#the issue with this line is is that i have to come up with names for them otherwise they just become ‘that one’

[tobeholyistobeempty]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

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[shyxcherry]

caught in the act | leehan

summary: when your crush leaves you all hot and bothered, you sneak off to get some relief. too bad that said crush hears you moaning out his name.

pairing: leehan x female!reader

warning: pure smut with a little fluff (fingering, oral (f), spanking, unprotected sex, leehan has a filthy mouth)

word count: 3.2k

notes: request! this was not supposed to be this long lol. i blame my period for this...

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

you often regretted the day that your roommate introduced you to her friend group. they were all great, and you fit in perfectly. there was only one issue. you had the biggest crush on one of them- leehan.

it was all your fault really. you had no one to blame but yourself, but you couldn't help it. his soft eyes were so enchanting. you could stare into them for hours, and you have as you listened to him rant about a subject that you could honestly care less about. you also found yourself staring at his lips, watching the shapes he makes when he's not paying attention to you, wishing to know what they felt like against yours.

and god, his voice. you were pretty sure he could read you the encyclopedia, and you would be entertained. it was just so soothing, always calming you down. one time when you drank too much, you told him that. he didn't tease you for it which shocked you. instead, he told you to call him whenever you wanted to hear him, so now when you can't sleep, you call him. he'll talk to you about anything until he hears the soft breaths signaling that you fell asleep.

you knew you were down bad for him when he brought you with him to get another fish, and he told you which one would be perfect for you. so of course you got it, and now you have a fish named yin to match his new fish that he named yang. he helps you take care of it, often coming over to make sure you're following his directions.

your roommate teases you endlessly for you very obvious crush. she even brought leehan's friend, jaehyun into your teasing. they tried endlessly to get you to confess to him because you would be waiting forever for leehan to confess (jaehyun's words), but you always refused. you valued his friendship way too much to confess when you're not even sure he felt the same way. they were certain he did, but you still wouldn't do it.

lately, he's been leaving you hot and bothered. it didn't help that it's summer, so he's been walking around in tank tops and showing off his arms. today wasn't any different. all of you were at jaehyun's house playing a game, and the loser had to jump into the pool. leehan lost and didn't even take any of his clothes off before he cannonballed into the pool.

you felt nauseous as got out of the pool. his hair slicked back and showing off his forehead. his clothes were sticking to his body, and you swore you could see ab lines from where his shirt was clinging to his stomach. you felt like you couldn't take it anymore. so when he went upstairs to change, you told everyone you weren't feeling good before leaving. you played it off pretty good because none of them teased you like they normally did. your roommate even offered to go with you, but you refused.

that leaves you where you were now, softly moaning leehan's name as your vibrator ran across your clit. you imagined it was him laying on top of you, mouth running across your body while he held the vibrator to you, whispering everything he was going to do to you. your eyes shut in pleasure, back arching when you press the vibrator harder. right as you felt yourself getting close, you heard someone knock on your door, nearly making you jump out of your skin.

"yn." you heard your name being called from the other side of the door, and you nearly scream when you recognize the voice as leehan's. "are you in there?"

"just a sec!" you quickly shut off the vibrator before throwing it in your drawer. you fix your shorts before getting up. you run your hands down your shirt as you open the door. leehan was standing there with a concerned look on his face. you move back and let him in before shutting the door. "what are you doing here?"

"jaehyun said you weren't feeling good, so i wanted to come and check on you."

thankfully leehan wasn't looking at you, so he couldn't see your face. he did his usual, going to check on your fish before laying down across the end of your bed. you join him, leaning on the head rest as you cross your legs.

"you didn't have to do that. i think i just got overheated."

leehan looked over to you, slowly examining you to make sure you weren't lying. "so you're feeling better now?"

you wanted to say no. if he would've came five minutes later after you had gotten yourself off, you would've been fine. but now here you were, sexually frustrated with the one who is causing it laying right in front of you.

"yep. feeling much better." leehan hummed at your answer.

"then why did it take you so long to open the door?" you had to stop your eyes from widening at his question. you motioned to the bathroom that was connected to your room.

"i was in the bathroom."

"you didn't sound like you were in the bathroom."

you force out a laugh at him as you try not to freak out. "what are you? an interrogator?"

"no." he answered. "i just want to know why it took you so long to open the door."

"i just told you. i was in the bathroom."

"no you weren't." leehan argued with you. you shift under his gaze but was determined not to break like you normally did.

"is the heat getting to you too?" you ask. "because i'm pretty sure i was in the bathroom. i would know."

leehan clicked his tongue like he was scolding you. "you're lying to me."

"no i'm not."

"yes you are."

"what makes you think i'm lying to you?" you ask, getting fed up with him. he rolled over on his side, smirking at you and catching you off guard.

"i was standing at your door long before i decided to knock."

you felt your mouth dry up as you blink at him. he heard you. your friend heard you moaning his name while you pleasured yourself. you felt like you wanted to cry, especially since you couldn't tell how he was feeling. your mind told you he was teasing you due to the smirk on his face that still hasn't left.

you quickly untangle your legs before making a break for the bathroom. he tried to grab you, but you were too fast, closing and locking the door before he could get to you. you felt tears hit your cheeks as your back slides down the wall.

leehan knocked on the door. "yn, open the door."

"no." you willed your voice to come out strong, but it shook at the end. you knew leehan could tell you were crying be he cursed when he heard you.

