next hour, in each other's arms, talking, snuggling and kissing.

“I can’t believe you would think I’d want Becky,” Joel booms with laughter, eyes crinkling around the edges. You smirk playfully, slapping his arm.

“Look,” you giggle, “I didn’t know if her flirting finally wore you down!”

“Hi Joel!” He says in an exaggerated high pitch, batting his eyelashes, “My, you sure have been working hard!” he adds with a girly giggle, lifting his pecs to create some sort of cleavage.

“Oh shut up!”

“Did you see the flowers though? Like actually look at ‘em?”

“Not really,” you sigh, playing with a loose thread on your blanket.

“Purple tulips for new beginnings and love,” Joel says, planting a kiss on your cheek, “Jasmine for devotion,” he continues, kissing your other cheek, “and pink roses for appreciation,” he smiles before kissing the tip of your nose.

“Really?”

“Yep, the florist helped me pick them out,” Joel says, grabbing the back of your neck pulling you into a kiss, “Told ya they were for you.”

[lightseoul]

admit it

synopsis. loving him from afar was enough. at least, it should’ve been enough. until it wasn’t. (or, in which you subtly take care of your ex, bakugou katsuki, who also happens to be the namesake of the agency you’re working at) (part 2) (part 3)

cw. fem!reader, worker!reader, prohero!katsuki, aged-up (~24 yrs old)

word count. 5.0k words

Being the HR Department Head of the Ground Riot agency, you’ve learned to take care of Pro Hero Dynamight in subtle ways.

Primarily because even though he isn’t technically your direct superior—he rarely dabbled in admin work as compared to his co-founder Kirishima Eijirou—you didn’t want to stir up drama or reports on inappropriate workplace relationships.

Especially as the head of the Human Relations department.

But that’s not the only reason.

It’s also because—well, he’s your ex.

The ex who you never really understood in terms of how he became that.

“You know, we really need to redecorate this place.”

Mikuri, your colleague from the PR department, muses as she scans the breakroom from her spot on the L-shaped sofa.

You place the black coffee pods you picked up on your way home yesterday near the coffee machine, “Tell that to Finance. The breakroom decor is probably the least of their worries.”

She merely sighs in response as she reverts her attention to her phone.

“You do know that doom scrolling during your break isn’t exactly resting, right?”

At that, she pouts but doesn’t look up. “I hear you, Ms. HR.”

You playfully roll your eyes at the nickname.

“Stocking up on coffee during one’s break isn’t exactly resting, either.”

At her mention of the beverage, your eyes drift back to the pods you have in your hands. You found that they ran out before your shift ended the day prior and were quick to buy refills.

“What are you doing with that flavor, anyway?” she finally lifts her head to regard you, pocketing her phone as she stands up. You look up at the wall clock—break time’s almost over. “Didn’t you dislike that?”

You smile to yourself, fiddling with capsules. Mikuri was right—you didn’t really like this flavor.

But Katsuki did.

And he still does, you think.

“Y/N!”

You whip your head around to see the owner of the familiar voice—Kirishima, decked out in his hero gear, looking like he’s about to head out for patrol.

“Hey! What’s up, Ei?”

He grins, head sticking through the slightly ajar sliding door, “I’m good! ‘s a good thing I ran into you—Bakugou got called out on an emergency mission.”

He nods at Mikuri in greeting, smile still adorning his face, before shifting his gaze back at you. “Looks like it’s still gonna be me and you during the final screening later.”

His eyes dart toward the coffee machine and the freshly stocked pods. Your hips shuffle in front of it before your brain could even catch up.

“Great, see you then!”

With that, Kirishima flashes you a final grin before easing out of the door and heading toward the elevators.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Final screening?” Mikuri whisper-shouts the second Kirishima’s out of sight.

You sigh, collecting the packaging and shoving it into the trash bin. “Sidekicks. He finally got Bakugou to say yes to getting one.”

“Oof, good luck with that.”

“Personally, I think it boils down to these two.”

You thrust forward the two sets of files in front of you, eyeing everyone seated at the oval-shaped meeting table.

“I agree,” your HR subordinate chimes in from the far end of the table.

“I vote for web dude,” another adds. “He’s so much like Bakugou personality-wise. They’d have to click.”

The recruitment head shakes her head, “Yeah, but his quirk doesn’t complement Bakugou’s explosion as much as the girl’s water jet.”

“I know, Yamakawa-san. But did you even see her? She’s so timid, I’ll bet you 5,000 yen that she’ll quit on day 1 of Bakugou shouting at her.”

Murmurs of agreement course through the room, but you’re not paying attention to what they’re whispering to each other.

“I doubt he’ll want someone so similar to him,” you mumble to yourself.

Apparently, you say it loud enough because everyone looks at you in confusion.

Shit.

“I mean, imagine how much of a PR and HR nightmare that will be,” you joke, although it comes out a bit stilted. Fortunately, they, including Kirishima who is seated at your right and at one end of the table, chuckle at your wisecrack.

“Are you voting for the girl, then?” the recruitment head inquires once the laughter dies down.

“Well…” you pause, “I agree that Moriyama-san is remarkably meek and timid, but just from her series of interviews, let alone her practical test, I could see she liked a good challenge.”

You tap her portrait, “Beyond just being a good match for Bakugou’s quirk, she’ll surely step up. And I know for a fact that if there’s anyone who can guarantee that, it’s Katsuki.”

At that, some eyes widen, and you can’t help but tilt your head in confusion at the perplexed looks they’re giving you.

“I mean, Bakugou!” you backtrack, finally realizing your mistake.

Desperate to change the subject, you direct your attention toward Kirishima. “What do you think, Kirishima-san?”

He passes you a knowing smile, one that is too unnerving for your liking, before leaning back on his chair.

“I think you’re right.”

You allow yourself to do some internal chastising the minute the meeting is adjourned.

Hiding your complicated feelings for Bakugou was easy—mainly because you rarely saw him around.

But hiding how much you knew about him?

That’s a whole different story.

“Good work, Y/N,” Kirishima pats you on the shoulder as the rest of your recruitment crew pile to exit the room.

You flash him a thankful smile before hopping on your feet and gathering your documents. “I’m trying not to make you regret hiring me, boss.”

He chuckles good-naturedly before looking away in what you think is reluctance.

“What is it?” you prod, feeling a sense of uneasiness crawl through your spine.

He seems to hesitate before continuing, “I was just gonna say—you always know what’s best for Bakugou.”

At that, your expression falters, and you feel your shoulders tensing at the mention of Bakugou’s name. You refuse to let your hurt (or whatever the fuck it is you’re feeling) show on your face, though.

Instead, you shrug as nonchalantly as you can. “I just want the best for my bosses.”

Kirishima doesn’t say anything after that, but you can tell the gears are running in his brain. He simply nods in acknowledgment of your response before heading for the door himself, and you follow suit.

You’re at the doorway, stifling a tired yawn when you lock eyes with the man of the hour himself.

“Bakubro!” Kirishima exclaims in greeting. He encases Bakugou in a bro hug, which the latter begrudgingly accepts. “You got the mission done and over with?”

Bakugou, in all of his costume-decked glory, eyes the redhead and scoffs, “Obviously.”

His eyes flicker to yours. You nod at each other in lieu of a verbal greeting.

“You just missed the meeting,” Kirishima starts, vaguely aware of the palpable tension between the two of you. “We found’em—your first-ever sidekick!”

You almost want to laugh at how Bakugou doesn’t match Kirishima’s energy.

He simply grunts in response.

But Kirishima’s not the type to give up so easily. Instead, he adds: “Y/N made the final decision.”

You stiffen at the mention of your name, Bakugou’s eyes shifting toward you at the same time. You brace yourself for a snarky retort or a lame insult, but nothing comes.

Instead, he merely gives you a firm nod.

“Thanks.”

At that, he makes his way to his corner office.

You were only reminded that your HR personnel was still around when murmurs erupted in Bakugou’s wake.

“Just like that?”

“Wait, he’s in?”

“Wow, never thought he was capable of saying thank you.”

“Yeah, all I get is a halfhearted eye roll.”

The last comment would’ve made you snort if you weren’t too dazed by how uncharacteristic that was of Bakugou. You stand there for what feels like minutes as the others around you start toward their respective offices.

Finally snapping out of the trance the second you realized you were alone in the hallway, you head toward your own office, renewed with the resolve to take your mind off of one Bakugou Katsuki.

You had just the thing to keep yourself busy.

The monthly HR-hosted game night of Ground Riot agency is the one HR activity everyone actually looked forward to.

It’s the one time of the month employees get to let loose during weekdays and bond with colleagues, as well as enjoy free food and drinks, including the occasional booze.

It is also a pain in the ass to organize.

As the HR department head, you technically served as the project head, too, overseeing all of the subcommittees—from programs to logistics—on top of your everyday workload.

Suffice to say, the week before game nights never fails to whoop you in the ass with crushing responsibilities (and for the record, you’re not overreacting—you take your HR events very seriously) but you dare say that the outcomes and seeing everyone enjoy themselves always make it worth it.

For this month, in the spirit of encouraging employee engagement in your department, you let the Recruitment and Selection subdepartment be in charge of the program’s game proper.

In hindsight, maybe you shouldn’t have.

Because now your very own HR members are dragging everyone to answer very personal truth-or-dare questions.

And ‘everyone’ happened to include Bakugou Katsuki.

“Bakugou-san!” an employee from the engineering department regards said man, who, by some miracle, has let himself be forced into playing.

Having chosen the ‘truth’ option, he is now seated on the mini-stage you happened to help set up earlier that afternoon.

One of your subordinates hands the support items engineer a microphone. The latter taps the mic before resuming, glee evident in her voice. “How many people have you dated?”

Cheers go off from all around the room at the question, and you shoot a withering glare at your assigned subdepartment members. One catches your eye and visibly cringes.

But goes on pretending they didn’t see you.

Fucking hell.

Grabbing yourself a microphone from the sound booth, you speak into it, trying not to freak out over the fact that this will very much be the first time you’ll verbally address Bakugou in two years.

“Apologies, Bakugou-san,” you start, “You don’t have to answer that.”

Everyone looks at you in bewilderment, including Bakugou who himself looks puzzled.

You take the lull that has befallen upon the room as a sign to continue.

“Such questions are deemed inappropriate as per HR standards. I’m going to have to speak with my subordinates after this.”

You expected uneasy silence as a response, but you sure as hell didn’t anticipate the plethora of jeers that erupt in the room, some even exclaiming exasperated ‘come on’s’.

You’re about to insist (as calmly as you can, that is) when a low, gruff voice crackles from the speakers.

“‘s fine. I’ll answer the fucking question.”

The room goes entirely still. You hold your breath.

He heaves a sigh, and you could’ve sworn his gaze flickered to you for a moment before he looks away.

“Just one.”

Oohs and aahs get passed around, and despite yourself, you feel a shot of relief course through your veins at the implication of Bakugou’s answer.

He hasn’t dated since you.

“Are you guys still together?” a male employee shouts from the other end of the room, and you can’t help the rush of blood toward your cheeks at the question.

You need to put your foot down, now.

“Okay,” you interject, “that’s enou–”

“No. We broke up two years ago.”

Your head whips toward Bakugou’s direction, shocked at his ready admission. The reprimanding words that you were about to spit out die in your throat.

“You plan on seeing anyone anytime soon?” another employee asks from the other far corner.

You’re about to pipe up in protest—distressed over the inappropriate questions, as the HR head or ex-girlfriend, you don’t know—when Kirishima stands up and barks out a good-natured laugh.

“I think that’s enough prodding, you guys.” His eyes flicker to Bakugou’s and then yours in a split second, face etched with concern, before he turns back his attention to the crowd, a toothy grin having replaced his previous expression.

You didn’t realize how tense your muscles have gotten until Kirishima stepped in to intervene, and at that, you slowly let out a big exhale through your nose.

God fucking no. The last thing you need is for your co-workers to find out that the HR head, of all people, is their boss’s ex.

Before you can even spiral further, though, you feel a hand clap your upper back. You twist to find Kirishima, who is, weirdly enough, beaming with excitement.

“We actually have something special planned for a special someone today.”

And as if on cue, the rest of your HR department enters the room, with your secretary carrying your favorite cake and the others holding balloons and a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

You don’t remember telling anyone about your favorites except for one person.

Confused, you turn towards Kirishima. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” he mimics, amused at your confusion and the employees who hear laugh. “It’s your one-year anniversary in the agency!”

You could only gape in shock as the people around you, the ones you, over time, grew to identify as family, crowd you and urge you to blow out the candle and accept the flowers.

Still disoriented, you do what they tell you, and they cheer in response as you do so.

With all the busyness that came with the search for sidekicks and the monthly HR game night, you completely forgot about the significance of today’s date.

Overwhelmed by the sentiments and the sea of people surrounding you, you don’t know where to look or mouth a thank you.

Somehow, your gaze finds Bakugou’s—only to see him already looking at you from behind the crowd.

You’re about to look away, unable to sustain his piercing gaze, when he flashes you a small smile.

None of those smirks or mischievous grins he usually sports around other people.

No, this one was different.

Because this was the kind of smile he’d reserved especially for private moments with you.

Before you can give it a second thought, you find yourself smiling back.

“You really couldn’t be bothered to change into normal clothes before coming here?”

You, as inconspicuously as you can, look around the café you’re currently in, wary of paparazzi or anyone else that could recognize Pro Hero Pinky. The last thing you needed was a picture of you (the lucky civilian), haggard after a long day of work, all over Twitter.

“Nah,” she shrugs, “patrol was completely uneventful anyway. I’ll shower when I get home.”

You reach for your iced drink, mumbling under your breath, “I wasn’t worried about you…”

“Hey!” she pouts, “Is that how you treat a friend who’s done you a major favor?”

Your eye twitches at the mention of a favor.

These things never end well with Mina.

“Mina…” you groan, “what did you do?”

She rubs her neck sheepishly. “I kind of promised one of my colleagues that you’d go on a blind date with him.”

“What the fuck?”

She grabs your hand over the table that sits between the two of you. “He’s a real catch, I promise you. Tall, handsome, and a crazy smart support items engineer.”

You frantically shake your head, yanking your hand from her. “Idiot, I’m not worried about your ‘candidate’. Who the fuck said I wanted to go on a blind date?”

Mina whines and thrashes in her seat in response, maybe in an attempt to make you feel sorry and just go along with her antics.

You refuse to do so.

After a few minutes of an incredulous stare-off, she finally deflates in defeat.

“I just thought I could help you out and get you out of your shell. You haven’t dated anyone since…” she trails off, and looks away awkwardly, “you know.”

You chuckle despite yourself, albeit quite solemnly.

Until now, it still makes you feel guilty how the rest of your friend group is forced to deal with the aftermath of your unsuccessful relationship with Bakugou.

“You can say his name, you know. He’s not Voldemort.”

Mina rolls her eyes at that, but you can tell it’s playful more than anything else.

You look down at your now clasped hands. “I appreciate the help, you know that.”

She nods vigorously, and you almost laugh at how much of a textbook-active listener she is.

“But?”

You sigh, “I just can’t right now. If I end up dating someone, word will eventually get around in the office and I just…”

You lock eyes with Mina, whose eyebrows are raised in anticipation.

“I don’t want to make things awkward between Bakugou and me, especially now that I’m working in his agency.”

A few moments of silence pass before Mina speaks up, slunk against her chair.

“Man, you’re the world’s best ex-girlfriend, you know that?”

You snort, “Thanks.”

She sighs in exasperation, “I mean, even if you guys had the most ambiguous breakup ever, you still are extremely considerate about him.”

You’re not, by any means, in the mood or headspace to explore why that is, so you go for the safest answer possible.

“What can I say,” leaning back into your chair yourself, feigning nonchalance, “I’m just an incredibly good person.”

Mina doesn’t even bat an eye at your quip, “Yeah, yeah. Why did you guys break up, anyway?”

“Woah,” you lean back, aghast, “it’s,” you flick your wrist to check the time on your watch, “5:17 PM, Mina. And I doubt this café even serves a beer.”

You’re deflecting, and Mina has known you long enough to be aware of that.

She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms across her chest. “Don’t you think I’m owed a little bit of information? I’m the one who set you guys up.”

“Actually, that was Kirishi–.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she interjects, “I helped.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. She waves it off.

“Point is, I was there when this budding relationship started, and I’m here to know the deets about how it ended.”

You shake your head in resignation, “You sure you don’t want to say you’re just nosy?”

She grins at you, “Nope!”

“So you’re telling me he got too busy and neglectful, you ended up asking for a break, and you’ve never talked to each other since?”

“Yep. That’s what I just said.”

Out of the blue, she hops onto her feet, and in doing so knocks stuff around on the table.

A glass of water almost spills.

“Mina?” you seethe, “Sit the fuck back down. People are gonna stare.”

“Bitch, I have pink skin. They’ve been staring since we entered the room,” she snaps, “And don’t even think about changing the subject.”

“I’m not! Just sit back down.”

She obliges, but she’s still visibly riled up, “I knew your breakup was vague, but not this vague!”

“I don’t know either, okay!” you put your hands up, exasperated. “A month into it he got Kirishima to get his things from my apartment, and so I just assumed he wanted to break up.”

Her eyes are filled with bewilderment, “And your asking me to get your things from his apartment?”

“I…” you hesitate, “I asked you immediately the day after.”

At that, she huffs in surrender, sinking back into her chair. “And you’re supposed to be an expert at conflict resolution.”