"please open the door."

"please leave." you beg.

"i'm not leaving, yn." you heard leehan sigh. you could hear him shift like he was sitting down in front of the door. "i'm not leaving until we talk about this."

you kept quiet, not wanting to respond. you knew he wouldn't leave. he was too stubborn. once he said he was doing something, no one could stop him from it. "how long were you standing there?"

"long enough." he answered.

"can you just reject me and leave?"

"why would i reject you?" you scoff at his question.

"oh please. you were on the verge of laughing."

"i wasn't going to laugh." he replied softly. you shook your head, not believing him.

"then why were you smiling like that?"

"because i was thinking about how good you sounded while moaning my name." you nearly choke at his answer. "i had imaging how you sounded for months, and somehow you sounded so much better than anything i could've imagined. and its driving me crazy that you're locked behind this door, and i can't touch you."

you were stunned by his answer. you could hear the desperation in his voice towards the end. you quietly stood up before moving towards the door. "you- you like me back?"

you hear him shuffle as he quickly stood up once he heard how close you were to the door. "how could i not? you're like the most perfect person i've ever met."

you wipe your face, getting rid of the dried tears before you unlock the door. you didn't even get a chance to open it before leehan barged into your bathroom. you barely had a chance to look at him when his hands gripped your cheeks, pulling your lips to his. you gasped at the actions before kissing him back.

he kissed you deeply, hands roaming your body like he was trying to memorize everything about you. your back hit the counter when he backed you up. he easily lifted you up, sitting you on the counter as his tongue slipped into your mouth, exploring every inch of you.

you felt your head spin, and you tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let you. he chased after your lips, molding them to yours as he pulled you closer to him. his grip was tight on your legs, tight enough to leave bruises as he wrapped them around his waist. his erection was poking through his shorts, brushing against your heat and causing you to moan into his mouth at the friction.

"you drive me insane." his voice deep with lust. he moved his head, sucking and biting at every inch of your exposed neck, making you squirm in his hold. "it took everything in me not to barge in and fuck you when you said my name. you would've like that though, wouldn't you baby?" you nod desperately, too far gone to speak sentences. "is that what you want? for me to fill this pussy up the way she deserves?"

"leehan." you whimper, voice cracking with need as you cling to him. he bites your neck harder when his name leaves your lips. you hands grip the counter as you roll your hips against his, moaning again when his hips desperately bucked into yours.

his hands cup your ass, squeezing tightly as he pulls you flush against him before picking you up. "you're already a mess, and i've barely touched you. i can practically feel how soaked you are through your clothes, my desperate girl."

your back hit the soft mattress before leehan kneeled over you. his hands gripped your knees before prying your legs apart, exposing your core to him. one of his hands left your knee before his fingers ran over your shorts. you choke out a moan, lifting your hips at the contact. you hear him darkly chuckle at your desperation. "how bad do you want it, baby?"

"so bad- please." his hand leaves your core, running across your hip, leaving you whining at the loss of contact. his hand roughly kneed the smooth flesh of your thigh before slapping it, causing you to jump while desperately moaning his name again.

"i don't think you want it that bad. why would you run away if you wanted this?"

you shake your head at his words. "i want it- want you. i'm sorry for running. i didn't mean to. please, leehan."

leehan stops your pleas with his mouth, tongue coaxing yours, causing your hips to rut against his. he bites your lip at the action, holding your hips down before sliding his hand into the front of your shorts. you stutter against his lips as his fingers teasingly slide down your dripping cunt. "you're fucking dripping. all for me baby, right?" you nod your head, eyes rolling in the back of your head when his thumb finds your throbbing clit. "and to think you thought a vibrator would be better than me." you almost scream when his hand pinches your clit. "tell me. can your vibrator do this?"

you thrust into his hand, broken moans leaving your lips when he thrust two fingers into you. he doesn't give you any time to adjust, leaving you squeezing around his fingers as continued to shove his fingers deep inside of you. the wet sounds of your cunt along with your moans and whimpers brought a smile to leehan's face. "answer me, or i'm going to stop."

"p-please don't stop." you cry out. "it doesn't. n-nothing has felt even a fraction as good as you."

he rewards you, curling his fingers, hitting that spot that has you squeezing so tightly around him, he could barely move. tears prick your eyes, hips moving against his hand as he leans down. his lips brush yours, drowning your sounds with his lips. "why don't you be my good girl and take your shirt off, so i can see these pretty tits?"

his fingers don't stop moving at all, leaving you to try to sit up with shaky arms. your hands barely work which leaves leehan chuckling, before you pull the shirt over your head. you throw it before unhooking your bra, letting it slide down your arms before throwing it as well. leehan pushes you down, lips instantly finding your hardened nipple. your back arches into his mouth, whimpering when he bites the sensitive bud.

he marks every inch of your chest, leaving it glistening with his spit and bruises, making him groan against your lips at the sight of your trembling body. his name barely leaves your lips, legs tightening around his waist when your stomach clenches so hard it hurts.

"cum for me." he demands, hand finding your sore nipple before pinching it, causing you to cry out. "cum all over my fingers. make a mess."

you scream out his name as your orgasm ripped through your body. it left you shaking, clenching around his fingers that have yet to cease moving. he took his other hand, pulling your shorts down your legs, leaving him completely exposed to him. he stands by the edge of the bed, lustful eyes scanning over every inch of you. you tried to pull away from his hand that was still buried inside of you, causing him to slap your ass in warning.