“Hey,” you throw a used tissue at her, which she expertly dodges, “That’s for the workplace setting. Romantic relationships are a whole other thing.”

She scoffs, fiddling with the piece of paper containing the café’s WiFi password. “And then, what? You took a gap year to find yourself?”

You roll your eyes for the nth time, reaching forward to take back the tissue you threw at her.

“Don’t make it sound like that. I just took a gap year after graduating to rest and figure out what I wanted to do. I was just lucky enough to have been recruited by Kirishima even if I had zero work experience by the time I came back.”

Mina eyes you, “Even if it meant technically having Bakugou as your boss?”

You look down at the piece of tissue in your hands.

“Even if it meant actually having Bakugou as my boss.”

Mina doesn’t say anything after that, only reaching for her cup of decaf coffee. You follow suit, taking a sip from your now-diluted drink.

You look up at her to see that she’s thinking hard about something.

In spite of yourself, you feel the familiar feeling of dread rising in your throat.

“...You’re not gonna tell him about this conversation, are you?”

“Who, Katsuki?” she asks and you gingerly nod. “Of course not!”

You hold eye contact for a while longer before looking away with a big sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

Three knocks echo through the hallway, as well as Kirishima’s expansive, corner office. Hesitantly and without noise, you peer through the glass door to see him in his regular clothes and in his desk, rifling through some documents that appear to be mission reports.

Kirishima looks up and catches your eye. Beaming at you with an inviting grin, he beckons you in with a wave of a hand.

“Y/N, bro! What’s up?”

You smile at him as you enter and close the door behind you.

He calls everyone bro, regardless of their gender.

“Hi, Ei. I have the report on the recruits, including Bakugou’s sidekick here with me,” you gesture to the folder in your hand. “Can you spare a minute to go through it together?”

What seems like hesitation dances across Kirishima’s face before he somehow schools it into a sheepish frown.

“Sorry, Y/N,” he starts, “I’m kinda busy right now,”

He flips through the pages for emphasis, “Have an important report due in an hour.”

“Oh, well that’s okay. I can just come back later when you’re free.”

You’re already turning back to exit his office when Kirishima speaks up again.

“—but Bakugou’s available!”

Slowly, you shift back to face him.

“...What?”

“I mean,” Kirishima backtracks, evidently flustered by his outburst, “Bakugou’s free right now. He can go through those documents with you. Especially since he’s the one getting a new sidekick and all.”

You gulp despite yourself, willing desperately to calm your now racing heart.

“But Ei… It’s always been you and our department coordinating on stuff like this. Why the sudden change now?”

It takes Kirishima a few seconds to reply.

And what he says knocks the breath out of your lungs.

“I just think it’s about time he starts taking matters into his own hands.”

When you got dressed and ready this morning, you didn’t think you’d be having your first proper conversation with your ex in two years.

But the universe, or rather, Kirishima, had other plans.

Thinking ‘this is the best it can get’ as you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you sigh and make your way to your desk to get the files, heading straight to Bakugou’s office afterward.

When you get there, you don’t dare to immediately walk toward his doorway as you did with Kirishima. Instead, you stop at his secretary’s desk.

“Is Dynamight in?”

“Yes,” his secretary chirps without hesitation. How she’s able to still be her sunshiney self despite working immediately under Bakugou is beyond you.

Human resilience, you guess.

She clicks a few times with her mouse as she stares at her laptop screen, before looking back at you again. “He’s actually expecting you, Y/N-san.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief.

Hope flutters in your chest without your permission.

You clear your throat in an attempt to not sound winded. “Really?”

You’re itching to ask if he cleared out his schedule specifically for you, but luckily, you don’t even have to make a fool of yourself because his secretary brings it up herself.

She smiles, “He had me move things around so he could make time for you.”

At that, you blink at her, speechless.

These double meanings are not helping in easing your nerves about this impending encounter.

“You can go ahead,” she gestures to the office, effectively snapping you out of your reverie. “I already gave him the heads up that you’re here.”

Great, you think to yourself. No turning back now.

After shooting her a quick thank you, you clutch the folder to your chest, as if it’s some sort of protective gear, and walk to his door. Upon reaching it, you realize that you don’t even have to knock, because it’s already slung wide open and held in place by a stopper.

You walk in.

Refusing to look at Bakugou, who, from the corner of your eye you can see has his back towards you and is looking at the view of the city skyline, you opt for going through the pages of the file instead.

With a sharp inhale, you finally look up to meet his gaze, only to find that he’s still turned away from you.

He probably didn’t hear me come in, you think.

You clear your throat, and he startles, albeit so minutely anyone else would’ve missed it, finally turning to regard you.

“Hello, Bakugou-san.”

You don’t wait for him to greet you in return. You simply move forward and place the folder on his desk, before stepping back again, hands clasped together behind you. He nods in acknowledgment and shifts to sit on his office chair.

“That folder contains the report on the recruits, including your new sidekick, Moriyama Kairi. It includes their personal histories, interview transcripts, and resumés, as well as recommendations by the departments regarding costumes, training programs, and the like.”

He only grunts in response, thumbing through the pages as you speak. He flips through them so fast that you doubt he’s even going to bother anything beyond skimming through.

He pauses, though, on a certain page, eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrowing as he examines it, before closing the folder and placing it back in front of him.

You brace yourself for a comment on an error of some sort.

Instead, he says: “Thanks.”

Your mind goes blank.

You scramble for a decent response.

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“...Really?” he questions skeptically, pushing back on his desk to stand up, slowly circling it so that he can be face-to-face with you. He’s no less than two feet away now.

“It’s nothing?”

“I mean,” you stutter, shifting your eyes away from him to look at his desk, “it’s my job. That’s part of the job description.”

“Huh,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. Your eyes flicker back to him. Like Kirishima, he’s in his regular clothes, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“What?” you ask despite yourself, frustration bleeding into your voice.

He smirks, but there’s no malice behind it. “I didn’t know HR was supposed to produce a detailed write-up on how a sidekick can best complement their assigned Pro Hero.”

Your eyes widen slightly in alarm, and you find yourself grappling for any excuse to rid yourself of his suspicions.

Despite them being true.

“We are, actually,” you lie through your teeth. “I made a similar one for Kirishima back when we recruited Tanaka-san.”

“Really?” he asks again, visibly unconvinced, and you can’t help the annoyance that flashes through you. “Because I read through that file myself, and I didn’t see anything of the sort.”

Shit.

The playful expression that once adorned Bakugou’s face is now displaced by a serious countenance. You don’t even get to have a word in because he’s already speaking again.

“Why?” he starts, “Why did you do this for me?”

At that, you straighten up, face flaming in anger or embarrassment—you can’t tell. He seriously can’t be asking you this.

“It’s your first sidekick,” you retort, “And you’re not exactly Mr. Congeniality around here.”

You expect him to bite back with an insult himself, but he doesn’t.

“Okay, let’s say that’s true.”

You guffaw, “Wha–”

“Why go out of your way to make me this when you’re already drowning in work?”

You can’t believe the audacity of this guy.

“So you admit HR has been swamped these days?” you snap, but continue to deliver the last blow. “Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know! Since it’s Kirishima who does all of the coordinating work with us.”

“I do know,” he spits back, “That’s by design, and I’m more involved than you’d think. And,” he shoots you a look, “don’t change the subject.”

You’re bubbling with vengeful words but what comes out is a huff.

“What do you want me to say, Katsuki?”

At your taunting, he opens his mouth to say something, but ultimately decides against it.

Your stomach drops in disappointment.

“...Well,” you say meekly, “if you don’t have anything else for me, I have to get back to my office.”

Turning your back to him, you’re about to head for the door when he grabs your wrist.

“Wait.”

Your heart leaps in your chest.

You pause for a moment, before spinning to look at him.

It takes you less than a second to conclude that gone is the aloof and composed Bakugou.

It’s now the vulnerable Katsuki, who’s unable to look you in the eye, standing in front of you.

“Fuck, I…”

You can’t help but ache at the sight of him struggling. Despite yourself, you try and gently coax it out of him.

“What is it, Katsuki?”

At your affectionate mention of his first name, he finally meets your eye. You almost stumble back from the intensity of his gaze.

But not as much as at what he was going to say next.

“I want…you to admit it.”

You frown, “Admit what?”

He exhales before closing his eyes shut.

“That you’re still in love with me.”

tagging. @katsukis1wife

[delirious-donna]

Baby, I Would Die For You [Toji Fushiguro]

an: flirting with your boss is always dangerous but when you find that the feelings are reciprocated, it’s hard to resist the urge to give Toji everything.

pairing: Toji Fushiguro x female reader

warnings: boss/subordinate dynamic, flirting, lewd talk, pussy eating, reader is not a shy wallflower, biting and mark making, pussy drunk Toji, a little humour (I think)

Masterlist

What you were doing was wrong. It surely broke every HR policy you could think of, and you should stop, walk away before you crossed that final line that could never be taken back or undone. The problem was… you didn’t want to. 

Toji Fushiguro might be your boss, but he was so much more than that to you. Seeing him as simply the man you reported directly to was impossible after months of not-so-subtle flirtations. Famed for his direct approach and no-nonsense attitude towards pretty much everything, others might be surprised by how coy he acted when the two of you were alone. 

Those long hours picking over every little detail in the latest performance reports or going over his schedule for the upcoming week were times you looked forward to, perhaps even the highlight of your week if you were totally honest. The smile that rose to his lips when you shimmied into his office, closing the door with your hip as you balanced two coffees and your notepad and pen, was one that never failed to tighten all the muscles in your lower half. 

With a thick head of midnight black hair that lay artistically messy and piercing green eyes that had a way of delving straight into your soul, you would be a fool not to find him attractive, but it wasn’t just that. His humour was wickedly sharp, so many times your sides had hurt from being folded over with laughter, sometimes at your own expense, but there was a kindness to him that piqued your interest. 

Every morning, without fail, he would deposit your favourite caffeinated beverage on your desk even though that really should be your duty to bring to him, and he always asked how you were. It wasn’t a pleasantry either, he really wanted to know how you were and took interest in your life outside of the walls of the office. Never had you shared so much of yourself with a superior and you didn’t think you ever would again, not if it came with the swelling feelings that took root in your heart. 

It didn’t help that he was possibly the most tactile man you had ever encountered, always finding the smallest reason to lay a hand on you and none of it you would consider inappropriate, or well, more inappropriate than it already was for a manager to touch his subordinate. His fingers grazed yours when you handed him files, he held doors open for you and the warmth of his palm would fit snugly at the small of your back. He would nudge your shoulder with his when you made him laugh in the lift, and he would hold out his hand expectantly anytime you got a fresh manicure, not happy until he had inspected the handiwork up close. “Nice colour. It’s better than the last set.” 

Of course, those touches didn’t help with smothering the flame that had long since ignited. Oh no, they only stoked them with gentle care until what was once a fledgling match struck and sure to die as soon as the stick was engulfed, was now a roaring bonfire in the pit of your stomach. It turned you just that little bit more cautious, and you were sure he had noticed but he never called you on it. 

You found yourself admiring the cut of his suits far more regularly, staring at the white expanse across his chest and back. His hands were their own source of fascination, how he always played with a pen between his fingers and the deliberate strokes he placed to the beads of condensation running down his favourite soda cans. How could you not wonder what they might feel like on your bare skin, on the sensitive inside of your thighs, cupping your sex or playing with your breasts?  

So many nights were spent alone in your tiny apartment, a toy pressed to your aching clit and your eyes screwed shut as you imagined the buzz being replaced by a hungry mouth with a sharp tongue and magnetic green eyes. That scar on his lip pulled taut at every flick delivered to your sticky folds, and his large palms full of the meat of your ass. The ghost of wet slurps filled your ears until the band of tension that had been growing all day long snapped clean in two and you came with a shout of his name, only to be brought back down to Earth with a bump. He wasn’t with you; you weren’t wetting up his ruggedly handsome face and he would never know that you wanted that more than anything. 

That was, until one evening where your flirtatious bantering finally came to a head… 

It was well past clocking off time, and you were still at your desk finalising some last-minute spreadsheets that found their way into your hands way too late on a Friday afternoon when you heard a rumbling call from the office at your back.  

“What you still doing here?” Toji’s voice rang out to the near-empty office, your finger hovering over the mouse poised to shut down and finally head out. Instead of yelling back, you stood and made the two-minute journey into the corner office. 

“I was just leaving, but I could ask the same of you, Mr Fushiguro.” 

The sleeves of his white button-up were rolled to his elbows, the sinewy strength of his forearms on display and distracting you from the attempt at an intimidating look in his direction. You swallowed, cursing the abundance of runny saliva coating the inside of your mouth. 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Got nowhere better to be, but you on the other hand… don’t you got a date or something?” Toji let his cheek rest atop his fist, drinking in the sight of you after a long day. 

Your outfit was just the tiniest bit ruffled, blouse untucked in one place that you unlikely hadn’t noticed, and your hair had more than a strand or two out of place from all the times you had taken it down only to pull it back up moments later. The lipstick from earlier that day had long faded, but it only made your lips look all the more kissable, naked and in need of his slanted over yours. 

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no,” you asserted with a roll of your eyes, arms folding over your chest in a defensive gesture that wasn’t lost on either of you. 

Toji’s eyebrow lifted, and he beckoned you closer with a careful flick of his wrist until your legs shook, closing the distance until you were by the side of his desk looking down at him. His stance was spread wide, not a damn care in the world and you nervously glanced towards the door which stood wide open. 

An expansive hand roughened in a way you wouldn’t expect of a man who slaved away behind a desk, wrapped around your arm to pull it free from the way you had it hugged around your middle. It felt like a crackle of pure electricity when his fingers encircled your wrist, thumb delicately placed over the thumping pulse. There was air trapped in your throat, bubbling up but refusing to escape past your lips whilst the man you teasingly called ‘boss man’ manoeuvred you to sit on his desk, shining forest green eyes searching your face carefully. 

“Pretty little thing like you and you don’t have a date? That can’t be right.” 

His inky black hair looked so soft and relaxed given how late the hour was. His tanned skin seemed so intriguing under the low lighting emanating from the lone desk lamp flared to life, like you might find hidden secrets if you were to go peeking beneath the crisp cut of his shirt. There was a dusting of stubble gracing his cheeks and jaw, the sharp contour highlighting the masculine aura that swirled around him without effort, and it affected you more than you admitted to yourself. Your thoughts became a jumble, entirely wayward as you wondered how that sharp scratchy stubble would feel against your thighs. 

He wasn’t stupid, of that you should know by now, and your micro-expressions and breathy pants were more than ample evidence of the direction of your mind. Toji’s head canted further to this side, knowing what you wanted and wondering if he would have to voice them for you. His eyes fell to your hand, watching it slowly curl inward and then back out with little crescent moon indentations appearing on your palm. His mouth sloped open, ready to help you cross this final line at long last, but before he could, you surprised him. 

“Why would I be interested in anyone other than the man sitting before me?” 

Immediately, you gasped. Your brain caught up with the words that poured instinctually from your body, and dare he say… heart, with a sharp intake of breath. He could feel the heat rising from you, spreading outward in search of dry kindling to expand the fury of the inferno, but Toji was already aflame. He needed no encouragement to be consumed by the fire, he simply masked it far more adeptly than you. 

His cock thickened further against his thigh, the ache settling into the depths of his stomach and for once, he wouldn’t have to wait to relieve it by hand alone. For weeks he had found that his mind pinged back to you with worrying regularity, especially when he found the need to fist himself in the shower before the working day began. Long had he wondered if you would bite just as much as you did when he challenged you professionally. He wanted to know if you would give as good as you got because Lord knows he needed that. 

Gone were the days when he found the simpering doll eyes of painted young beauties more than a passing attraction. No more could he find it within him to chase after those who would roll over immediately for the dark flame that resided within his heart. There was no thrill in complete subservience. He could only wet his dick so many times to women that he shared no interests with, where there was no witty repertoire or conversation deeper than a puddle already drying after a rainstorm. 

You stood up to him when his mood darkened and others scurried away as fast as their legs would carry them, refusing to be a chew toy for his frustrations. You worked in the same manner he did, head down with complete diligence until the task was completed, but always to kick back when all the i’s were dotted and the t’s crossed. Work hard, play harder.  

Not only that, but you were receptive to his touch, drawn to it like magnetised water. Whether you were aware or not, your spine would arch subtly when his palm filled the space at your lower back, and your pupils dilated when his fingers skimmed yours in exchange of hot drinks or paperwork. He wanted to know, once and for all if they would dilate even further when he reached between your thighs to pet the pretty pussy he knew resided there, if you would lose the sharpness of your gaze or whether you would become even more calculating when he thumbed at your clit. His money was on the former, though he wasn’t known for making good bets. 

“So, what you’re saying is… you want me,” he conceded with a jerk of his wrist to bring you stumbling down onto his spread lap, the weight of you settling perfectly over his thighs. “I’m flattered, but I can’t deny that you’ve got good taste.” 

His voice mellowed, a hint of humour in the words but one daring look at his face told you everything you needed to know. This was no game, it was no laughing matter and if you wanted to escape, this would be your last chance. Toji was baiting you, and he should realise by now that you never backed away from a challenge, and certainly not when your nightly desires were being served up on a silver platter. 

Bracing both palms on his shoulders, you moved into a more comfortable position, which meant you were straddled over his lap and that did not go unnoticed.

“Like you haven’t thought about this, Mr Fushiguro,” you chided with a squeeze of your knees at his hips. “I bet you’ve spent a time or two imagining what it would be like to bend me right over this very desk.” 