"stop running from me." he growled, ripping his hand out of your cunt, leaving you moaning for more. he gripped your thighs, pulling you towards him. "roll over."

you did as he said, rolling over to your stomach and letting leehan position you the way he wanted you. your ass was in the air, leaving your face pressed into the mattress, back arched for him that nearly had him moaning your name. he rips off his shirt in one clean motion before kneeling down, lining his face up with your cunt. his hand held your folds open while he darted his tongue out, brushing over your puffy clit with a groan of how you sweet tasted.

he started out slow, tongue moving slowly as he circled your clit teasingly, smiling when he hears you moaning for more. "patience, baby. i'm just getting started." he presses a little harder, flicking his tongue over your clit before sucking the swollen bud, leaving you moaning his name clenching around nothing. "do you feel that? how much this pussy is begging for me? should i give her what she wants, baby?"

"yes. please, leehan." you voice full of need that leaves leehan straining in his pants. "i need you, so bad. please fuck me."

leehan groans at your words, shedding his shorts as he stands up. his dick hits your clit, making you moan at the feeling. you could feel him pulsing as he slowly ran his dick through your dripping folds, coating him in your slick. he soon got sick of the teasing, the two of you moaning out in unison as he slides into you in one slick thrust. he groans when he feels you clench around him at the stretch.

his warm breath was hot against your neck as he leaned over you, pressing his lips to your spine. "do you feel how well your pussy takes me? like you were fucking made for me?"

you can't do anything but moan at his words, lost as he completely fills you with his cock. he start out slow, tortuously slow, letting you feel every inch of him against your walls as he almost completely pulls back before thrusting back inside of you. his hands dig into your hips, nails leaving crescent shaped marks as he held you in place.

your eyes clench shut, tears pooling in the corners as he speeds up, slamming into you. your knuckles turn white from how hard your gripping the sheets. the only thing leaving your mouth was his name. "that's right, baby. let me hear you scream out my name. let every know who's fucking you stupid."

you cry out his name, eyes rolling back when his hands push on your stomach bulge. your back arches more with his touch, leaving your back the perfect canvas for leehan's lips. he leaves your entire back covered in bruises as he continues to slam into you, loving that you turned into a sobbing mess beneath him.

"my good girl." you cry when his hand threaded itself into your hair, yanking you up with a sharp tug, groaning when he feels you squeeze his dick. "you're just mine to ruin, aren't you?"

he could tell you were already there, tears running down your cheeks as you begged him. "leehan, please. i- i need you."

"you have me baby." he coos, tongue trailing along your cheek, catching the salty tears with a groan. "do you want more? are you going to let me fill this pussy, so she knows who she belongs to?"

"please."

he lets your hair go, your face pressing into the mattress as he picks up his speed. he groans when you squeeze around him, stomach coiling tightly, signaling your climax. his hand moved around you, mercilessly rubbing your clit. you see stars, clenching your eyes so tightly as you cum. leehan groans at the feeling of you, thrusting into you a few more times before he fills you with his release.

the two of you stay in that position as you come down from your highs. leehan leans over you, pressing sweet kisses to your spine which was a complete contrast to how he just was. his hands run soothing circles on your hips as he pulls out of you. you hiss at the loss of contact, letting leehan roll you over on your back before covering you with his body.

"you did so good, my sweet girl." you smile at the compliment, grabbing his face before kissing him which he responds to instantly. he runs his hands all over your body, massaging the tender areas, leaving you moaning into his mouth.

"we picked the worst time of the year to get together. we're all sweaty." you complain as you pull away. you were right- the both of you were covered in sweat. leehan's hair was damp and sticking to his forehead, and you could feel yours clinging to your neck.

leehan laughs against your lips before kissing you again. "it's not all bad."

"why's that?"

leehan wraps you around his body once again, making you gasp as he stands up. he laughs, kissing your cheek as he carries you back to where everything started.

"because now i get to clean you up before doing it all over again."

[jekyllnvibes]

More thoughts and analysis on Edwin, Fazbear Ent, and the themes of cyclical neglect, and inherent self-centeredness of the nuclear father figure that FNAF has, whether their intentions are based in care for their families or not.

Edwin Murray is shown throughout the game to place a lot of pressure to succeed on himself, live up to his father's legacy, and seems to believe that making something good out of the company will in turn, result in his family and friends being proud and happy with him. In his mind the good of the company is the good of everyone, after all it's his job, it's his wife's job, it's all of his friends' jobs. On top of that, he believes that as the head of MCM he is the only force that matters behind pushing the company towards success, based on his father's role in building and pushing the company to succeed before his death and his inheritance of the role after. As a result, he is socially neglectful with everyone in favor of his work, his family included, not because he doesn't care about them, but because he quite literally believes that the best way to care for them is to throw himself into his work in order to keep them financially secure (which is an interesting commentary and through line in all of FNAF: the cycle of neglect, and the commonality of self isolation and the financial savior complex that father's in the nuclear family dynamic have, as well as it's propensity to instead destroy families.)