“Little fucking minx… you’re speaking to your boss, y’know?” 

Despite his comment, his hands passed agonisingly slowly down your sides, mapping out the contours of your frame as your waist pinched in only to flare at the swell of generous hips. He throbbed from the knowledge he was gaining, intent on putting it to good use. 

“I’m well aware, boss man.” 

Toji chuckled at the long-standing nickname, a frisson on delight travelling down his spine at the new intonation behind it. Leaning back in his chair, you followed him, your face inches from his and sweeping over his features with interest. You couldn’t help but reach out, fingertips skimming the jagged scar bisecting the side of his mouth. He didn’t move, didn’t try to stop you, only focused on your eyes whilst you touched the raised skin. Maybe one day he’d share its origin, but for now he was content to let you dream up your own stories for how he acquired it. 

Your gaze bounced between his eyes. “Kiss me.” 

His large palm gripped at the back of your neck, eliminating the remaining distance until his lips met yours—finally. It was surprisingly soft, his hold determined but gentle and there was none of the rough urgency you had expected. You melted against his chest, the playful resistance ebbing out of your bones and turning you pliant into his mammoth hold. His whole upper torso dwarfed you, making you feel small for the first time in a world where you usually didn’t. 

There was coffee on his tongue, the bitter edge of the roasted beans softened by vanilla and a hint of chocolate, coaxing you to take more and more until you were satisfied, and everything was not how you expected, but in the best way possible. There was no pawing at your clothes, no impenetrable grip on your skin and absolutely no sense that he wanted to stop or change the pace. 

It was you who drove it harder, you who pushed against his chest and dove your fingers through his hair. His thumb stroked over the pulse in your neck from the hold he maintained, smiling against your open mouth and tasting your moans on his tongue. He’d stay like this a while if you’d let him, but there was an itch to be scratched and he’d be damned if he was going to let it go unaddressed. 

“Come ‘ere, darling, I know what you need,” he rumbled between little nudges of his nose along your cheekbone until you glanced at him with those spectacularly expressive eyes, desire not even thinly veiled any more. 

You found yourself spread like a feast on his desk, the clutter swept to the floor like you had seen play out in so many movies and never believed it happened in real life. Toji towered over you, clever fingers working to divest you of your blouse without jerking the sides clean apart and scattering the buttons across the floor. Your legs wound around his lean waist; skirt hiked up well above your hips and you were shameless in pressing your clothed pussy against the hard ridge of his erection. 

“Mr—” 

“Toji,” he corrected. An unyielding finger and thumb captured your chin until you conceded with a nod. 

“Toji… I need you.” 

“Where do you need me, sweetheart?” He knew exactly where you needed him, but where was the fun in giving in so readily? You were strong-willed and perhaps just as stubborn as he was, it would be nice to see how much ground you were willing to concede. 

His lips skimmed your neck, traversed the expanse of your collarbone and down to the perfect spill of your breasts restrained by the flimsy gauze of your bra. You arched beautifully when his tongue grazed over the lace cup, nipple quickly peaking to be captured between his lips. You hadn’t yet answered his question and he bared his teeth, careful but deliberately biting at you through the thin barrier until you howled and snapped your head down. 

“Asked you a question, need an answer. You know how this shit works.” 

“Lower!” You huffed through your nose, panting at the delicious tug of his teeth and lips on your breast and wishing he’d do something about the bra. “I need you lower.” 

Toji tsked. Moving a hand around your back, he unclasped your bra and let it fall to the floor along with your blouse. He met you with glimmering eyes, a path of wet kisses decorating your skin until he stopped at your midriff. His tongue dipped into your navel, swirling around and around with sick satisfaction quirking his lips. Your stomach quivered from the action, jaw slack at something you had never experienced or expected. 

“Here?” He asked absently, sucking little bruises into the soft rolls that begged for his attention. Salt, soap and the faint remnants of perfume crept over his tastebuds, his antics at teasing you somewhat backfiring when he became intent on creating an image of his own on your stomach. 

“No,” you bit out. The worst of your ire melted away at the vision of the hulking man looming over your midsection, his eyes at half-mast and a satisfied grin each time his mouth left your skin long enough to witness. “Please…” 

Toji groaned at the hissed “please” you delivered through gritted teeth, your small fingers threaded through the tufts of his hair and offered a yank that might see a lesser man whimper like a pup, but you’d have to try harder than that if that was your goal.  

Massaging at your ample hips, he let himself sit once more and rolled the chair back, so his face was now level with the heat of your cunt. The seat of your underwear was soiled with arousal, the wet spot seemingly growing beneath his study. From this angle you couldn’t see his face, you had no way of knowing that he was committing this scene to memory and adjusting the troublesome trouser snake to be free of distractions for now. 

“Impatient as always. How many times have you taken the stairs ‘cause you couldn’t bear waiting for the lift to arrive any longer?” 

You baulked; caught in a moment of pure disbelief as he asked you the seemingly innocent question whilst tracing the outline of your labia through the cotton of your underwear. He hummed, smug in the knowledge he had made you speechless for the first time in months and determined to continue his winning streak. Leaning in, he inhaled the scent of you and let out a perverted exhale. 

“Fuck… yeah. I knew you’d smell like a whole fucking meal,” he breathed against the inside of your thigh. The points of sharp teeth bit with delicate care, the plush flesh trembling beneath the imprints of what would become his unique markings. 

Your upper arms shook from raising yourself up, determined that you watch his every action for as long as you could. Toji rummaged in the desk drawer, searching blindly as he huffed in your dewy scent with his nose pressed to your cunt. Without warning, the flash of a blade caught your eye, and you shrieked as he held it under one side of your panties, slicing through it before repeating the action on the other side.  

“Are you insane? You’ve got a fucking weapon in the office?” 

You failed to mention how wet you were, how tightly you were clenching around nothing and wanting to feel him buried deep in your belly. He gave a bark of laughter, lifting his hand with the offending item without so much as raising his head. He wasn’t buying your act one little bit, his nose brushing over the smattering of damp curls. 

“Oh.” You blinked at the letter opener held between two fingers, the blaze of your self-righteousness smothered immediately. 

Toji spread you open, peeling you apart like the petals of a flower to reveal the aching little bud at its core. He thumbed at it once, pressing the thick digit into his mouth and bringing it back dripping in spittle. This time, his tongue played along your folds, sucking the skin between his lips and driving tight circles around your erect little button. His nostrils flared at being buried in your essence, your thighs quaking on either side of his head and he palmed at the meat of your ass with his free hand—desperate for more. 

Whilst the urge to pull his cock free from his trousers was burning white-hot, he shook off the weight of his own relief in favour of ensuring yours. If you weren’t squealing his name to the ceiling, he wouldn’t be satisfied anyway, and wasn’t that the whole point of this? You asked for what you wanted when you wanted it and with how you were rolling your hips dangerously close to the edge of the desk, you had no qualms about being as direct as he craved. 

He massaged the ring of muscles at your entrance, dipping a finger deeper only to extract it again quickly. Your hole puckered and gaped, wanting more and he repeated the action but with two fingers this time. It was a squeeze when his knuckles brushed your walls, the velvet sides gripping and holding him hostage. 

“Look atchu. Pussy got a grip on her.” 

“Toji—mouth… want it on me. Want more,” you said with a broken whimper. 

His head fell back against his neck, cracking from side to side before he rose to lay over you, his fingers still pumping in and out of your cunt to the wet squelch of your slick on his skin. You could only blink as he captured your lips, tongue curling over your teeth to deposit the taste of yourself into your mouth. It was entirely teeth and tongue as he worked you harder, thumb poised to flick over your clit each time you tried to fight for the right to inhale lungfuls of the thick air. 

“—hng… not—fuck—not what I meant!”  

Toji sat with a loud creak of his chair, his not-so-insignificant weight groaning the leather and metal to within an inch of its life. His smile was pure predator, the ink of his pupils almost eating up the entirety of his irises.  

He huffed a dry laugh. “Yeah, but I like fucking with you.” 

He didn’t wait for your reply, diving for your cunt and the tendrils of heat luring him in like a siren calling to a lost sailor. His nose nudged at your hood, giving him ample space to graze the flat of his tongue over the surface and alternating to a pointed tip that poked and pressed it in each direction. The puffy, swollen lips of your labia demanded attention too, nipping with his eyes focused on your breathing and every bodily jerk for discomfort. When he found none, only the arch of your spine and a hand finding its way back into his hair, he doubled down until you were mewling beneath him. 

Your thighs tightened around his ears, their plushness muffling your lewd moans but only heightening the noises coming from his strong chest. He grunted like an animal at every fuck of his fingers, every lap of his tongue, emboldened by the reactions you so openly displayed. With a lewd pop, his fingers escaped your tight pussy to be replaced with his mouth. The second you rutted your cunt against his eager tongue, he was done.  

Never before had he been this close to busting in his trousers, especially without help, but the way you humped against his face brought out a younger, less controlled version of himself. A shiver coursed up his spine as you fucked yourself on his strong, wet muscle, chants of his name falling from your sinful little mouth. He could feel the tension in your limbs, the curl of your toes against his shoulders and the bough broke with one carefully aimed suck of your clit. 

The rush of adrenaline tore through you, mixed with dopamine and every reminder that this was completely wrong. You pinched at your nipples in turn, prolonging the first cresting wave as it broke over you. You felt limp, out of control and so fucking good you were certain you wouldn’t sleep for a week until this high wore off. Toji was a drug and you never wanted to be clean. His mouth slurped and guzzled, swallowing you down and it felt like if he could unhinge his jaw and devour you whole, he would. 

With a whine and a wince, you managed to shove against his heavy mass and buy yourself a reprieve. He looked as drunk as you felt, sluggish and kiss swollen as he brought his chin to rest against your lower abdomen. You wanted to ask for him to fuck you now; to flip you over and press you into the wood so he could fill your belly with all that he had taken and more, but he reached those sticky fingers up and tapped your lips before you could speak. 

“I haven’t spilled in my shorts since I was a teenager, shit…” He chuckled, admiring your tongue wrapped around the calloused edges of his fingers and cleaning him so efficiently, the perfect little worker bee that you were. 

“Guess I’m out of luck for a fuck, huh?” 

“Not here. I want your juices staining my sheets, not my paperwork,” he countered, kissing your stomach once more. His soft green bedroom eyes fixed raptly on your sweet face. 

“Sounds reasonable, Mr Fushiguro. We shouldn’t push our luck anyway. I’m surprised security didn’t catch us in the act!” 

Toji laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. “You’re right, sweetheart, but the cleaner has been past twice.” 

[simp-ly-writes]

Crush

─────── · ·

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x Shy!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: You try and hide your crush on your co-worker.

─ · · TAGS: mutual pining, gender-neutral pronouns, fluff, hurt/comfort, meet-cute, cheesiness, confessions.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 1,765

─ · · A/N: I told myself I would never write about IRL people nor ever post this or even go back to my smosh phase but somethings in the water today I guess!

─────── · ·

↳ You had originally worked for Good Mythical Morning as one of the leads of the marketing team before you switched over to Smosh as they re-bought the company. You would miss your team, your friends for the past several years dearly. But you were invested in the new challenge of getting these channels back to their glory days with new content and ideas to work on.

↳ You kept to yourself as best as you could as your new co-workers came up to you and introduced themselves by your desk side. Spencer was not the first to come up and say hi to you, in actuality- it was you who rather abruptly walked into him at the end of your first week. The distinct smell Mountain Dew Kickstarter spreader across every fiber, drenching your shirt as it spilled equally over his hoodie.

You remember placing your hands to your mouth in horror, a string of apologies set upon heated cheeks before rushing in to the nearby staff room and back out with a wad of paper towels as you started to dab at his chest before throwing them in his face once remember you did not know your co-workers good enough yet.

Spencer laughed, taking none of it to heart as he dried himself off as best as he could while not making any eye-contact towards you. You apologized once more, extending your hand awkwardly to greet your new acquaintance.

"name," you stated softly in seeing the growing number of people exit the room that he just exited from, it appears the filming just finished for lunch.

"Spencer," he shook you hand, offering a polite smile before looking down the hall. Various cast members you remember meeting slapped him on the shoulder and gave you a wave before continuing down the hall.

"You're not going to report this to HR for anything, right?" you asked, half-joking half not as you looked down to see that your undershirt was indeed visible.

His laugh caught your own as you it died down to chuckles before you rushed towards your car for spare clothes.

─────── · ·

↳ In the next coming weeks, you found your footing once more. Standing behind camera as you recorded little teaser snippets. Quickly edited some pictures for the instagram team and sent off your reports all on your tablet.

↳ You enjoyed sitting towards the back, far away from any possible cameras in a dark corner with your water bottle by your feet. Texting the members of your small team through the group chat as you became lost in your own little bubble before the lights were coming back on.

↳ Looking at the time on your device, you quickly stood up and rushed out the room ahead of everyone else. Your social battery was already low from the mornings meetings and made your way back to your desk

↳ A sudden clearing of someones throat had you jumping out of your chair as Spencer stood at your side water bottle in hand. "You forgot this at set earlier." And placed it on your desk.

"Thank you, Spencer," you said with a smile, doing your best to ignore the way your palms were beginning to sweat and praying that you could go back to your hermit corner.

He offered you a smile in return before exiting the space and back towards his own desk as you slumped in relief. "Tough day?" Courtney asked in a light tone before forcing you towards the lunch table.

─────── · ·

↳ You were growing closer to everyone, making friends with people from other departments and still keeping up with your old co-workers on the weekends. Yet you were still to embarrassed from your first few interactions with Spencer to move your relationship from sharing files or the dreaded small talk.

↳ The audience seemed to be growing to you as well. Somehow your little murmurs to yourself had gotten picked up on the microphone and used in the final edit. When watching with Courtney the most recent episode of TNTL, you were surprised to find that it was you who made Olivia laugh that hard. You were really rooting yourself to this company.

↳ A few cast members and producers had tried to get you to move closer to the cameras for more of your comments or even get you on set as you shook your head violently and turned down every offer- still preferring to stay in the shadows.

↳ Yet even when doing your best to hide away, Spencer would sneak his way over with a snack or offer to review what clips you decided on for the reel later that day. You felt childish in many ways on how afraid you were to speak with him, using short sentences or nods of your head but he never took them as rude and was in a way, way too understanding that lead you to feel how you do currently.

─────── · ·

↳ You hated everything to do with Spencer. You hated how much he would always check in on everyone and somehow find all your little hiding spots in the office and on set. Hated the way his smile and laugh would make your heart race. Hated the videos he would attach to his emails that he thought you would like, and you did.

↳ You despised how he wouldn't force you to talk, yet he would just sit there with you at lunch or offer to walk you to your car after work. Your heat couldn't say no nor did your co-workers allow you to as Courtney was practically shoving you both out the door without another word.

↳ A few of them even asked if you did in fact have a crush on the Director and by the look on your face and the shake in your hands, they knew the answer all to well.

─────── · ·

↳ You stated to feel indebted for your shyness as you offered Spencer a fresh can of Mountain Dew during lunch or even provided morning pasteries for the both of you. The whole office took note of his smile that day while filming and how you both started to work at one another's desks.

↳ The more time you spent together, the more confident you grew and you thought to be getting over your crush now. You would have your chair closer to the front of the set, Spencer would often stand or sit beside you between breaks- resting his arm on the back of your chair as he would peer over to see whatever was on your tablet.

↳ Rumours spread, you could practically feel the eyes for sure on your back as you walked around the office together. HR had even sent you a few hinting emails that had you flashing back to your first week working at Smosh.

↳ Cameras were picking up on it too. The attention was growing all too much, your feels were growing all too much before you were taking a step back and allowing more opportunities for your team as you took a step back.

↳ Of course, Spencer took notice of this as well. Asking around, and even once during filming where you had gone only to find you put other people to film the clips and take the photos.

─────── · ·

↳ "Are you okay," Spencer asks, bursting into your new office space as you stood up straight from your desk, a smile a bit to wide as you stiffly welcomed him into the space.

↳ He rounded your desk, sitting upon it, concern written in his features with the slightest tilt to his head. You fumbled with your fingers, struggling to come up with words, "Im okay, just taking a break is all- working on other things."

"I'm just worried for you my friend, never mind work. Are YOU, doing okay?" Spencer pressed, knowing that the answer you gave wasn't entirely truthful.

↳ Friend. The word wounded you as you blinked away tears, suddenly feeling ridiculous. You were an adult and yet this stupid crush you had was coming in the way of everything you worked so hard towards.

"Yes. I am doing okay, thank you for checking up on me."

─────── · ·

↳ You hoped that the time apart would help you, only finding yourself hurting more. You fell right back into the schedule you and Spencer developed together and you hated to admit to yourself but you had never felt better.

↳ They were filming who meme'd it? And yours had yet to come up until now. It would be your first seconds fully on camera as everyone cheered you on before hand. The comments from earlier in the week were excited to finally see who you were, that night you had even found a compilation of every time Spencer mentioned you, to your suprise it was over 5 minutes long- or maybe you just watched it a few dozen times.

↳ Nonetheless, your meme was instantly guessed by the man. His eyes immediately found your own from behind the camera as you started to shrink away, slipping down the couch and onto the floor was a blush as he calmly wrote your name. Shayne seeing this laughed, it echoed the room as he and everyone else also knew the answer from your combined reaction.

↳ Everyone else in the office was loving it. You meme'd your first time meeting with poorly drawn MS-Paint visuals and a simple caption and as your name and picture flashed up on the screen. Cheers rung throughout the room as one of your team members gently rubbed your back in reassurance

↳ After gaining back your will to live, you were suprised to find a pair of arms bringing you into a hug. "I am so proud of you, first time on camera!" Spencer spoke into your hair, you could feel his smile as you stood there still in shock before retuning the action.

↳ Not knowing if it was the adrenaline still running after the showing, the physical comfort, or what you thought to be hearing his heart beating as fast as you own, you blurted out to the shock of many others still cleaning up after the shoot- "I like you a lot."

Spencer chuckled, bringing you back into a hug as you hide your face in his neck from the cheers, "I like you a lot too. But please now finish your turn on game pigeon 8-ball."

─────── · ·

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ (you were good to me) | nanami kento

wc: 2.8k

summary: nanami counts his chances and bets on this last one.

contains: implied f!reader but no mention of pronouns, canon-adjacent, exes, mentions of alcohol, swears, mentions of drunk calls, pov switching, angst, c.death

a/n: another brainchild from me and @augustinewrites, with song inspos: you were good to me, tequila, bourbon, already gone, all i want, and something in the orange

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: waiting for that call you know won't come

part 1 <- you are here

October 31, 2018.

Your company halloween party isn’t all that fun when you think about it. 

The optional suggestion from HR to wear a costume has always been promptly ignored for as long as you can remember, pressed suits in dark neutrals coloring the celebration instead. Nothing exciting about it at all. 

It used to be though, when you had Nanami to spend it with. 

Liquid pools by the sides of your fingertips, condensation dripping down your glass of bourbon. One of the perks of being in a financial firm’s halloween party is that the alcohol is good, expensive to match the tastes and budget the partners can afford. 

Calling it a party is overhyping it, if you’re being honest. It’s just another day at work, except without the alcohol restrictions; your coworkers still check the markets every five minutes (you do too, out of habit), and directors still ask for summary reports while attending to a phone call or two—one hand on a tablet and another on a drink, earbud slotted securely in one ear. 

You and Nanami used to hide, even just for a few minutes, by the break room at the back, inside the pantry—a place now foreign but still filled with all your memories; you haven’t stepped foot in it since he broke it off. 

It's a common notion amongst your peers that workplace romance is dead—it always has been (at least, outwardly). HR would have cut either of you out of the next payment cycle if they had caught wind of your mingling. 

Workplace romance is dead, they say, but what you had with Nanami was alive, beating with every giggle muffled by the palm of your hand. No one would ever consider him a funny guy, but you did—all his snide remarks, comments unapologetically deadpan in a way so bluntly his. 

The gray curtain separating you two from the rest of the office kitchen was thin, but it held every weighted moment you snuck with him—secret confessions a little before midnight, a hand or two you couldn’t possibly resist, sobs hushed down, bitten between your teeth with you tucked into him. 

Workplace romance is dead—it’s supposed to be, but a few desks down and a sharp left turn from yours, it haunts you, still. 

You take a sip. 

.

Nanami has a sense for these things. 

It’s always when something doesn’t feel right that the numbers start to click. 

Clusters of sorcerers have been grouped to surround the vicinity, his own trio comprising of himself, Fushiguro, and Ino. The instructions are simple: to be on standby in case anything happens. The wait time should be a good sign; it’s highly unlikely that anyone can match up to Gojo, after all. 

He checks his watch, each second ticking agonizingly slowly. It feels unsettling, like the calm before the storm—a deep unrest simmering. Unsafe is the first thought that comes to mind, then you second; it prompts him to call you, his fingers slightly trembling. 

Your contact is still marked with a star, filed under his favorites (he knows he probably should have moved it).

One ring. Two rings. Three. A ‘toot’ at the end of the line—it makes him antsy. 

Then, the veils go down. 

The action is alarming; these opponents move themselves like chess pieces, he knows this much—all part of a bigger plan, always with an underlying motive.

His thumb hovers over the call button again, thinking. The expression on his face remains impassive, sharp angles and straight lines concealing the weight of each worry. 

“Nanami-san,” Ino calls. 

Fushiguro’s already started theorizing, rationalizing some sort of ploy behind this occurrence—all highly plausible, all probably true; it’s some sick play that the moment the calculations click, there isn’t enough time to call you. 

“That’s why we’ve stopped standing by and started to act,” Nanami interjects, shrugging off his blazer, khaki cotton falling off his shoulders as he slips his phone in his pant pocket. 

.

If anything, you should probably do your best to enjoy whatever you can from this year’s Halloween party—after all, it’ll be your last in this company. You handed in your resignation papers last week, and though your boss has pulled you aside for the nth time tonight, disguising pleas as empty promises, you know better than to believe it.

It doesn’t matter to you anymore; you’ve made up your mind. 

The bartender mixes you another drink: 2 ounces of bourbon for a ball of ice, the same one you’ve been having the entire night. 

A White Russian is your usual pick—a spiked latte as you call it. Nanami’s claimed that Bourbon On The Rocks is like its older, more mature cousin, and you’re afraid he’s right. He always is.

The hints of vanilla and caramel remind you of your morning pick-me-up, part because of the drink and part because of the man you used to spend it with. 

Your phone vibrates from your inner pocket, but you don’t feel it, the alcohol dulling your senses. 

.

“Na-na-na-na-na-na-min!” 

For this reason, he thinks, it’s good that the nickname has stuck; a perfect identifier for whom and where it’s coming from. 

Echoes of Itadori’s voice lead them straight to a rooftop, Fushiguro catching the boy’s attention to ask for the run-down. Mechamaru warns that it’s pandemonium deep within the station, curses of all grades mixed with scattered transfigured humans. There’s only one thing he knows can be responsible for that. 

Nanami doesn’t do jokes, but he secretly wishes this is just a really bad one, because—

Gojo’s been sealed. 

—the punch line isn’t funny at all. 

Sorcery has prepared Nanami for anything, but this possibility lies in his 0.01%—if this has happened, it’s free game. 

It makes sense now, why this unease has slowly been surfacing. 

Keep people safe and survive—the single thought at the forefront of his mind. 

He moves quickly, devising a plan for maximum efficiency; Ino is to stay with Fushiguro and Itadori inside this veil while he meets up with Ijichi to put down the other one. Time is running short, options even more so—there are only a handful of people who can do certain requests and being a first-grade qualifies him as one of them. 

Eerie silence greets him as he steps out on the sidewalk, the streets practically swept. It’s instinct when his hand reaches in his pant pocket, fingers moving in memorized pattern as he calls you again.

You don’t pick up for the second time.

.

One of your co-workers almost trips down the steps to the taxi, your arm stretched out to catch her should she fall forward completely. Cool air nips at your cheeks; you’ve had more to drink but you handle liquor well—if managing to keep up with Nanami means anything. 

The vibrations of your phone get lost in the commotion. You haul your co-worker into the cab and tell the driver her address, asking if he can drive you to yours soon after. 

.

It’s shit.

Climbing up the steps to the overpass fills him with a sense of foreboding. A sickening dread. On the way here, he spotted four managers, dead. 

The sight before him angers him more than anything—blood pooling around Ijichi’s frame, crumpled on the ground. He steps closer, crouching low to check for a pulse; it’s faint, but it’s there, accompanying the man’s shallow breathing. 

He does quick work bringing Ijichi to the rescue team, hopefully fast enough to make it back to Shoko where she can fix him. 

The casualties are rising. 

It isn’t safe anymore. The radius of collateral damage is widening and this is just the beginning.

What will happen to you? If the events in here break containment? 

How can he keep you safe if jujutsu society falls? 

He crunches the numbers, sorting through each possibility; the phone in his pocket feels heavy, sinking with each step he takes on concrete. It’s not often that Nanami runs out of options—there’s always an answer to anything; but this, he thinks, has never made him feel more desperate.

His fingers hover over your contact again. 

There’s not enough time—this is the only way. 

He needs to get you out of here. 

. 

You’re left with a voicemail. 

The key slips from your hand, falling to the ground again, like the many times it has before. You step inside your apartment, swiping through your notifications to find two missed calls and an email. 

It’s confusing enough getting calls from the ex you drunk dial once a week; receiving a flight notice set to depart later tonight with a ticket under your name doesn’t make things any clearer. 

You tap your screen, odd anticipation and nerves coiling in your belly. 

“Hello,” the audio starts, “I’m assuming you received the email.” 

His voice sounds different when you’re a little more sober; you’re not sure if that’s a good thing—if it’s worse or better, just that it aches the more you hear him clearly. You kick off your heels, letting the audio play as you pour yourself a glass of water. 

Your ticket details stare at you from your screen. 

(Shouting isn’t a quiet man’s usual and his throat hurts from the overexhaustion. His voice echoes across the sea, calling for everyone to hurry over. There’s only so much Fushiguro can take from beside him, holding open the simple domain for everyone to slip through simultaneously.

He supposes, this isn’t the first time he’s done something out of character today—moving your flight and hoping you get on it is the most reckless thing he’s ever done.)

“I’m sorry this is so sudden, I understand if you’re confused. I know most of our conversations have been unideal lately.”

Metal clinks in the recording, a sound so familiar to you—the links of his watch band hitting. Nanami has a habit of shaking his wrist when he’s uneasy about something, and you can almost hear it from the small breaths he takes before each sentence. 

It should embarrass you, the amount of times you’ve drunk-called him, but you have reason to believe he doesn’t find it all that off-putting. 

(He wonders if he’ll get another chance to sit through one more unideal conversation with you. 

Blood drips down the side of his head, his shoulder slashed through his shirt. Adrenaline moves every muscle he barely has the energy to.)  

“Do you… do you remember that vacation we planned?” he breathes out from the other end, a hesitancy uncommonly heard from him, “To Kuantan?” 

You do, very vividly—a trip discussed some time ago with your head on his chest, scrolling through flight promos on your phone. Nanami’s dream has always been to be free by the sea; you don’t expect it from a man turned jaded, but it feels like a secret spoken truthfully. 

So you take it and run, booking a flight two years down the line—a ‘when we have the time’ flexible enough to move and transfer whenever either of you would like. 

(In a flash, he’s flushed along with the current, waves engulfing him as he’s washed out of the domain.) 

“I’ve thought about it and believe now would be a good time,” his voice continues, “with your resignation and things. ” 

The spray sunblock on your dresser is barely used, but you grab it knowingly. Nanami is pale and—

(—when he burns, he thinks of the Kuantan sun—how nice it would be to be under it, bathed in the deep orange afterglow next to you.)  

“I…” Nanami rarely stutters, but you hear a slight shake to his timbre, “I know this is a tough ask, especially when I’ve been unfair to you. But…” 

You can picture him clearly—hand running through his hair as he adjusts his lenses; he pinches the bridge of his nose before shaking his wrist, that familiar metal clinking. 

It almost sounds pained, his acknowledgment of it, as if he’s long since regretted treating you any less than you deserve. Does it make you stupid? Or sad? That you still hang on to every word he says, that the spaces between your fingers still miss the way he used to fill them. 

You drag the zipper of your bag shut, patting it down to flatten.

“...I hope you know the reason I left isn’t because of something you did.”

The Nanami you know speaks nothing but the truth, and you believe him each time. 

It’s a contradicting mix of comfort and anxiety, like he’s freed you from the guilt that used to weigh on you heavily. If it isn’t because of you though, you don’t know what else it could be. 

You sigh, pushing down on the door handle as you take one last look to make sure you didn’t leave anything. 

(It’s a lie when he tells himself he can’t feel anything; the left side of his body is burned, charred down to his sinews—it's a surprise he can still move. The damage should have been enough to numb him, but it still hurts when he thinks of you. 

Did you receive his voicemail? Are you on your way now?

Time moves slowly as he drags his feet across the station floor.) 

“I’ll… explain myself more when I see you in a few hours.” 

Your stomach starts feeling funny when you get in the taxi—the pauses in his recording are obvious. 

You wonder what’s going on in his head. 

(This is cruel, he knows, concealing the truth and feeding you false hope. He’s a liar, but there’s no other way. There’s no time to explain everything to you. 

If this is what gets you out of here—) 

Silence. 

You hear his footsteps through the recording, the sound of his feet shuffling, contemplating. 

He speaks again, hesitancy tinged with sadness you can’t decipher, “I apologize, if this is out of nowhere,” a  breath, “but I hope I was good to you in the time we had.” 

You shift in your seat, fiddling with your fingers. There’s a finality to his tone that you find oddly misplaced—the sound of a goodbye more than a second try. 

It is wholly unlike him to be this sentimental. 

Tears well up in your lash line as you think back to everything: how he used to wait for you after work despite it being past midnight, how weekends were filled with nothing but love, massaged into the soles of your feet; how he’d buy your favorite breakfast sandwich even though he’s a snob about the ingredients in it. He drove you anywhere as long as you had music control. 

Nanami is an old soul, and you indulged him by buying records for that vintage record player he has. Songs from the 50’s, 60’s, maybe a bit of jazz from the 70’s and 80’s too—for a man so stiff, he sways smoothly to its melodies, holding you closely each time. 

He has only ever touched you gently, attentive to every need you express lovingly; his kisses always form a line straight to your heart—from the top of your head to your forehead, down between your eyebrows to the slope of your nose. His lips are soft against yours, ticklish as they drag down your neck to your collarbones. 

A patient and tender lover, the most wonderful man for the greatest years of your life. 

He was more than good to you—you couldn’t have asked for any better. 

(A mess of curses greet him on the floor—transfigured humans he has no choice but to take the lives of. 

He’s exhausted. 

His blade swooshes to the right, body following the path it glides to. He allows himself a glimpse of rest, to think of how it must feel to dance by the glistening seaside with you.) 

“You were the best thing to happen to me in that shitty place.”

His honesty rings loudly in your ears, resounding even as you pull up your luggage to the check-in counter. 

Oftentimes, Nanami would say things and they’d sound a lot like ‘I love you’.

“I hope I can be good to you now, too.”

(Saying it would have been selfish—it’s good he didn’t, even though he wanted to. Those 3 words mean nothing if there’s no guarantee he’ll be alive to prove it to you.

A hand presses against his back; a crack in his soul.) 

“The details are in the email, I’ll be there when you land.” he pauses; it takes a beat before he continues again, “See you then.”

You’re half-nervous and half-excited as you board the plane. The voicemail sounds suspicious, his actions even moreso, but if what he’s saying is true—

(It flashes before him, too fast and too slow; Haibara smiling, the life he couldn’t save. Yuuji calling him from the corner, a ‘Nanamin’ one last time. 

Then there’s you. Just as he’s about to give in to it all—the beach. How pretty you’d look, beaming up at him, pointing towards the sun as it sets into the endless sea.)

“Don’t forget to turn off the lights.” he says softly, like a reminder to be cradled safely. 

You settle into your seat, the captain speaking over the announcement system. 

“Flight MH 1730 to Kuantan, Malaysia from Tokyo, Japan. Departure time is 11:16 p.m. Estimated arrival…”

—you can’t wait. 

(At least he’ll get to save your life, right?

Nanami Kento. Time of death: 11:17 p.m.)

a/n: writing this was really tough (because it absolutely gutted me), but it was a good challenge! a few info bits: partners = high ranking roles in the company; white russian = vodka, coffee liqueur, & cream + ice; the flight details are not real; the pov switching is real time, except for the voicemail, which acts as a voiceover to the events concurring between nanami and you.

thank you notes: to @augustinewrites OF COURSE. what would i do without you fr. this has plagued us for the longest time and we have been way too sad for too damn long bc of it 😭 thank you for half-mothering this, where would i be without your sad songs 🥹 + @mysugu and @soumies for running through this idea & the voicemail dialogue with me 🥺 very important opinions from very important people indeed 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me with my grammar doubts 😭

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[sunsetkerr]

ON MY TABLE | s.kerr

summary: you're the new physio for chelsea and a certain striker seems to be needing more sessions that usual [1.9k words]

pairing: physio!reader x sam kerr

notes: physio!reader I love you so much xxxx

“MILLIE, YOU ACTUALLY HAVE to do your exercises for your knee to feel better, you know that right?”

“oh, you’re so funny. you know that?”

millie gave you a little shove before opening the door to your office, swinging the door.

“i’ll report you to HR if you don’t watch it, bright” you used your pen to point over at millie before jotting down some minor notes about your session.

“oh, ha ha” she chuckled, “see you, y/n.”

you chuckled, signing off today’s papers and getting ready to file them. you had no more players booked in for the day and were ready to file your reports and head home. it was getting hot in london, the air conditioning in your office was the only thing keeping you sane.

“hey doc,” 

well.. not the only thing.

“sammy k,” you smiled looking up at her. she was leaning against the doorframe in her training shorts, her drink bottle in your hand. “to what do i owe the pleasure-“ you stood up from your desk, grabbing her file which was on top of your pile- “for the.. fifth time this week?” you asked her. “it’s only wednesday, sam”.

she looked down at the carpet with a shy laugh before walking into your office and taking a seat up on your massage table. “it’s just my calf,” she winced a little bit reaching for it, “it’s still really tender, i was just wondering if you could have a quick look at it again before you head off.”

you would’ve bought it if she hadn’t said the same thing twice already that week. sam was becoming a part of the furniture in your office, always dropping in before or after practice. on game days, she had you give her a rub down on her thighs and calves before kick-off. she swore that you were her lucky charm, having kicked a goal in every game that you worked on her for. 

“okay, sam” you took a deep breath, crouching down so you could feel her muscle, “let’s have a look”.

she couldn’t help herself but watch you as you worked. ever since you had joined the team at chelsea last month, sam was enamoured by you. the way you carried yourself was so attractive to her in a way that she can’t describe. a few of the girls had caught wind of her frequent physio trips, a few worried for her, a few teasing her instead. her small crush didn’t go unnoticed by her close friends. guro constantly blowing up their groupchat with small digs at sam. 