These issues exist before fazbear ent gets involved, but they are made far worse when Henry and William step in to manipulate him via the Fazbear contract, because they are hitting him right in his biggest insecurities by targeting his company. William and Henry actively work to convince his employees to leave for Faz Ent instead, make last minute changes to their requests in order to try and force him to lapse on his contract and spend even more money on what was already becoming a money hole anyways, and then on top of that he loses his wife in the fall fest fire, (still theorizing on the cause of it, need to see the rest of the secrets to dig up first, much to come later,) and now has to navigate the idea of raising a child alone while ALSO keeping his currently failing company afloat, and as a result his issues with neglect become *even worse* until he also loses David, and in his grief, physically beats the fuck out of M2 for "mimicking" him (in quotes because it is implied M2 may be possessed by David.) and as a result of both that violence and the neglect M2 witnessed for it's entire existence, he is left to die after an accident regarding his work and M2. His own work, and his throwing himself into it, killed him, destroyed his family, and destroyed his company and the legacy of both himself and his father after Fazbear Ent swallows everything under its own name. Whether things would have gone down this way if Faz Ent had not been involved is unclear and irrelevant, because they *were* involved, and they *did* purposefully run his company into the ground, they are a direct symbol for the work related neglect, predatory capitalism, and the self-centeredness of the nuclear father figure featured in FNAF for it's entire run and ignoring them here is not doing justice to the themes on display.

The real meat comes in when you consider how this also reflects Henry and William's stories as well, which I already talked about ^ up there. Though I do have more thoughts I'm trying to parse out (like Edwin building M1/M2 to essentially babysit and protect David only to lose him anyways because he couldn't be assed to do so himself, and Henry built his iteration of Puppet to babysit and protect Charlie only to lose her anyways because he couldn't be assed to do so himself.)

SPOILERS FOR SECRET OF THE MIMIC UNDER THE CUT:

Okay but can we talk about the loop of karmic and thematic justice that both Henry and William face for their actions towards Edwin?

Yes, Edwin had a lot of problems and flaws before fazbear ent stepped in to fuck shit up for him further, but they were exacerbated and made infinitely worse by Henry and William manipulating him and carefully destroying his company and work for the purpose of trying to steal all of it.

He was a genius inventor, one with issues regarding familial neglect to be sure, but those issues were heavily based in a fear of running the company his dad built into the ground and disappointing his family and employees who he considered friends by doing so. He took the fazbear contract to try and bolster their success and make the people around him proud, and instead Henry and William used the contract to drain his company of every one of its employees, the right to the characters his wife designed, the very fucking factory and mansion itself, and because of that his neglect spiraled and got worse instead of better. He lost his wife originally, and that mixed with the fear and pressure of losing his company caused him to throw himself into his work and lose his child soon after. He lost Fiona to chance, but he lost David to his work.

And then Fazbear consumes his life's work and claims it for themself. And William loses his child to his work. And he tries to use his work to bring him back so hard, and instead loses another child to it. And Henry, stupid, gullible, cowardly, spineless, enables him the entire time, from his manipulation of Edwin until William's full spiral into a serial child murderer, and he doesn't stop until William takes his child too.

There's something poetic about Edwin Murray's life and work going up in flames in the true ending because of the predation of Fazbear Ent, only for every iteration of Fazbear Ent establisments afterwards to do the same. There's something poetic about Edwin having been consumed by his work to the point it destroyed his family, only to fail anyways, and then Henry and William becoming so consumed by their work that it destroys their families only to fail anyways.

[housemdork]

house md rewatch: 2x10, "failure to communicate"

they name-dropped one of my old medications!

no offense to anyone who happens to be on topamax, but that shit almost ruined my life a few years ago and i cringe to hear its name spoken aloud. i'm lamictal gang now. maybe if my former neurologist hadn't "failed to communicate" the side effects to me...

for whatever reason, i love this one. i find it well-rounded, digestible, and a good push forward for house and stacy. they've done a good job of mitigating the "will they, won't they" of it all by not having stacy around 24/7 (i love her character, but their dynamic would get stale quickly). i think the patient story is fascinating, it ties thematically in with the diagnosis, the team's issues, and the stacy b-plot, and it's especially house centric. i gravitate towards those...

famous writer and political journalist fletcher stone is admitted for aphasia, among other things, and the first we meet him, he's giving a retirement speech to his editor and lauding the merits of the journalism field. by his profession, fletcher values exposure, truth, and transparency; he says that you "never give up a source," the later irony being that he becomes the source that cannot be given up because he can't articulate himself.

the remainder of the episode penalizes communication/discovery that's reliant on technology in the same way fletcher's history as a successful journalist privileges in-person stories, getting people face-to-face to answer the hard question. the diagnosis is only discovered after they symbolically "crack" the witness (decode his aphasia) and examine a blood sample under a microscope. even house is loath to communicate via technology (with his cellphone) and resorts to an analogue way of speaking with the patient from hundreds of miles away - writing his broken speech on the airport wall:

this is not to say that 2x10 offers person-to-person communicate as the solution, however. it's never that simple, as myriad mini interpersonal conflicts are inhibiting this case, too:

at the micro level, wilson's tender conversation with an oncology nurse is interrupted by house's phone call (for the better lol). wilson continues to be house's tether to PPTH, too, which is odd because it's never even suggested that fletcher has cancer, but if anyone can get through to house, even amidst a tense encounter with stacy, it would be wilson. lol.

when stacy is with house solving his Medicaid Issue, we see that she can manipulate person-to-person communication well, and that she's very willing to do so. this coincides well with fletcher thematically, who would seek to deconstruct stacy per his career, in the same way house does! piece by piece, exposing, peeling back layers, etc.