“it’s not feeling too tight which is a good thing,” sam watched the way that your eyebrows furrowed together as you felt her calf, “is it better or worse than the last time i saw you?”

“about the same,” she shrugged, lying to you. “i just wanted to see if it was anything to worry about,” another lie. her calf was fine, it hadn’t played up for the last few weeks, she was actually on a really good run with it. she was chalking it up to you working with her. 

“it’s not too concerning,” you looked up at her for a few seconds before standing back up, “we’ll keep an eye on it though if it keeps giving you grief.”

“okay,” she nodded, “thanks, y/n”

“you’re very welcome,” you smiled, “is there anything else i can help you with while i’m here?”

“uh,” she rolled her lips, blowing out a deep breath, “maybe we could book in a session tomorrow? or in the next few days before the game?” she tilted her head. you never expected sam to be a shy person, you saw her with her teammates, always loud and boisterous. but in here, she always seemed nervous to speak or to say the wrong things. “just wanna cover everything before the game,” she gave you a tight lipped smile.

chelsea was playing arsenal on saturday, you knew the entire team was nervous for this game. maybe this was why sam had been in your office so often.

“course,” you nodded. “let me put it in my calendar,” you sat back down at your desk and grabbed your calander, pencilling in ‘sammy k’ just after jessie. “i’m free after prac, just have a session with jessie beforehand,” you looked back up at her. 

“yeah, yeah. whenever works for you works for me,” she smiled, you noticed her few front crooked teeth as they peaked out of her smile. you rested your head in your hands, realising only now how tired you were.

“so i’ll see you tomorrow,” you smiled at sam as best you could.

“yeah.. yeah, tomorrow”

you saw sam four more times that week, once on thursday for your session and three times on friday. to her credit, you only ran into her in the parking lot on friday morning. so she thought she was showing some level of restraint, publicly at least- she wouldn’t tell anyone that she was waiting for you to pull into the car park so she could chat with you for a few minutes. 

the striker had started to win you over. she was getting more comfortable in your sessions and you were finally starting to see the side of sam you saw when she was with others. it was a nice thing to see, you admired it. you started looking forwards to her dropping by or messaging you calf updates, selfies of her doing her exercises at home- claiming she’s your best client… which she was quickly approaching the title of. 

it was halftime during the arsenal game, 0-0 so far. you headed towards the changerooms, bringing some more pre-wrap done for the girls who wanted it, and so you could check on lauren’s shoulder. you burst through the doors, not watching where you were going or what you were walking in on. 

when you looked up you saw sam changing her sports bra, fabric over her head, her boobs on full display. 

“oh my god!” you quickly turned away, shielding your eyes to give her some privacy, “i am so so sorry,” you apologised. sam quickly pulled her bra down, apologising as she pulled you into a hug. 

millie laughed from her locker, “she changes her bra every halftime, y/n. this is nothing new, you’ve finally lost your v-card of seeing sams tits.” other girls in the changeroom laughed along as you were still stood shocked. 

“sorry, y/n” sam shot you apologetic glance. your heart began to beat faster, her holding you close to her chest not helping your palpatations. you took a step back and left sam’s embrace.

“your changeroom, not mine” you nervously chuckled, “you don’t need to apologise to me”. you quickly handed off the prewrap you brought to sam, before turning around to leave.

“uh, y/n-“ lauren called for you.

“yep!” you turned back around, “sorry.” ignoring your awkward moment with sam and heading over to check lauren. 

you avoided eye-contact with sam for the rest of the time in the change room, leaving as quickly as you came. the girls lost unfortunately, a goal from caitlin foord in the final minutes putting the game to rest. 

as the chelsea girls finished up their post-game chat in the changerooms, you picked up your stuff that had been scattered around by the players- ready to bring it back to your office for recovery tomorrow. the players headed to the showers, one by one, sam being the last one left. it was just you and her.

she could tell that you weren’t going to speak to her, too embarrassed of what happened earlier. it didn’t faze sam, she changed her sports bra every halftime, right after brushing her hair out. half of the chelsea staff had seen her topless, but it was different now that it was you- she knew this wasn’t something you could brush off instantly. 

she was going to have to make you talk to her. sam took a deep breath before pushing herself up off her bench.

“agh!” she winced, clutching at her calf. your head shot her way and you were soon crouched down in front of her. “shit,” sam hissed.

“you okay? you pull it?” you grabbed her calf and took the pressure off of her, holding it close to you. 

“fuck,” sam sighed, a pained expression on her face, “i don’t know, i just tried to get up and it twinged.”

you suddenly felt bad for thinking sam had been putting in on all week. the possibility of her putting it on just to see you sounded too good to be true, and by the looks of things- it was. you helped sam onto her feet and walked her into your office, her arm around your neck to support herself. 

you grabbed out some off your oil and told sam to lay on her tummy. you couldn’t feel any major pull in the muscle as you rubbed it down. you tried to stay somewhat gentle for sam, but she didn’t seem to be reacting to your touch anymore. almost as if she had miraculously recovered.

“i can’t feel anything too strained,” you walked to the front of your table, so you meet her gaze. “how is it feeling?” you asked.

sam pushed herself up and sat properly to look at you, “doesn’t hurt anymore, you must’ve fixed me” she chuckled. you paused for a second before sighing at sam.

“you’re a world class actor, you know that right?”

she broken out into a laugh, “i should’ve got an oscar for that”.

“you had me,” you shook your head with a deep breath, leaning against your desk. “you’re something else, sam.”

“in a good way?” she asked hesitantly.

“some days,” you nodded.

sam wavered before speaking, “i’m sorry ive been taking up so much of your time, y/n.”

you looked up to her from your crossed arms and met her brown eyes. “so, your calf isn’t sore?” you asked her, eyebrows raised.

she slowly shook her head, “guilty”.

sam was surprised when you sighed out in relief. “okay good, because i have been trying to think of ways to tell emma that her star striker couldn’t go a day without visiting my office,” you chuckled, “not a conversation i want to have with her.” 

“you’re not mad?” sam asked.

“no, sam” you shook your head. “i don’t mind having you in here,” you admitted, “i quite enjoy your company actually.” sam couldn’t help but take notice of the flirty smirk that had made its way onto your lips.

she hopped down from your table and took a step closer to you. “oh yeah?” she raised her eyebrows, a cocky grin making its presence known.

“yeah,” you shrugged, “you’re alright.. i mean you’re no erin cuthburt, but..” you smirked.

“oh wow,” sam nodded at you. the space between you both was beginning to close, weeks of unspoken tension finally coming to boil over. “that was a low blow, even for you” she said.

“even for me?” you asked.

“even for you,” she nodded.

“hmm, you’re gonna be demoted from favourite client sam”

“oh, so i am your favourite?”

“you could be,” you smirked.

“and how could i make that happen?” 

“wouldn’t you like to know,” you leant in, your lips almost ghosting over hers.

“i would love to know,” sam chuckled, finally closing the gap between your lips and hers. as you melted into the kiss, one of her hands found your jaw and the other your hip. she held onto your with all she had, too scared to let the moment slip away from her.

when you finally pulled away from each other, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding onto. “don’t worry..” you chuckled, “you’re not at risk of losing your status”.

“good..” she nodded, both of sam’s hands now holding onto your face, “because i don’t enjoy losing.”

[softhairedhotch]

comfortember day six: notes aaron hotchner x gender neutral reader you leave secret notes for aaron to remind him to take care of himself. when you stop after a bad case, he starts leaving you notes too. word count: 2.2k warnings/content: mentions of food, eating, weddings, life stuff. flirting, taking care of each other, cutesy lovey fluff.

comfortember masterlist here!

also on ao3!

green and yellow sticky notes

Before becoming a new recruit at the BAU, you were very aware of all the rumours surrounding your new co-workers. About how they handle cases with high-end professionalism and no emotion, how they’re not afraid to break the law a little to solve a case, how they don’t mind getting their hands dirty. But when you move to the division you find that that’s not (entirely) true. The team are lovely and, when not on a case, deal with everything the same as everyone else: cracking jokes, lifting each other up and making everyone around them laugh, and getting food with each other to pass the time.

All except for Aaron.

He joins in when he can, smiling occasionally and making the odd joke or two, but from what you can tell, he keeps mostly to himself to remain professional as the team’s boss. However, after a few months of working alongside him, you realise that he often overworks himself, picking up odd hours in the office and working overtime, and forgets to take care of himself in the process. He survives off coffee and spite alone, something that both intrigues and concerns you. 

It pains you that he doesn’t care for himself as much as he should and, as time goes on and you find yourself helplessly falling in love with the man, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

You smile as an idea pops into your head one day when you're struck in the office and you reach out to grab your stack of green sticky notes and a pen. Scribbling down a quick message ('don't forget to eat!' with a smiley face in the corner), you remove it from the pile and fold it neatly, shoving it into your pocket and waiting for the perfect moment to drop it where it needs to go. 

It’s almost an hour later when Aaron leaves his office for a bathroom break and you smirk to yourself as you grab a random file from your desk and make your way up the stairs. Glancing around to make sure no one’s paying attention, you slip inside the empty office and pull the note from your pocket, placing it on his desk and leaving as quickly as you entered. 

Making your way down the stairs, you see Aaron already making his way back to his office with his head buried in his phone. You suddenly grow anxious at the thought of him finding the note–would he think it's weird? What if he knew it was you immediately, even though you modified your handwriting to make it harder to distinguish? What if he called you into the office to tell you he's reporting you to HR? 

Forcing the thoughts out of your mind, you sit back at your desk and brace yourself for Aaron's reaction, whatever it may be. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Aaron unfold the note and read it a few times, flipping it over to see if there's anything on the back. He looks confused, rightfully so, before standing up and looking out at the bullpen like a hunter stalking his prey. 

Derek, who sits across from you, looks up at him lazily with interest before raising an eyebrow in your direction in a silent question. You shrug and give him a half-convincing smile as if to say you don't know what's going on either, looking back at your computer and pretending to focus so he doesn't feel the need to pry. 

To your surprise, Aaron says nothing. Instead, he makes his way to the kitchenette and pulls out a container from the fridge, glancing at it to determine whether or not he should heat it up. You smirk to yourself as you realise your plan worked, watching as he finally throws it into the microwave and leans against the counter with his arms crossed and eyes closed in thought.

After that day, you find yourself leaving more notes. Messages along the lines of 'stay hydrated <3' and 'get some sleep tonight man!' and 'there's some pasta in the fridge, enjoy :)'. Secretly, of course, and at times he wouldn't be able to suspect it's you. Although after a few weeks pass, you figure he already knows who's leaving the notes but hasn't brought it up because he appreciates the reminders to drink water and get some fresh air. 

You find yourself unable to gather enough energy to leave him notes, however, after a particularly gruesome case that hit far too close to home and messed you up more than you'd like to admit. Going to work feels like a chore and you don't have it in yourself to brighten his day, no matter how much you wish you could. 

A week passes and you still can't shake the case, walking into work feeling like the weight of the world rests on your shoulders. You're early, unable to get any sleep the night before, and you notice the bullpen is mostly deserted as you make your way to your desk. You sit down with a sigh, holding back tears and bouncing your leg as you pull items out of your bag. The sight of something on your keyboard catches your attention and you freeze at the sight of a yellow sticky note sitting on top of the keys, neatly folded. 

Interested, you carefully unfold the note and almost sob at the message scrawled out in capital letters: 'TAKE THINGS EASY TODAY.' It’s clear that whoever wrote it tried their best to make the handwriting as unrecognisable as they could but you have a sneaky suspicion of who left it. 

As you push it into your pocket, wanting to keep it on you so you can reread it throughout the day, Aaron walks into the bullpen and sends you a gentle smile as he heads up to his office. You watch him settle down at his desk, pulling out his own items from his briefcase before casually adjusting his yellow sticky notes on his desk with a focused expression. Your heart misses a beat and you feel as light as a feather, knowing that you just fell for him even more. After that, your day is infinitely better. 

There's an hour before your shift ends when your stomach starts growling at you. Sighing to yourself, you push away from your desk and make your way to the bathroom for a small break, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly as thoughts of Aaron invade your mind. The thought of him leaving a note for you made your heart swell multiple sizes and you had to restrain yourself from giggling out loud at the thought, feeling happier than you have in days. 

You make your way back to your desk to refill your coffee cup when you find another note, yellow like the last one, neatly folded on top of your case file. You chuckle to yourself and glance up to Aaron’s office, his eyes meeting yours for a moment between the open blinds before he looks away as if he wasn’t looking at you at all, and you grin as you open the note.

‘YOU HAVEN’T EATEN YET.’

Emily raises an eyebrow at you when you let out a loud snort and slap your hand over your mouth. You shake your head at her and send her a look as if to say you’ll tell her later before looking back at the note and laughing quietly to yourself. The way he words it, so factual and certain, makes you feel warm. It’s so him, even when he’s clearly trying not to be.

Shoving the note in your pocket, you make your way to the kitchenette to heat up some leftover pasta. A few minutes later Aaron is sidling up beside you, pouring fresh coffee into his mug. It’s silent for a few moments as you both focus on your own tasks. 

“Thanks for reminding me to eat,” you say, smiling at him. 

He stills for a moment. “Sorry?”

You laugh and shake your head fondly at him. “Don’t play stupid, Hotchner. I know it’s you leaving the notes.”

A small smile tugs at his lips. "It hasn't even been a full day. Was I that obvious?" 

You snort. “Hotch… you wrote them in all caps and ended both messages with a period. They sound exactly like something you’d say anyway; even the tone felt like you. Didn’t even take me two seconds to figure out who it was, even with the poor attempt at changing up the handwriting.”

Aaron raises his eyebrows and pretends to look offended. "Poor attempt? I think it was pretty good!"

“In your dreams, maybe.” 

“Well, what about your notes? I could tell it was you from a mile away.”

“Really?”

“...No. It took me about two weeks to realise.”

You let out a loud laugh as you pull your food from the microwave. Aaron smiles at you with bright eyes as he sips at his coffee, wincing when it burns his tongue. 

“Two weeks, Mr. Profiler? We oughta get you an award for that.”

“Yeah. Make sure it says I’m the unit chief too so that everyone knows I suck at my job. Couldn’t even figure out it was my own subordinate leaving me notes.”

You smirk at him as you stir your pasta. "Is that all I am to you? Your subordinate?"

Aaron's face turns serious and he tilts his head to the side. "Of course not." He rubs the pad of his thumb idly against his closed fist for a few moments. "Thank you. For the, the notes. I didn't realise how bad I was at taking care of myself until you started reminding me to." 

 "Yeah," you chuckle, "you're pretty bad, to say the least." 

"Seems like you've been going through the same thing this week, though. Don't want you turning into me." 

You sigh. "Yeah. Just… that last case…" 

His hand slowly lands on your shoulder and he gives you an empathetic smile. “I understand. My office is always open if you ever want to talk. It doesn’t necessarily have to be about the case but I’m there for that too.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it. And you… can come to me about anything, too. Just want you to know that.”

Aaron’s smile widens as he pulls back. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to eat. Speak to you later, yeah?" 

And off he goes, leaving you feeling like you might burst into flames.

After that day, the two of you get into the habit of leaving notes for each other all the time, you with a green sticky note and him with yellow. Gentle reminders to eat or to stretch your legs and the like. But as you get to know each other more intricately outside of work, you find that the notes become more personal. You make sure to remind Aaron that he has an appointment at Jack’s school or that he’s meant to restock on Jessica’s favourite tea when she visits, and he lets you know when you’re low on your comfort snacks in the office or have a doctor’s appointment coming up. 

Soon enough, when you start to get even closer and he begins inviting you to his apartment for movies and meals, you find yourself leaving notes around his place. Little messages in the kitchen to remind him when something goes out of date or the living room to make sure he doesn't forget to pick up a case file on his way out. Even telling him that he's a great boss or that you (and the team, but you put emphasis on the fact that you) appreciate him. 

It's safe to say that it's no surprise when, after you hide your face in his chest during a terrifying scene in a horror movie, the two of you quickly become more than friends.  

Penelope is over the moon for you, Derek is glad Aaron finally pulled his head out of his ass and made a move, Emily finally understands what made you happy all those months ago, JJ is happy you both found each other, Dave is proud that Aaron finally moved on and found someone new, and Spencer is indifferent to the whole situation. You and Aaron are, much like the others, ecstatic.

When you move in with him, the apartment very quickly fills up with yellow and green sticky notes, the two of you leaving reminders of your love everywhere. And when he proposes to you, he leaves a yellow sticky note inside the box that tells you how much he adores you. Like a fucking dork. But he’s your dork, and you burst into tears at the sight and cherish the note forever.

At the wedding, Aaron makes sure that his pocket square is yellow, in honour of his colour, and unbeknownst to him, you make sure your own outfit has some semblance of green in it. It makes him tear up and, unlike every other time he gets emotional, he’s not afraid to show how much it affects him.

For years to come, the two of you leave each other yellow and green sticky notes no matter what. Jack does it with his partner, refusing to break the habit, and their children do it with theirs, and their children with theirs, following the tradition until the only memory of how it started are the tattered notes kept in the storage of your great-great-grandchildren’s attic.

tag list: @criminalskies @citrusiove @hotchs-big-hands @ssahotchnerr @sillyhotchsgirl

[laurentidal]

Monitored Activity

The email had come from IT right at the beginning of the workday with the subject line "Attn HR. Problematic Monitored Activity."

Dear Miss Villanova, In accordance with company policy, we are writing to inform you that employee Joseph Ulish was found to be acting in violation of the company's internet usage policies during our last audit of online activity. We are attaching evidence for your review and action. Thank you, Martin Shore, IT Dept. Head

Lily gave a long sigh. It was the first time an employee had been caught looking at porn on company time, though it was certainly bound to happen eventually. She took a breath and gave herself a little hope. Who knows. Maybe it wasn't porn at all. Maybe Joe was on poker stars or he was shit talking the company on social media.

But as she opened the attached list of websites, she knew that those hopes were false ones.

Sixty-two websites were enumerated and organized by the date of first access. Accompanying the list was a breakdown of how many times each site had been visited and how long he had spent there. Lily whistled softly to her empty office. With these kind of numbers, it was a miracle Joe had gotten any work done. At the very least, he should be getting fired for theft of time.

She opened the first site and was shocked to see only text. Only a glance would tell you that it was almost certainly smut, but still. If he was going to try to get away with porn at work, text was certainly the most effective method for staying under the radar. And what exactly was "erotic mind control?" Out of curiosity, Lily found herself reading the whole way through the story. She wasn't too prudish to admit to herself that he might have been onto something here. Certainly not appropriate for work! But this was certainly… having an effect, shall we say. Perhaps there was some unidentified fetishes still hiding in that brain of hers.

Site number two was actual porn. Just straight up pornography videos. She closed it quickly, lingering just long enough to catch sight of a few choice body parts. She was human after all.

Sites three through eighteen were all social media pages once again dedicated to this mind control stuff. It seemed there were an impossible number of sub-genre's to this already incredibly niche thing. Lily was fascinated. The pages were stories and videos and audio notes. Most fascinating were the pages seemingly dedicated entirely to flashing gifs and spinning graphics. She found herself scrolling through them slower and slower.

She never noticed when her left hand had left her keyboard.

More porn. More smut. More porn. More spirals. More spirals. More spirals.

By the time Lily reached the fiftieth website, her pants were around her ankles. She didn't know how many times she'd brought herself to completion. Her eyes were glassy and unblinking. The words in the stories and the images and comics burned into her psyche. And oh. The spirals.

The spirals.

She wished she could stop and stare at each one forever. But she had a job to do. She had a list to complete. Link sixty-two opened to a website that Joseph had accessed just this morning before she'd arrived. The site was a full screen spiral. Black and white with streaks of red and blue that made it seem more real than reality. And in the middle there was a button that simply read "Submit?"

She clicked it immediately. The button disappeared, leaving her staring at the spiral alone. She had no more work to do. The list was complete. She could just stay like this forever.

The door to her office opened and Joseph entered, followed by Martin.

"I'm so happy you were the one who got to review my file, Miss Villanova," Joseph said. He snapped his fingers and Martin locked the office door and began to undress. "Martin here was the first to comb through my activities. He did just a good job cataloging everything, don't you think? He had to look so long and so close to compile that report. He was shooting his first load before he'd finished reading that first story, weren't you?"

"Yes, Master," Martin said dully as the pair approached.

"He tastes quite nice, Lily," Joseph said right in her ear as she helplessly masturbated to the spiral. "You'll see."

Thanks for reading! If you are a fan of my work, consider buying me a coffee. Any contribution is insanely appreciated. 💖

[nekrosdolly]

chemtrails over the research facility (18+).

sry for spam posting! butttt i wrote this over thanksgiving and i realized it would be perfect to post here! the wesker brainrot is real. also this is one of my first times writing sex stuff so pointers + criticisms are always welcome! (also this has punctuation and proper capitalisation wowww!! go kori)

cw; dubcon due to non-verbal consent, boss/employee relationships, obsessed/possessive wesker, delusional wesker kinda, eventual smut (p in v), afab reader, unsafe sex, breeding kink, minor stalking, creep wesker.

petnames (reader received); dearest

Aesthetically, you're the perfect match. His skin next to yours- ethereal. Utterly divine. But it seems that, between the two of you, only he notices. 

He's the head researcher. He should have your attention, but unfortunately, you're a good worker. You're diligent and focused- no time for being distracted by him, even if he is your boss. In fact, you're not distracted by anyone. Countless attempts at small talk he's made and yet you, you brilliant thing, don't even care. 

"How is your research going?" He'll ask when he sees you in the break room. He always keeps his distance professional, lest there be an HR report to be filed later. 

You always reply, simply out of politeness. You look at him, those hypnotic eyes of yours and the intoxicating smell of your skin and the pheromones lying beneath it.

"Fine," you'd say, or maybe a "wonderfully, Dr. Wesker," if you're feeling exceptionally affectionate. Hearing your voice- like silk on his ears- is enough to make him rock hard. His slacks tighten by a few degrees and he's thankful his labcoat is buttoned to cover himself. 

That, of course, is the end of your conversations, but never the end of his obsessive thoughts. When he goes home to his apartment, sleek and well-decorated given the money he gets from Umbrella, he makes haste towards his bedroom. He doesn't waste time with foreplay for himself- doesn't need to as he's still hard from earlier- before getting himself off rather hastily. 

In retrospect, if you were here, he would take his time with you. He'd learn ever nook and cranny to make you gasp, whine, and moan his name over and over until it's engraved on your tongue and in his brain. He'd fuck you slowly, pushing the head of his cock past the ring of your entrance and watch your face when the rest of him slips in. 

It's easy because you let it be easy- your legs spread wide so he can watch himself go in and out. His nerves would be aflame, his heart racing, and yet you'd always bring him back. You'd coo his name and tug him down by his hair to kiss you. Cool the flames burning beneath his skin, even as he draws closer. 

"Finish inside me." You'd whisper against his lips, your nails digging into his back. Blood dribbles to the surface of the fresh wounds and the gentle pain tips him over the edge. He cums harder than he ever has and it's all for you. 

You'd murmur praise in his ear, how good it feels to be filled with his cum. How you hope it sticks. He hopes so, too. 

After all, you two would make the ideal child. The ideal specimen - the perfect race.

When he's brought back to reality- unsatisfying and too harsh to really enjoy most days- he's partially disgusted with himself. He's never felt like this towards anyone except his ex-wife, and even then it wasn't to this degree. 

Not to mention that this little breeding fantasy of his is the most tame one he's ever had. It surprises him at times, too, when they pop up in his head and the... darkness of it all.

He's your boss. He could, hypothetically, ruin your career for turning him down. Maybe he never would in all actuality, but it is nice to imagine. He thinks about your lips around him, tears running down your face from him purposefully choking you a few times. 

He cleans himself up and changes into his pajamas for the night. He skips the shower only because he'll probably spend half of it thinking of you again, and let's face it, he'd be up for much longer trying to track down your location if that happened. Brainless and horny, he would be, not realizing how easy it would be to find your location in Umbrella's file archives.

When he's at work the next day, all he does is stare at you behind those useless sunglasses he wears. You walk into the room and you have his undying attention. He's lucky he's so in control of his body. His face would be a tomato otherwise. 

It is when you look at him, when your eyes find his behind his sunglasses and he forgets how to breathe for a moment. When you invade his personal space for just a moment and give him a half-smile and say "Hi, Dr. Wesker. It's nice to see you today."

If only you knew what he would do in a room with just you in it. 

In his typical fashion, he nods at you and greets you in return. For a split second he swears there's color on those cheeks but you're gone before he can look again, and asking you to look at him would raise suspicions. Besides, you don't need him distracting you. 

He does anyway, forgoing his better instincts for this one ounce of primality within him. 

He approaches you when you're packing up. It's the end of your shift here and you look tired, like you need someone to lean on- Stress relief, in the most innocent way. He doesn't touch you yet, but he does ask you to come to his office.

You do. He's your boss, someone who you look up to whether or not you show it. And honestly, it's not like his presence is unwelcome. Or yours.

He closes the door behind you and locks it. Now that concerns you.

"Dr. Wesker?" You look up at him, those pretty eyes conveying so much fear that he aches to soothe.

"Don't worry, dearest." He cups your jaw and smoothes his thumb over your cheek, relishing the feeling of your soft skin. Were you a specimen, he'd never dissect you. He'd preserve you and take you home, put you on a shelf, and stare for hours at you. Not unlike what he does now.

You are only slightly soothed by this before you're creeped out. This feels unlike something the Dr. Wesker you know would do. Of course, he's handsome. Conventionally attractive. You never paid attention to him like that, but now, it doesn't feel like there's much of a choice. 

He hums at your compliance, watching as you melt into his hand and wrap your own hand around his oddly muscled forearm. For a scientist, he's... fit? His thumb trails over your lips and his senses light on fire at the softness of them.

You kiss the pad of his thumb and his reaction is one you won't soon forget- his face flushed bright pink at the action, one that indicates how long he's wanted this. You treasure it, despite the circumstances. 

His other hand finds your waist and pulls you closer, his head ducking down to kiss you softly. 

"Innocent" stress relief. That's what this was supposed to be.

His hands are surprisingly soft when he handles you. He never yanks or pulls, which is nice in comparison to your previous partners. He caresses your breasts through your shirt and revels in the way your breathing becomes shaky, a shudder running down your spine. He can smell the arousal poisoning the air and it's not long before he walks you back against his desk, lifting you by the hips to place you on it like you're some doll.

You feel like one. He treats you like a prize to be had. He unbuttons your shirt just enough to reveal your bra and even though he wants you fully naked, he knows it's a bad idea- less easy to cover up should someone walk in. He bites his bottom lip, cups your breasts through the thin lace bralette, and thumbs over your nipples as he listens for your reaction. He decides that it's his favorite noise, your gentle moan caused by him of all people. 

He continues. He rolls them between his thumb and index finger, his breathing growing heavy and his cock stiff. It would be his main focus if you weren't right there, your lips parted, brows knitted and eyes locked on his hands.

"Dr. Wesker-" You lean into his hands, your legs parting in what he takes as a welcoming action.

"Albert, dearest. Call me Albert, please." His eyes flick up to yours, the tips of his ears red as is the rest of him. 

"Albert- God, I-I love your hands..." You sigh quietly, your voice heavenly. If he wasn't already fully hard, he would be.

One of his hands, the dextrous and pale things, pushes your skirt up past your underwear so it rests bunched up around your waist and out of the way. The sodden spot of wetness on the middle of your underwear garners his attention without really trying and his oddly cold finger comes to trail across it. He's barely touching you, sure, but it sends a wave of fire through him to know you're wet because of him, not someone else.

He looks at your panties like he wants to eat you alive. Part of him does. But he's on a mission, albeit a very unhealthy and twisted one, so he doesn't bother. Rather, he presses the pad of his thumb to your clit through your panties and rubs in tight, small circles.

It's ethereal, the way you seem to relax under his touch once he starts playing with your clit. You grow a tad louder, keeping in your hazy mind that you're in an office space still, and your boss is salivating over your cunt. You buck your hips with low effort and whine, betraying what you really want- his dick inside you.

He gets the memo, and yet, he takes his time rubbing that drool-worthy spot on your pretty pussy. He's doing this on purpose. He wants you to be totally, utterly dumb on his cock and this is one of the easier ways to go about it. He plants a few gentle kisses along your collarbone, muttering soft praises into your skin like a prayer he hopes you'll hear.

You do. Every word from his lips causes your insides to flutter, your entrance to clench around nothing. Pulsating in desire. It would be enough to get you on your knees in any other circumstance, yet you get the feeling he doesn't want that.

He tells you how pretty you are. Murmurs how gorgeous you look all the time, how long he's been wanting this, and how you're going to look stuffed with his cock. You shudder as an orgasm rolls through you, your legs shaking and hips spasming in a desperate attempt to chase the fleeting feeling of ecstasy.

He doesn't wait any longer. His hands leave your form and unbutton his slacks, shoving them halfway down his thighs. Like the rest of him, his dick is alabaster. Pale with cool undertones you don't care enough about to analyze further. You're too distracted with the fact that you're about to get fucked presumably within an inch of your life. You push the center of your panties aside.

While that is mostly true, he could never be rough with you. He takes your hips and guides his leaking cock to your entrance. He looks up at you once for permission, and when you nod, he plunges in. 

So maybe he allowed himself to be rough with you for just that one moment. He stills, allowing you ample time to adjust before you're telling him that it's okay for him to move, that you can take it. His blood roars in his ears.

He's never been so ecstatic. Your velvetine walls around his cock, the way you moan his name as he starts to thrust rather shallowly, gently- it's all-encompassing. He's careful- cautious not to hurt you or bruise you, let alone leave any evidence behind that this happened. Except, his fingertips dig into your hips with a vice grip, a tell you're sure he's unaware of. The subtle grunts of pleasure leaking from his lips, your own moans flooding the silence. 

When he grows more bold that he won't hurt you, he thrusts into you a little harder and infinitely deeper than before- he wants you to miss this. He wants to mold your pussy to only ever fit his cock, to ensure that anyone else is unsatisfactory. He wants to come home and have you there, ready and willing whenever he likes. Of course, that last part is unrealistic. He would never treat you with such disrespect. 

You're more sensitive now, one orgasm deep and an impressively thick dick bringing you ever closer to another impending orgasm. He's trying so hard to not lose his composure and you do appreciate that. He's strong, even if he doesn't show it, and that fact does scare you to some degree. His blonde brows are knitted together, his pale pink lips parted and his breathing is oh-so heavy. He's staring down at the point where your entrance meets his dick, only encouraging him to fill you up with his cum.

You want him to. 

"Albert," you reach a hand up to tangle in his perfectly slicked back blonde hair, "you can cum inside me, you know. I-I don't mind." 

He nods, hardly able to speak other than grunt and groan his pleasure. And then he angles his hips a certain way, causing his dick to rub against that spongy spot inside you that makes your vision blur with pleasure, and you nearly cry. 

He knows what that did. He can tell just by the look on your face, the same one he's imagined for about a year or so.

"Do that again," you murmur, bringing his face close to yours and pressing your forehead to his. "Please."

He does. All he's ever wanted was to make you feel good and now he's got the chance to. He hits that same spot repeatedly, just hoping you'll moan his name when you cum. His thrusts become somewhat sloppy, though he's still pleasing you, mostly because he's getting close. Your cunt clenches around him, inviting him to keep thrusting until he's braindead and primal.

"I'm close, dearest." He says through more desperate moans, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. Not seconds after, you feel hot sticky fluid filling you and it's enough to push you over the edge again, your cunt pulsing around him as you moan his name. 

When all is said and done, he pulls out and kneels before you to watch his cum drip out and pool on the edge of his desk. 

"Tsk. I'm afraid we can't let this go to waste." He gathers the spilled seed from his desk on his fingers and pushes it back inside you, deeper this time to ensure it really stays.

You squirm a little and whimper. You hadn't expected him to do that, but you also never considered yourself to be on his radar.

"Um. Right. Well, I'm going to go." You return to that cold, closed off demeanor from earlier. The one he hates. But he understands and gets to his feet again, allowing you ample room to fix your clothing.

The smarter man in him is proud he never left a bruise on you. The lesser, more inhumane part curses him for not fucking you in the break room for anyone to see. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, Dr. Wesker." You give him a half-smile as you unlock his office door and make your exit. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs quietly. He stuffs himself into his pants again and zips up his fly before gathering his things and heading out.

He follows you home. Tails you, rather, so he knows you're safe. Definitely not so he can write your address down and come in when you're not home. Not so he can steal a pair of your panties to cherish. Absolutely not. 

Albert Wesker is more dignified than that. Or, that's what he tells himself when he goes home, your panties tucked in his pocket. 

[cicerfics]

Q's 10 Favorite Jumpers, Rated and Reviewed By 007

With Rebuttals (and Revised Rebuttals) from the Quartermaster Himself

Gifted to @foxsoulcourt over on Station Pacific, just for being awesome!

Fits Q like a glove and the shade sets off Q's lovely winter complexion. 9/10.

Didn't this ridiculous business of seasonal color analysis go out when I was still in primary school? You're dating yourself, 007.

Well, somebody has to, since you wouldn't let me take you out for a drink last night.

...

Color less garish than usual, but fuzzy texture makes Q look like he's growing mold. Off-putting. At least, as off-putting as is possible for a man of Q's caliber. 6/10.

It's mohair, you heathen, not mold!

And stop talking about my 'caliber' if you

...

The color washes out your complexion. You ought to stick to darker shades, dear. Still, this one fits you snugly and the knit is thin enough that I can see your nipples when it's chilly in the server room. 8/10, it'd look even better on my bedroom floor.

You are no longer allowed in the server room when I'm in there, effective immediately, lest I file a complaint with Human Resources. Stop looking at my nipples. (And there's a phrase I never thought I'd have to use when addressing a colleague at Her Majesty's Secret Service.)

I live to defy expectations.

Color does marvelous things for Q's eyes but the squiggles give me vertigo. 5/10.

Get your eyes checked, old man, and stop blaming my jumpers for your vision difficulties!

Ranking has dropped to 4/10 due to Q's insolence. Be nicer to me, or I'll be the one to file a complaint with HR. Age discrimination is against regulations, my dear.

Stop calling me that

I don't really think you're that old

You do need reading glasses though

I never thought I'd see the day 007 cites regulations to me.

Why are there so many bars and blocks? Why isn't the jumper one harmonious shade of gray? Atrocious. 3/10.

It's comfortable

It reminds me of that time you

Don't lie, I've caught you looking at me when I was wearing th

It's considered artistic, 007, but of course you wouldn't know anything about that.