foreman, cameron, and chase are wholly at odds now that foreman is "in charge" without house present. cameron's insistence that they're grownups who "can come to a consensus" doesn't pan out well. they frequently come to 3-way ties that cuddy tries to break, and by the time house is Literally called in as the calvary, 3 of fletcher's organ systems have shut down.

mark and stacy's communication is so fractured that they're "fighting over nothing," except the nothing in question is thematically relevant, too - they're fighting about mail delivery! we can assume that they mean to communicate to someone via mail (the slowest, most methodical way), and they can't even cross that hurdle together. oof.

house and stacy can only make amends in retrospect; stacy doesn't even want to talk, going so far as to tell house to shut up once they finally kiss (this was so hot btw). it's also compelling that she breaks her cool first under house's line of questioning (in character), and then in the face of his sincerity (rare for him).

regarding foreman and leadership, i wanted to make a note about what i'm calling High Road Foreman. this coincides with his knack for self-reflection that house doesn't have. the episode starts with cuddy taking lighthearted jabs at his leadership with foreman insisting that he can handle it with house's skill and without his orneriness. but as 2x10 progresses, his confidence waves some. chase takes care to poke fun at this when they encounter an unfinished construction project in fletcher's home:

"he probably thought he could take the project on. then he realized it was a little more than he could handle...what happened to the foreman who always has an answer? the guy who practically wears a sign saying 'i'm as good as house but nicer...'now that it's all on you?"

this is, to me, a true observation, albeit harsh. and while foreman's impulse (and probably most people's) might be to lash out and deny, he makes a distinctly un-house-like choice and admits that "it's different." he's in a new situation, he's adjusting, and he sees that acknowledging that is good for the team overall. he takes the High Road! i just really like this moment; it humanizes foreman so deeply and makes later moments where he's tested (looking at you, "euphoria" parts 1 and 2) even more impactful.

there's also a fleeting moment between cuddy and foreman that i just adore so much that it gets its own section here. foreman begs cuddy to lie to fletcher's wife so they can get the truth out of him; she retorts with, "tell me. if it is you aim to sell me the same crazy ideas that house does, how are you an improvement on house?"

to which foreman says: "i brought you a coffee."

THIS IS JUST SO CUTE. HE'S A NICE GUY, MAN. DON'T LET HOUSE POISON YOU, ERIC. GET OUT OF THERE (i know that you try and that it never works).

finally, i want to note that there is even more evidence of house md conflating "the puzzle" to kindness, or more evidence confirming that house has an innate kindness (that even cameron couldn't quite get to). qualifying house's choice to not sleep with stacy as a way of preserving his conscience feels too easy; he has a dozen other reasons not to besides the case at hand. it's the patient, fletcher, the mystery, that draws him away in the end. he doesn't have any personal connection with fletcher - he solves the episode's endemic communication problem & diagnoses him over the phone - but fletcher here is another iteration of The Puzzle.

the house and stacy arc has been making a beeline for this exact moment. the show even has a precedent for cheating, however subtle through wilson, so audiences may have a hard time imagining house being the bigger person and stopping things. but it's the thematic shift of the puzzle that accomplishes this smoothly. time and time again, characters deem his obsession with "the puzzle" as a horrible flaw of house's. it definitely is, it costs him relationships, happiness, etc., but it's also where his life's work happens. it's how he saves people. it's how he practices that deific sort of love, the all-encompassing kind, that i keep talking about.

overall? excellent episode. i'm not sure if this one is beloved or not. sometimes i feel like my favs are odd choices lol, but i think that 2x10 plays out smoothly, efficiently, and acts as a good momentum push in the middle-ish of the season. plus, everyone got a little screen time. even cuddy!!

also - the wilson slut era is a go. they're charging him up again...2x14 calls to me...

[whisperedmeg]

THE LAW OF TRULY LARGE NUMBERS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x analyst!reader

summary: the law of truly large numbers says coincidences are inevitable. but somehow, running into spencer reid never stops feeling like fate.

genre: fluff! | w/c: 3.4k

tags/warnings: none really. reader has some self-image issues and insecurities related to a sucky ex but nothing too crazy. glasses!reid, reader works for the fbi but not the bau, written with fem!reader in mind but could pass for gn!reader too if you ignore one use of the world “girl,” story takes place over the course of a few weeks but I wasn’t wildly specific about it

a/n: based on this request from @oh-yourloveis-sunlight! this ended up getting longer than I intended originally but oh well, I was having way too much fun coming up with ideas for how they’d run into each other next lol. hope you enjoy, tysm for requesting! ❣️

You first meet Spencer Reid at 8:21am on a Tuesday morning.

You’re holding a paper bag of still-warm pastries because your unit chief is on a “morale boost” kick this week and nothing says team bonding like volunteering to bring in baked goods. You’re thinking about the long day ahead and how stale the break room coffee is going to be and not watching where you’re going when the elevator doors open and—

You almost walk straight into him.

He’s tall. Tall-tall. And thin in a slightly unwell academic way, tousled brown hair parted on the side, honey brown eyes wide and blinking at you through browline glasses.

“Sorry,” you both say at once. You take a step back. So does he. Then he does that thing people do where he gestures for you to go ahead, and you hesitate before stepping forward at the same time as him, and now you’re doing an awkward, uncoordinated dance in front of a steel box.

Eventually, you both make it in.

You press the button for floor 5. He presses 6. Someone else gets in and hits the button for 4.

You stand silently. He glances at you. Then down at the floor. Then at your badge, clipped to the waistband of your dress pants. Then at the bag of pastries.

“The cinnamon ones are the best. If those are from Van’s, I mean,” he says tentatively.

You blink. “They are, actually.”

He nods. “They use Saigon cinnamon. It’s from Vietnam. It’s stronger, a little spicier than regular cinnamon. I—sorry, I’ve, uh, read a lot about spices recently.”

You don’t have time to answer before the doors open and he’s stepping out into the hallway, manila file folder tucked under his arm.

It takes you a second to realize he got off on the fourth floor with the other passenger by mistake. You catch him making an embarrassed, awkward turn back toward the elevators once he’s halfway down the hall before the metal doors slide shut.

You think about Saigon cinnamon and those glasses for the rest of the day.

—

Friday morning, 9:12am. You’re running horribly late.

You’ve got a USB stick in your hand and a mission in your head — get it encrypted, get it cleaned up, get it into the system by 10am. You’re halfway through the lobby when someone says your name.

You freeze. Turn. He’s already waving.

It takes you a second to place him without the glasses.

He’s wearing contacts today. His hair’s a little neater. Another soft sweater — burgundy this time — and a leather messenger bag slung across his chest like he just walked out of a grad seminar.

“Hey,” he says, catching up with you near the badge check. “Van’s cinnamon pastries, right?”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re still thinking about those?”

“Hard not to,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m Spencer,” he adds, like you don’t already know that from his badge, same way you assume he knew your name.

You both hesitate. You’re painfully aware of the USB drive in your hand and the growing line of people waiting for the elevators and the clock ticking steadily toward 10am. Your eyes dart to the stairs — they seem to be the fastest option.

He shifts his weight, pushes his hair back behind one ear.

“Can I walk you up?”

You blink. “What?”

“To wherever you’re going. I’m headed to the sixth floor, but I’m not in a rush. We’re between cases right now.”

You laugh. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“Too late,” he says, and he falls into step beside you.

—

It’s raining when you see him again.

Not dramatic rain, just a halfhearted Virginia drizzle that dampens your sleeves while you fumble with your umbrella and mutter curses under your breath. You duck into the small coffee shop across from the office — the one with the black bistro tables and an overfilled bulletin board — and shake the water from your coat as you slide into line.

You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy debating between hot chocolate and your usual latte.

But then someone behind you says your name.

You turn, and there he is.

Spencer.

Hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. Glasses fogged. Sweater vest layered under a coat too thin for this kind of weather. He smiles at you — tentative, like he’s not sure if you’ll smile back.

“Hi,” you say, a little breathless. “You following me?”

He blushes. “No, I’m—I mean, we both work across the street, so it’s not, um, statistically improbable we’d run into each other here.”

“I’ll chalk it up to fate.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and steps up beside you.

“Can I guess your order?” he asks.

You arch a brow. “You’re going to profile my coffee?”

He shrugs. “I can try.”

“Be my guest.”

He tilts his head. “You work long hours. You probably don’t get enough sleep. You must drink something with espresso in it, but not just that — it has to be dressed up enough to feel like a treat. Maybe a seasonal flavor.”

Your jaw drops a little. “Okay, that’s… freakishly accurate.”

“Caramel latte?” he guesses.

“Close. Pumpkin,” you admit. “But that was impressive.”

He shrugs again, cheeks a little pink. “Lots of practice.”

A few minutes later, you’re both perched at one of the tiny round tables by the fogged-up window, drinks in hand, steam curling up between you. You’re technically on your break. So is he. Neither of you seems eager to get back.

You ask what he’s working on. He tells you about his last case, a triple homicide in Texas. Then he asks about your job, and you explain — badly — what exactly a tech analyst does for a department that isn’t the BAU. You’re pretty sure you’re boring him to death, but he’s watching you like you’ve just quoted Wordsworth.

“You talk with your hands a lot,” he says, after a pause.

You blink. “What?”

“When you’re excited,” he adds, quickly. “Not all the time. Just when you’re explaining something that matters to you. You kind of —” he makes a vague fluttering motion with his fingers, “— move them like you’re sculpting the air or something.”

Your face burns. You wrap your hands around your coffee cup.

“Oh. Yeah. That,” you murmur. “My ex used to say it was distracting.”

Spencer’s expression shifts. It’s subtle, but you see it — a flicker of something protective in his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s distracting,” he says. “I think it’s cute.”

You freeze.

He freezes.

The moment folds in on itself. His face goes pink again, and he ducks his head as he mutters something about meaning it in a completely observational way, not, you know—

You interrupt before he can spiral further. “Spencer.”

He looks up.

You smile. “It’s okay.”

There’s a beat of silence between you. Rain patters softly against the glass. In your chest, something flutters.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just a friendly coffee. A weird coincidence of schedules and elevators and cinnamon pastries. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all.

But when he offers to walk you back — and when you say yes — your heart betrays you a little.

—

The FBI library isn’t exactly cozy. It smells like aging carpet and copier toner, but there’s still something about it that you’ve always found comforting. Especially on days like today, when your code has glitched five separate times and someone on your team said “let’s pivot” like that actually means anything and you just need a break away from a screen.

You’re curled up at one of the long wooden tables near the back with a spiral notebook, a pencil, and a pile of casefiles your unit chief asked you to cross-reference to give you an excuse to work on something that didn’t involve a keyboard. It’s not thrilling, but it’s quiet. Which counts for something.