Grand old warship, Q. Nothing more.

Don't be ridiculous, of course you're more than

...

Reminds me of my grandfather. Deeply disturbing that I still want to shag Q even when he dresses like my grandfather. 2/10, will be reporting the quartermaster to Dr. Wilson for damaging my psyche.

You will do no such thing. That poor woman has enough to bear as it is. Overseeing your routine psych screenings is enough to warrant hazard pay.

I've caught you looking at me in this one too

You don't own this one, but you should. Let me buy it for you, darling. 10/10, would tug you into a broom cupboard during your lunch hour and undo the buttons with my teeth.

What is your obsession with Tom Ford

I don't see why

You say things like this but then you never follow throu

Why did you cancel our dinner the other nigh

I am not the sort of gentleman who permits himself to be despoiled in broom cupboards, thank you very much.

Puts me in mind of those odd little sailor suits posh people used to make their children wear. I think someone put me in one, once, ages ago. 1/10, you already look young enough to make me feel like a filthy old man, no need to make it worse.

I wouldn't mind if you were a bit 'filthier', actua

Well, if the shoe fits.

And you scold me about wasting money with damaged equipment and bloodied suits. Look at the price tag on this. Outrageous. 10/10, worth every penny, you're delectable in this one.

I only bought it to treat myself after

It was my birthday and i

You said you were taking me out for dinner for the occasion but then you

…Thank you.

I'd ask what I've done to deserve this torture, but I suppose I already know the answer to that. 0/10, I will have burned this one by the time you've read this list, and I apologize for nothing.

You know exactly what you've done, yes.

Three million pounds of my department funding for heaven's sake

Not to mention the fact that you canceled our dinner after I

And I hardly bought this to torture you. I don't buy my clothes with you in mind, 007. Don't be so arrogant.

And if that isn't an empty threat and you've actually broken into my flat and destroyed my personal property, I'll have your head.

My. How forward of you, Q. Well, I'll have to insist you take me out to dinner first. Then you can have whatever bits of me you like.

Don't be vulgar, you menace.

Not unless you're going to follow through on

You're the one who backed out of the dinn

Did you really burn it?

It was a threat to national security. Could sear a man's eyes right out of his skull. It had to go.

The cats agreed with me. They didn't put up any protest when I pilfered from your wardrobe.

For heaven's sake.

Then they're getting their least favorite flavor of tinned food for supper. And you're not getting dinner from me at all.

Now, I hope I'm not being punished for cancelling on you last week.

Of course I'm not

I don't see why you

You

...

You're being punished for wasting your day reviewing my jumpers rather than completing your overdue AARs. Please allow me to direct your attention to the rather large pile of paperwork with your name on it.

Sod the paperwork.

Q. I'm sorry I cancelled. You have no idea how sorry. But something came up.

I'm sure it did.

Something to do with the job.

...

Some internal business. Something had to be taken care of.

Somebody had to be taken care of.

...

Mallory told me not to discuss it with any of the department heads just yet. I handled it, but the job won't be declassified until tomorrow. Expect Tanner to call you and the others in for a meeting in the morning.

...Oh.

Well.

You should've told me sooner.

Q, I'm shocked! You're saying I should've gone against Mallory's direct orders and disclosed classified material to you against his will?

Of course that what I'm saying, you filthy hypocrite. You could've told me. I would've been discreet.

I know you would've been. That's not the point.

...

...Bond?

I'm trying to keep you out of trouble these days.

Trying not to be the man who ruins your career.

You've never

If that's how you feel then why

Even if you did, I'd

Rather unflattering that you assume I can't take care of myself.

I can, I'll have you know. And I never asked you to protect me. I can protect myself...and I can protect you in the bargain, thank you very much. I'm rather good at it, in fact.

Well, I can't argue with you there.

...

...?

Suppose we don't wait for tomorrow's meeting.

Suppose I take you out to dinner and tell you all about the whole sordid business tonight.

...You're planning on disclosing confidential intel in the middle of an Italian restaurant?!

Suppose we skip the restaurant.

Suppose I bring a couple of curries round to your flat and we talk about it there.

The flat you recently burglarized.

Let's not dwell on the past, dear.

Besides, I think the cats are warming up to me.

And I've got an overdue birthday present for you.

...Dare I ask what it is?

A replacement for the jumper I burned. A whole new ensemble, in fact.

Something much better than anything in your wardrobe. Much worthier of you. Something to show off those good looks of yours.

Will you let me give it to you this evening?

...Ah.

Well, I was going to ask what I should wear when you come over, since you have such strong opinions on the matter.

But if you're bringing a new outfit along, perhaps I shouldn't bother to put anything on at all?

Darling, I always said you were a genius.

19:00 tonight, your place. I'd say 'dress to impress', but I think your idea is best.

There's no improving on perfection, after all.

Do you really

I want you to

For God's sake, if you don't make good on your promises this time, I'll

19:00, then. I trust you know the address

Please try to be on time, 007.

For you, Q?

I'll be early.

[thelovelylolly]

Hobie gotta beat a mf up cause they stared being a misogynistic asshole to his girl🙏🏽🙏🏽

Problem?

Summary: You start your dream job as a journalist, only to have a sexist co-worker and your boyfriend won't let that slide. Warnings: a misogynistic man (icky icky), fem! reader (she/her pronouns used), not proof read bc im tired, let me know if i missed anything :) Notes: hobie would NOT let that behavior slide period

You loved your job. It was your dream since middle school to be a journalist at one of the top news companies. It was everything you wanted, and more. You had the freedom to investigate what you wanted, when you wanted. You had control over how your stories looked in the paper and online, and you weren't as censored as other places were. It was perfect, except one thing.

Your co-worker, James, wasn't the most...welcoming to you or your ideas. You preferred stories about everyday people doing good things in your community, or focusing on local and small businesses. He thought that your stories weren't as gripping or enticing as they needed, and told you to try harder.

At first, you thought it was just because you were a new employee. But when his targeted critiques didn't stop, you realized it was something else. He wouldn't say the same things to your male counterparts. He also didn't respect your assistant, a sweet girl who needed a job during college. He treated her like garbage, which pissed you off even more.

You had a meeting with all the journalists to get updated on what everyone was investigating and reporting on. When you stood up and explained what you were doing, a simple piece about a bakery owned by a sweet lady and her girlfriend, James rolled his eyes and leaned over to his buddy to whisper something.

"I'm sorry, James, but I'm talking right now. You whispering is distracting me and getting me off track, I'd appreciate if you'd stop," you said calmly, trying to call him out as well.

He sighed dramatically. "Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart. Didn't mean to hurt your precious feelings."

You wanted to slap him, but you took a deep breath and went back to what you were talking about.

----

You kicked your door shut behind you and dropped your things next to it. "Hobie, I'm home!"

You walked into your living room where Hobie was on the couch, tuning his guitar. He looked up and smiled, immediately setting his guitar aside and going over to you.

"Hey, love, how was work?" He asked, pressing a kiss to your cheek and giving you a hug.

You grumbled and hid your face in his neck.

"That bad, huh?"

You pulled away from him, pacing up and down the room. "It's my god damn co-worker! He doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut! All he does is criticize me and belittle me, along with the other women in the office, but not with the guys! That sexist piece of shit! It's just...I hate it and I can't do anything with causing a HR nightmare, and I don't wanna lose this job, Hobie. It means so much to me and I…I just can’t lose it.”

You stop and wipe the frustrated tears that had slipped down your cheeks. You look at Hobie and give him a wobbly smile. “‘M sorry, didn’t mean to explode on you like that.”

“Don’t apologize, babe. You’re frustrated, I get it,” he replied, walking over to you and running his hands up and down your arms soothingly. “How ‘bout we order your favorite take out, yeah?”

“And we can watch my favorite movie?”

“Anything you want, love.”

----

On his patrol as Spider-Man, Hobie kept his eye out for your…problematic co-worker. He didn’t know what the guy looked like, but he could figure it out. He swung by your office and took a look inside.

There was only two people left, a man and a woman. He was at his desk, sipping some drink and yelling at the poor woman who was just trying to organize some files. He eyed her like a piece of candy and yelled at her for putting the papers in the wrong place. Then, he stood up and grabbed his things before heading to the door.

Bingo.

Hobie swung down to the front doors of the building and waited for the man to walk out. A few minutes later, the man strolled out on the phone.

“Exactly, Tim. I don’t get why she got hired. She just does some stories with zero…what’s the word, content to them? I don’t know, it’s just a matter of time until she gets hit with reality. She even had the nerve to stand up to me-“

“Pardon me, mate,” Hobie said, catching the man’s attention.

The man froze at the sight of Spider-Man, hanging up the phone. Hobie glanced at his badge and saw his name.

“James, is it? Well, I heard you were giving the women you work with some grief.”

“W-what do you want?” James stuttered.

Hobie started to back him into a corner. “You know how Spider-Man believes in…fairness and what not?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Well, I believe your attitude isn’t very fair to your co-workers.”

“Listen, man, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I-“

Hobie didn’t let him finish, giving him a shove back to cut him off.

“Consider this your warning, James,” Hobie said in a low tone. “Stay away from my girl, and you won’t see me again.”

With that, he swung away, leaving James shaking like a leaf.

----

The next day, when you got home from work, you immediately went to Hobie. He was in the kitchen, fixing some dinner for the two of you.

“Hey, babe, how was work?” He asked, putting his spoon down and going to you to give you a kiss on the cheek.

“It was…good. James didn’t bother me at all, or any of the girls, actually. It was weird, but I’m not complaining.”

Hobie hummed and went back to his cooking. You tilted your head to the side, confused at his reaction. You hopped up onto the counter next to where he was working.

“Hobie…did you do something?” You asked.

“What? Nah, I don’t even know this guy,” he answered.

"Hm, okay," you said. You hopped off the counter, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and went to get changed.

Hobie smiled to himself, knowing that James wouldn't mess with you anymore.

[mistyresolve]

| His Foresight - Simon “Ghost” Riley X Medic!Reader (Part 3)

Word Count - 3.7k

Summary - It’s been a couple months since you last had contact with Lt. Simon Ghost Riley. While you are repairing your tarnished reputation, Simon is on the other side working from the shadows and doing everything he can to take back his words. It isn’t until the three-month marker that you finally face him again, this time you’re willing to hear him out. If only because you guys are going to be team members.               

Tags/Warnings - Blood and Injury, Depictions of war and violence, Explicit Language, Character Death, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Maybe a little bit of angst, Mentions of childhood trauma

A/N - as we near the end of this storyline I would like to thank everyone for their love and support and I appreciate every one of you guys 🤍🤍🤍  I am also going to post a brief POV from Ghost later, and one more part, two at tops.   

Part 1 ❤︎ Part 2   

Masterlist  ❤︎  Tag List Form   

It had been a month since you last spoke with Ghost and since then you learned three things. The first was that he truly was a ghost. He haunted hallways and existed only in rumors and whispers. He made himself seen only when he wanted to be. For the rest of his assignment, he kept his distance. You figured since you have yet to see him it was because he was better at spotting you first and turning in the other direction. Soap would still drop by and fill you in on the latest 141 gossip. It didn’t go over your head that Soap never had any gossip about Ghost. Never once did Soap mention him. Whether Soap figured out that something had gone down on his own or forced it out of Ghost himself was a mystery. You didn’t have the energy or care to ask. 

The second is that whatever he had been previously telling the higher up was either rescinded or someone had put in a good word about you. If it was Ghost or not, you also didn’t know. Nor did it matter if it was him, the damage was done. You put your hand up for every opportunity, followed every rule, and every patient that came to you left you with positive feedback. You were an HR dream.     

The third was that you missed his company. Even a month after you were still fuming, still ready to rip his tongue out should you see him again. Still heartbroken and yet some part of you still missed Ghost. You kept a very tight leash on that part of you and squashed it beneath your boot. How was it fair that his fuck up, and his selfishness resulted in you losing a friend. It wasn’t, and that’s what you were most bitter about. 

After two months, you have decided to let go of the anger and hurt. It wasn’t going to help you now. You kept yourself preoccupied with work and more work. You were still based in the new camp, now dubbed Fort Cardinal, which has since become one of the biggest bases.     

You were just leaving the mess hall after breakfast when you were intercepted in the hallway. 

“L/n?” the private asked.

“Yes?” your brows furrowed. 

“Crawford wants to speak to you. He’s in his office.”

Crawford was the commanding officer, and when he summoned someone to his office it could mean only a few things. Most of them were bad. You pivoted and headed towards HQ. You might have taken the scenic route too. Pausing at the entrance to Crawfords office.  “Sir,” you stood by the doorway waiting for your CO to acknowledge you, “you requested I come to see you.” 

He looked up from the files splayed out on his desk, “Take a seat.”

You pulled out a chair opposite him, your palms began to sweat and you wiped them on your pants. Racking your brain to try and remember if you had done something wrong, or inappropriate, but came up blank. 

“How many years have you been with us?” he questioned, folding his hands over the papers.

“Four, Sir,” you straightened your back and squared your shoulders.    

He stared at you for a second, his face hard, before nodding and looking back to the papers. They were your files. A collection of reports and logs and records, “It’s of my understanding that you’ve voiced your desire for a transfer.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“Since your enlistment, your peers and superiors have had nothing but good things to say about you. Your records show that you excelled in both the field and the classroom. Never missed a work day, never late,” he began listing things off from the note in front of him. You couldn’t tell if he was impressed or irritated, and it was psyching you out. He paused as he flipped through, “Have you fully recovered from your injury?” 

“Healed like a dream,” you offered him a tight-lipped smile. It did, after the first couple of weeks you were back at work in full force. 

“Good to hear,” he flipped a page back so it was facing you, “Any idea what this might have been for?” It would have looked the same as any other report aside from the fact that it was entirely redacted. Whatever was written beneath had been obscured by a thick black line. 

You leaned forward, your smile fading into a frown. You shook your head, “I have no idea. No.” This was the first time you saw your files all laid out like this, so you were just as lost as him. Whoever redacted it must have been of higher status than him if even he didn’t know. Then again, you weren’t sure about what happened behind closed doors. You met his eyes, trying to read what he was thinking and when you couldn’t you wanted to melt into your seat. 

“There’s been an opening,” he leaned back in his chair, “Aerospace medicine has requested a combat medic. It’ll be a one year contract. Should you take this position you will be sent out for a three week training program and your first assignment will be right after that. ”

If it weren’t for those four years of service and learning that people like your CO didn’t like a show of emotions you would have hopped around his office. So, you remained silent, waiting for him to continue. 

“The captain of Special Task Forces 141 has requested you himself for their next mission.”

Your heart dropped.  

“Captain Price?” you echoed. Maybe it was a different 141. 

“Correct,” he waved a hand, his patience shortening, “Yes or no?” 

“Yes,” you answered before you could think it over, and he excused you before you could process your answer. This was what you had been asking for, what you were working towards, and now that it had been offered to you you were left uneasy. Working with the 141 was an honour and a nod to your capabilities. It also meant working with Lt. Simon Riley. You couldn’t unscramble your feelings about the implications. 

You determined that professionalism would yield the best outcome.  

You were packed and heading out for your training by lunch.    

When you entered the briefing room, it was as relaxed as you expected from the 141. Which was not at all. The air was thick and sober. You were half an hour early and still the last to arrive.

“Morning,” Price stepped around the table everyone was surrounding. 

“Good morning,”  you replied, making your way to the table. Laswell met up with you during your training to give you a rundown on what to expect. You were going to be their combat medic, yes, but you could fight and shoot just as well as any other soldier. You even had the grounds to brag about your close combat skills. Laswell was visibly pleased when you told her your dad forced you into mixed martial arts when you were ten years old, and could take down a full-grown man like he was a bag of flour. 

You scanned the table and the map splayed out was a replica of the one Laswell had provided. You tried to hide the smile and pointed to the empty medicine vial on the map, “Is that supposed to be me?” 

“Aye,” Soap puffed his chest out, “that was my doing.” 

When you looked up at Soap, you purposefully ignored the large burly man dressed in all black beside him, “Creative,” you noted how Ghost seemed to shrink back into the shadows at your indifference towards him. 

Soap had actually picked everyone's avatar, a sniper bullet, a lighter, a toy skeleton, and an angel wing that looked like it used to be a necklace, and a battery. You couldn’t decide whether to laugh at the figurines or the fact that everyone accepted them. 

Price ran through the plan, the target, and his expectations of everyone. He revealed that the target was going to be “Cameron Rowe” , a former sergeant turned rogue. His headshot was stabbed into the table with a knife. You recognized it as Ghosts, the blade usually fixed to his thigh. 

“Since we have no real idea as to where Rowe will be we’ll be splitting off into teams.”         You had to suck your lips into your mouth to keep from making an argument when Price moved your vial next to the skeleton on the map.  “Soap and Laswell with nest at the top of these two buildings,” he pointed to the two highrises in front and behind Rowe’s apartment building. “Doc and Ghost will take watch at the port,” he dragged his finger to the loading docs, which was usually Rowe’s meeting place. “Gaz and I will be tailing his informers and hopefully, catch them in the act.” 

You had a sneaking suspicion they stuck you with Ghost was to balance out the teams. Ghost was a one man army, you were basically going to keep him company. Or so they thought. You didn’t plan on sharing a single conversation with him, and you knew you could easily hold your own. The 141 had plans of not only taking down Rowe but finding out whoever he was working with. So, they couldn’t just pick him off in his apartment building. 

After the briefing and everyone knew their role people started to filter back out. You stayed behind to speak with Price, having a few questions of your own.

“Captain,” you started and he turned back around, “Why ask for me?” This assignment was only temporary, you weren’t a part of the 141, but Price could have picked anyone in the world to help with this job. 

“I read your file,” he closed the door behind him, coming to meet you by the table again, “You have an impressive background, and it makes me wonder why you chose the medical field.”

You were at the top of your class for both basics and medical school, so it was a genuine curiosity. He also probably had access to your life before enlistment, “It’s what I wanted,” was the only answer you could give him, and it’s the only one you had.

He hummed, his eyes turning to slits, “Then why agree?” 

“I’ve been waiting for something like this since day one. How was I supposed to say no?” You’ve been waiting for an opportunity to show your versatility. This mission might have been overkill but it was what you wanted. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

“You’re a strange one,” Price crossed his arms over his chest, “You’ll fit in great,” he looked like he had something else to say but changed his mind. He tilted his head towards the door, “Better go and get some rest, we leave at 0400 tomorrow.”   

You nodded, parting off with a “Thank you,” before heading to the door.

“Can we talk?” Ghost was waiting outside the door when you left the room. 

You shot him a blank look, “About?” you kept walking down the hall not waiting to hear his answer. 

He followed after you, “I want to apologize.” 

You exited the building and met with a blast of the hot sticky air of summer, the sun was getting low in the sky, “Go ahead, Judas” you turned to him, making eye contact with his chest. You gritted your teeth when you had to look up at him, “I’ll keep it civil for the sake of the mission but I don’t want to be your friend.”

His shoulders loosened as if he had just received the best news, “I understand,” he shifted back on his feet, his tired eyes scanning the area, before returning to you, “I was out of line. I was mixing private affairs with work, I see that now. And I’m sorry. I was being selfish and I wasn’t taking your needs and wants into consideration. So, if you’ll give me some grace and let me show you how good I can be.”  

“Keep your fingers out of my business and I’ll think about it,” you quipped. 

He lifted his hands before him, splaying his fingers out before curling them into a fist, “They’re put away,” he might have broken your trust and crossed you but he was still the friend you lost and missed. He was going to have to work for it either way. This was a start.    

“We can talk more later,” where there were fewer listening ears and watchful eyes. “I’ll come to you when I’m good and ready. For now, just stay away from me,” you’d think after 3 months you’d have figured out what you’d say to him, but you didn’t. And tomorrow you were going to be trapped in a room with him, so you were going to have to cross your t's and dot your i’s tonight to present them to him for tomorrow. 

He physically flinched at the dismissal, but he took a step back, providing you with space, “Of course.”  

Your chest twisted at the sight, you didn’t like treating him like a disease, but you refused to let it blind you of the truth. Still. You sighed, cursing yourself for what you were about to say, “Thank you, for apologizing.” 

His eyes crinkled in the corners and you could have sworn they gave way to a smile. The awe-worthy occurrence was sadly hidden underneath his mask. You rolled your eyes at him before pivoting and walking towards the barracks.      

You sat with Laswell on a stray crate on the tarmac while you waited for the rest of the team to arrive. The two of you just people watched, with her occasionally pointing someone out and telling you a little about them. This guy was grounded a couple of weeks ago because he arrived at work still drunk from the night before. That guy had a crazy, entitled wife. 

The chopper started its engine and was ready for lift-off at exactly 0359.   

“Doc, about our talk yesterday. I also figured you want to take part and get some revenge for yourself,” Price bellowed over the sound of the chopper, and he ducked below the propellers. Realization sprung to life in your chest. Price had asked for you to be on this mission because you had something to gain from it. This Rowe guy, this squealer had been the one to rat out the convoy to the enemy. He was the reason you were injured, and the reason Butters was dead. This wasn’t the sleight of hand of Ghost but Price. It put your nerves at ease and allowed you to be a little less angry with the former.      

“I appreciate it, Sir,” you nodded at Price.  He clapped a hand over your shoulder and hopped into the helicopter after you. Being squished between Price and Soap made you feel a little safer with the fact that there were no doors on the heli. Ghost took his spot on the side of the heli, letting his legs hang out the side, his gun at the ready. Gaz sat opposite him and Laswell adjacent to you. Her pack and gun took up an entire seat. She reached into her front pouch as the heli lifted off the ground, pulling out a chocolate bar. Your mouth watered. Chocolate was hard to come back at base, people traded whole MREs for one bar. Soap handed you a headset for the chopper just as she noticed your drooling expression. 

“If you promise you can get an appointment with the chiro, I’ll give you some,” she waggled the bar in front of her, a trade.

“I know both the chiropractor and the masseuse,” you countered. She made a look of delight, before reaching into her pack and tossing you your own bar. 

Oh, you liked her.    

You stuffed the back into the small day pack at your feet, saving it for later. Acutely aware that if you opened it here at least two people on this aircraft would put their hand out for a piece. You eyed Gaz and Soap. 

The helicopter had been an hour's flight, and they had landed on a field. Without permission, you might add so you had to be quick on the exit. A line of blacked-out SUVs and trucks was waiting for a quick escape. Price ordered everyone to join up with their duo, and head to their discussed position. 

Ghost strode for one of the SUVs, opening the back to place his pack and guns. He stepped to the side to allow you to do the same and closed it after you. He was spinning the keys around his finger when he turned to you, “Who’s driving?” 

You didn’t respond, instead, you opened the passenger door and slid in. From the side mirror, you could see him look up at the sky, take a couple of deep breaths, then clasp his hands together before moving to enter the car. He was silent the rest of the way, his attention on the road. Even through the mask, you could see his jaw tighten and flex. 

He parked the SUVs at the back of the building, between the wall and another vehicle. He lead you into the building, a warehouse or collection center of some sort into the offices on the second floor. He pointed out exit routes and potential areas to hold our position. The gravity of his pointing stuff out like that said a lot about how he thought this mission was going to pan out. The thought should have frightened you but knowing that the Ghost was fighting on the same side as you had the opposite effect. The office he brought you into was already vacant, with nothing but an empty desk and a chair on each side. He locked the door and placed his gun on the desk, and informed Price over the radio that we were in place. You made your way to the window, pulling one of the vanes down to peek outside. The window gave a good view of the entrance of the port and a decent view of the sea cans.       

“How long will he have to camp out here?” you asked, letting go of the blinds. 

“The day. Maybe into tomorrow,” he shrugged, as he started pulling things from his pack, “Depends on Rowe, really. Price and Gaz have the biggest probability of catching him. Laswell is going to be our eyes in the sky, and Soap already has access to the cameras in Rowe’s apartment, and a couple in this harbour.” 

You took a seat in one of the swivel chairs, “And you?” 

He paused, his eyes refusing to meet yours, “I’m more for after we catch him,” he cleared his throat. The question made him awkward, he didn’t want you to know what exactly it was that he did. You had your ideas and presumptions already but his hesitation had you second guessing.   

“You the one who’s going to get the information out of him?” he picked up one of the blades he had laid out on the desk, turning it over in your hand. He watched you, following your movements with predatory grace. 

“Is that why I’m here?” you continued, “To make sure he stays alive long enough to give you that information?” He was the butcher and you were the surgeon. A strange dichotomy. 

He stilled, “I don’t want you to see it.”      

“It”, being what he was going to do. What he was trained to do. What he was good at. You placed the knife back on the table, pushing away with the wheels on the chair. You prepared yourself for the upcoming confession. Playing this out in your head last night was way easier than actually doing it.  

“You know, I think you and I have very similar pasts,” you looked down at your hands, at the lines and curves etched into them.

“Don’t say that,” he shook his head, and his shoulders rolled forward. 

“I also think we took very different paths, though,” you saw it in his eyes the moment you met, the wounds that were too deep to see on the surface. It was why you understood him, and why you were going to forgive him, “You don’t have to hide it from me, Riley. I’ve seen the worst in humanity, and I know that you are nothing like them”  

You didn’t think he was breathing, didn’t think he was in his body. When you met his stare, his eyes were wide, and his pupils were pinpricks. You stood up from the chair and walked to his side of the table, “Can I touch you?” 

It was barely noticeable but he nodded. You wrapped your arms underneath his arm and pressed your cheek to his shoulder. He immediately returned the gesture, his arms encircling your shoulders, his one hand reaching up to cradle your head to him. He released a shuddering breath, and if you closed your eyes and focused hard enough you could hear his heart hammering against his chest. 

“There isn’t anything you can do that will make me think you're a monster,” you whispered into his shoulder, “Aside from maybe sabotaging my career,” it was almost a joke. 

“Noted,” you could hear the smile in between his words. Feel the relief thawing his muscles. You pulled back just as Soap and Laswell confirmed their position. Ghost took a step back himself, “We should get set up.”  

He pushed the desk so it was against the same wall as the window, propping his gun onto and looked down the scope to the entrance of the port. 

You settled down and at the end of the desk, it was going to be a long, boring wait. You set to counting the bullets in the magazine Ghost pulled from his pack if only to find something to distract yourself. You were elated when he pulled a deck of cards from his pack and the two of you played a couple of rounds of poker, then switched to go fish. There was also the occasional chatter about what each other did in the three months you were separated. The both of you had become incredibly busy. 

It was nearing dusk by the time anything of importance aired over the radio. 

Price’s eager voice came through, “Ghost, Doc, we’re following the informants to the port. Be at the ready.”    

Part 3.5, Part 4

Masterlist  ❤︎  Tag List Form   

A/N - the sniper bullet is Soap, the lighter is Price, the toy skeleton is Ghost, the angel wing is Gaz, and the battery is Laswell. Also, also, Price is definitely playing Cupid.

Tag List - @thychuvaluswife ❤︎ @shuttlelauncher81 ❤︎ @marytvirgin​ ❤︎ @stickygumchewer​ ❤︎ @lauraliisa​ ❤︎ @jungcoccc ❤︎ @lovelyladymayyyy​ ❤︎ @lululandd​ ❤︎ @chrissyfishywissy​ ❤︎ @naxxsstuff​ ❤︎@sididakra-jo,   @yukisawer​ ❤︎ @q8852p ❤︎ @lostinsideourminds ❤︎ @kat-nee

[arealphrooblem]

Mutually Assured Destruction Pt 2

THANK YOU SO MUCH to the huge response to this, I never expected that being so new to this circle of writers. I squealed at every like and reblog and comment.

Synopsis: Villain x Civilian. Civilian can sense other people's powers through auras but hides this ability. They are terrified of the most boring person at their office job, who hides the most powerful aura Civilian has ever felt.

Part 1 here. Tagging @heroes-villains-side-blog and @follow-me-into-the-fog

The taqueria was dimly lit with Formica tables and brightly colored murals of vaguely Mexican landscapes, which meant the tacos were obscenely good.

Civilian tried hard not to be grateful as they bit into their taco as delicately as they could, their fingers stained with the mess of the previous taco. Jonathan’s tacos, on the other hand, had remarkable structural integrity and did not break once.

“How are you doing that?” they blurted out.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow as he dotted away taco grease with his napkin. “Doing what?”

“Your tacos don’t fall apart. How?”

“Perhaps that’s my power.” He smirked.

Civilian rolled their eyes, trying not to let the spike in their heart rate show on their face. So caught up in the surrealness of a dinner date, they had almost forgotten just what a precarious position they were in.

In fact, despite the blatant coercion to be here, this did not rank as the worst date Civilian ever had. Not even in the top ten. Jonathan paid for dinner, fetched napkins and extra beer, and allowed Civilian the space to quietly freak out while he ate in contented silence.

“I’ve never had a taco shell that didn’t break in my entire life, so I almost believe you.”

He gives them that same calculating stare he did in the elevator. “You’re not curious about what I can do?”

“No.” (A lie).

“Really? Not even a little?”

“I think knowing would make it worse.” (The truth).

Just knowing his aura has garnered too much attention as it was.

He smirked. “Afraid if you knew, I’d never let you go?”

Hearing their deepest fear voiced aloud caused a dizzy swoop in their gut. It wasn’t just Jonathan Civilian had to worry about. If anyone knew their true power, they would be a target to the Agency, to other villains, to the government. They could kiss their freedom goodbye.

Being “courted” by Jonathan was the least of their worries, and yet it meant the the threat of their freedom as a constant presence. If there was a chance Civilian could talk their way out of this arrangement, they had to take it.

Civilian swallowed. “You’re not actually serious about this, right? This fake dating thing?”

“Of course I’m serious.” He leaned forward across the table and Civilian unconsciously mirrored him. “I have certain plans in place. You are the one person who could disrupt them.”

“The last thing I want is to get involved with whatever the hell it is you’re doing,” Civilian hissed. “I’m not a hero.”

“There’s no way I can know right now that with any certainty. And so, until I do, you will have a very dedicated and considerate partner.”

Civilian bit back a groan as they imagined the kind of gossip this sudden relationship would inspire, especially since Civilian tried so hard to avoid Jonathan before. Wait a second . . .

“HR doesn’t allow workplace relationships,” they said triumphantly. “They would fire us.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he found Civilian’s protests amusing. “That rule only bans relationships between superiors and the people that work under them. It doesn’t apply to us. Don’t worry, I will file our relationship with HR tomorrow morning since tonight marks our first date.”

Shit damn fuck. Civilian could protest the relationship or they could report Jonathan to HR for stalking or harassment but that only puts a target on Civilian’s back for his retaliation. He could kill them or worse -- report them.

Mutually assured destruction.

Jonathan drains the rest of his beer before nodding to Civilian’s unfinished food.

“Let me get you a to-go box and we shall be on our way, then?”

He drove them back to the parking garage at work and walked Civilian to their car. Civilian wasted no time getting their keys out, gripped by the sudden fear that perhaps Jonathan would reconsider letting them walk free.

And indeed when his hand darted out and gripped their door before it could shut, Civilian’s heart leaped in their throat.

“You’re going to leave before our goodnight kiss?” he asked, his gaze expectant and serious.

“What?” Civilian choked.

He held that stare for a moment before an evil smirk broke across his face.

“The look on your face. I should be insulted at how abhorrent the thought is to you. Goodnight, Civilian. I will see you in the morning.”

A threat and a promise.

Civilian feels the weight of his stare all the way out to the streets.

Part Three Here

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

An armed drone hit a school in Eilat. Seven kids had to be taken to a hospital. We still don't officially know who sent the attack drone, or how it wasn't intercepted. The options are that it was either sent from Yemen (less likely), from the ISIS terrorists in Sinai (Egypt) or from Jordan. Just a reminder: Eilat has a population of 51,000 and it has absorbed at least 60,000 of the evacuated Israelis who had survived Hamas' massacre.

In an independent terrorist attack, Palestinians fired at an Israeli car, wounding two adults (one severely and one moderately), but thankfully missing the baby who was also in the vehicle.

The Mossad (the Israeli equivalent of the CIA) helped authorities in Brazil prevent a Hezbollah terrorist attack against Jews there. In 1994, Hezbollah successfully carried out a terrorist attack against a Jewish community center in Argentina, killing 85 people and injuring over 300. Hezbollah is currently still attacking Jewish communities in Israel's north with rockets and drones.

Yesterday, for the first time in decades, Jews prayed in the ancient, 1,500 years old synagogue in Gaza (yes, older than the Arab colonization of the Land of Israel). Here's a delegation of archeologists examining the mosaic floor of the synagogue:

The mosaic includes the image of the Jewish King David, playing a lyre, with his name appearing in Hebrew letters.

The IDF has explicitly put out the message for Gazans today, that if Hamas is stopping them from evacuating, they can turn to the Israeli army for help.

Hamas' second in command in Gaza, Khalil al-Haja, told the New York Times, that the purpose of the massacre wasn't to bring prosperity to Gaza, it's to create a permanent state of war for Israel on all of its borders (meaning by facilitating a regional war, forcing other Middle Eastern elements to join the war against Israel).

HonestReporting is an NGO that was established in 2000 to combat the anti-Israel bias in many news outlets (it happened because a pic of an Israeli policeman saving a Jewish American tourist from Arabs attacking him, was published by the New York Times as the pic of an Israeli policeman attacking a Palestinian).

Now, HonestReporting has published a report on Gazan journalists, who provided materials for Reuters, AP, CNN and the New York Times, and were there for Hamas' massacre, on the border of Israel, early in the morning on Saturday (Israel's day of rest). HR is posing the question of how did these journalists know to be present there, at that time. HR is also pointing out that they entered Israel together with Hamas' terrorists, raising ethical questions about their presence and inaction at the scene of these horrors as they were happening. Following the report, HR was also sent a pic of one of these journalists been kissed on the cheek by Yahya Sinwar, the head of Hamas in Gaza.

I find it so touching when people from backgrounds hostile to Israel, still manage to look beyond that, and see us as people. This is the bridge to the peace that I personally still wanna believe we'll have in this region one day:

Israeli police is putting together a case against the Hamas terrorists who executed the massacre, and who were caught alive. So far, over 700 testimonies of survivors have been collected, as well as tens of thousands of digital files. The terrorists' interrogations will also be included. Some of these have been published. One thing that they recounted is that they were given religious permission to murder women, children and babies. They also said that the purpose of the rapes and beheadings was to terrify the Israeli public. Lastly, they admitted that the plan was to make it from southern Israel to the central region, too (where Tel Aviv and Jerusalem are).

This is Avihu Mori, he was recognized as a mental health patient, due to severe PTSD. Every time Palestinian rockets were fired into Israel, his family said he would start falling apart, and acting illogically. During the current war, it happened again, he ran away, crossed the border into Gaza and was killed there.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)