You don’t notice Spencer at first.

He’s sitting at a smaller table a few feet from yours when you glance up — half-hidden behind a teetering stack of psychology journals, long fingers curled around a fountain pen, hair falling into his face.

He looks up a second after you do.

“You again,” he says softly, like it’s a private joke.

You arch an eyebrow. “Starting to think you’re stalking me.”

“You’re the one in my library,” he says, mock offended.

“Your library?”

He nods. “I basically live here.”

You glance at the empty paper cup beside him, the five or six books spread out across the table, the absurdly detailed notes he’s scrawling in messy handwriting.

“Yeah, I can see that. You’ve really made yourself at home.”

Silently, he gathers his belongings and moves to take the empty seat across from you at your table.

You go back to your work. So does he.

But every few minutes, you catch yourself glancing up.

Not on purpose, not exactly. It’s just… he’s got this way of reading like he’s somewhere else entirely. Lips moving a little. Eyes flicking fast across pages. You wonder if he knows how intense he looks when he’s thinking. How pretty his hands are when they move — when he writes, when he fidgets with his pen, when he adjusts his glasses like he’s trying to hide behind them.

You wonder what it would feel like if he looked at you the way he looks at those pages or if he touched you with those hands.

He wouldn’t, of course.

You’ve long accepted that you’re not the kind of girl guys like that go for — not crisp and stylish, not someone who walks into a room and makes the temperature change. You’ve never quite known how to wear your hair right, or what to do with your hands, or how to stop fixating on the way your nose looks in photos. You haven’t even dated since the last guy — the one who told you that you were being “a little much” anytime you got excited about something.

You shake your head. Focus.

You’re halfway through reviewing the next file when you realize Spencer’s watching you.

“Sorry,” he says, when you meet his eyes. “I was just—I was going to ask if that’s a 0.7mm Pentel mechanical pencil.”

You blink. Look down. “Uh… yeah?”

“I thought so,” he says. “You write really small. And neat.”

You stare at him, then down at your paper, then back up.

“Are you profiling my handwriting now?”

He shrugs, looking sheepish. “Only a little.”

You smile despite yourself.

After a pause, he adds, “I like it — your handwriting. It’s meticulous.”

You laugh. “I’ve never heard that word used as a compliment before.”

“Well, I mean it as one.”

There’s something in his voice — not flirtatious, exactly, but sincere. Earnest. He doesn’t even realize it’s making your heart hiccup a little.

You don’t talk much more after that, but when you both stand up at the same time twenty minutes later and realize you’re heading out in the same direction, you fall easily into step beside him.

And this time, you both walk a little slower.

—

It’s just after 1 p.m. when you walk into the Quantico cafeteria.

The lunch rush is tapering off — fewer suits in line, more empty trays abandoned on beige tables. You slide your badge into your pocket and step toward the soup station, only half paying attention. You haven’t eaten much today, and your stomach’s been in knots ever since Spencer spotted you in the stairwell earlier and asked what time you were heading to lunch.

You try to act casual when you spot him.

He’s at a table near the window, brown paper bag open in front of him and a spiral notebook beside it. He’s writing something down, but he looks up the moment you approach as if he’d been eagerly waiting.

“Hey,” he says, and the smile he gives you is small and a little shy. “I was hoping you’d come.”

You sit across from him, tray in hand. “Yeah, well, you did say in the library last week that the soup selection is better on Thursdays.”

His eyes widen slightly. “You remembered that?”

You nod, breaking off a piece of bread. “You said it’s the only day they serve lentil soup, which also happens to be the only soup they make that you claim is any good.”

“I stand by that.”

You laugh, and the warmth of it catches you off guard. It’s easy with him. You like the way he doesn’t fill silences just to fill them and how he listens like every word you say is a thread he wants to follow all the way to its center.

You talk for a while. About work, a little. About books and poetry and music. About your mutual disbelief that anyone could function on decaf. He doesn’t flirt, not exactly, but he compliments you — in that slightly awkward, matter-of-fact, Spencer Reid way that’s somehow more disarming than a rehearsed line.

You’re telling him about your failed attempt to install a new monitor alone while you had a broken arm last year when he goes still for a moment, causing you to trail off into silence. He clears his throat.

“Would you maybe want to, uh, go out with me sometime?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

“What?”

He fidgets. Pushes his glasses up. “I mean, like, to a real lunch or coffee or something. Not in the office. I just—I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you, and I was thinking, if you wanted, we could—”

You shake your head.

It’s not harsh. You don’t mean it to be. It’s just… instinct.

He stops talking. His face falters. “Oh,” he says softly. “Okay. Yeah. No worries.”

You rush to explain. “It’s not you. Really—I mean, I just… don’t get it. Why would you want to go out with me?”

Spencer blinks.

You look down at your tray. “You’re a genius,” you murmur, voice low. “You’ve probably read more books this week alone than I have in the last two years. You talk like a textbook and still somehow make everything sound incredibly poetic. And you—God, you’re so—”

Cute. Attractive. Hot. That’s what you want to say, but you stop yourself before you can finish the statement. You swallow hard.

“And I’m… not,” you finish quietly.

It’s not that you don’t want to say yes. God, you do. But there’s a familiar ache in your chest, a voice you haven’t shaken, the echo of someone who once made you feel like being too much meant you’d also always be not enough.

Across from you, Spencer is silent. For a second, you wonder if he’s angry. Or worse, embarrassed.

But when you finally look up, he’s just watching you — gently, curiously, like he’s figuring something out.

He opens his mouth. Then closes it again. His brow furrows slightly.

You stand. The words come out too quickly: “I should get back to my office. I’ve got a code freeze coming up and I told my boss I’d review the rollout plan before—yeah.”

He nods. “Right. Of course. I’ll, uh, see you around.”

You hate the way his voice sounds now — too polite. Too guarded.

You force a smile as you gather your tray. “Thanks again for the soup rec.”

You make it out of the cafeteria before the lump in your throat rises.

You tell yourself it was the right call. It’s better this way. You’re not built for someone like him. You’d only mess it up.

But when you glance back, just once, through the glass of the cafeteria doors, Spencer’s still sitting there, scribbling in his notebook like maybe if he writes enough, he can make sense of whatever just happened.

You don’t know it yet, but he’s writing a list.

—

It’s raining again the next afternoon.

Not much — just a misty drizzle that turns the parking lot into a soft gray blur. You’re already halfway to your car when you hear footsteps behind you. Then a voice, calling your name.

“Wait—wait, just—can you stop for a second?”

You turn.

Spencer is jogging toward you, messenger bag bouncing against his hip, one hand holding a flimsy-looking umbrella, the other gripping something — a piece of paper, maybe. His coat is half-buttoned. His glasses are a little fogged.

He’s completely out of breath by the time he reaches you.

“Hi,” he pants. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to chase you down, I just—I tried to find you on your floor, and they said you left early, and I—”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “No. I mean—I’ve been thinking. Since yesterday.”

You look away. “Spencer, we don’t have to talk about—”

“I made a list,” he blurts out.

You freeze. “What?”

He thrusts it at you — a folded piece of notebook paper, lined, slightly smudged. You unfold it slowly, holding it under the umbrella he’s angled over you, and he watches you like he’s just handed over something radioactive.

It reads:

Reasons I like you and want to go out with you: A non-exhaustive list by Dr. Spencer Reid

you talk with your hands

you remember weird things I say about soup

you were nice to me in the elevator even though I rambled about cinnamon

you snort when you laugh (you try to hide it but I’ve heard it twice)

you don’t pretend to know things you don’t, and you always ask good questions

you hum under your breath when you’re concentrating

you don’t hold my technophobe tendencies against me even though your job is literally all tech all the time

your whole face lights up when you’re excited about something

we have the same taste in pastries and poetry and classical music

you talk about the people you care about with more kindness and affection than I thought possible

your nose scrunches a little when you’re confused and I think it’s adorable

speaking of which, I think everything about you is adorable. “beautiful” would be a more apt word to use, actually

you said us meeting in the coffee shop that one day was “fate” and I haven’t stopped thinking about it (or believing in it) since

You stare at the list for a long moment. Then you press your lips together, eyes stinging.

“It’s not exhaustive,” Spencer says quietly. “And it’s in no particular order. I wrote it fast. I could probably think of twenty more things. I… I like lists.”

Your fingers tremble slightly on the page.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur. “You’re… you. And I’m…” You trail off.

He tilts his head, studying you. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

You look away.

He steps forward, voice softer now.

“I don’t like you despite who you are — I like you because of it. Because you say what you mean, and you get excited about the little things, and you care more than most people do, and you never look at me like I’m too nerdy or too awkward or too much.”

Your chest tightens.

“I thought I messed everything up yesterday,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“No,” he says. “You were just scared. I get that.”

“I’m still scared,” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he says, and there’s a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Me too. We can be scared together.”

You smile and fold the list carefully like it’s something delicate.

And before you can overthink it, before the doubt creeps in again, you lean forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

But in the same moment, he coincidentally turns his head just slightly. Just enough that your lips land on his mouth instead.

It’s only for a second. A little awkward. Completely accidental, but also completely real.

He blinks. You blink.

You start to pull away.

But then he wraps his free arm around you and kisses you again, on purpose this time, the umbrella overhead shielding you both from the rain. It doesn’t last too long, but it’s soft and smiley and achingly wonderful.

When you break apart, you’re still in disbelief that it even happened at all. You look up at him, studying him, searching his face for signs of regret. You can’t find any.

“I keep thinking about all the times we ran into each other,” you say softly. “So many coincidences, it almost feels improbable.”

He smiles again, brighter this time. “There’s a theory called the law of truly large numbers,” he says. “It basically says that with a large enough sample size, coincidences are inevitable.”

You tilt your head with a quiet chuckle. “So this was all just math, basically? That’s kind of depressing.”

“Or,” he says, stepping closer, “it means the universe just kept trying. Over and over, until it got it right. Like fate.”

You smile fondly and kiss him again before he can say anything else.

Not just a coincidence. Not anymore.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[bckybrnss]

it hurts my stomach // dean winchester x reader

summary • you wonder if your relationship with dean has officially run it’s course pairing • dean winchester x fem!reader warnings • angst with no happy ending, breakups/separation, dean’s been distant for a while, he’s kind of a dick in this one, dean & reader are falling out of love with each other, pain, overall very sad stuff, emotionally checked out of the relationship genre • angst word count • 1271 notes • stomach by aly & aj came up on shuffle and the idea hit me like a vision i immediately had to get this out simply for the line “i just can’t stomach being your ex-wife”

The boys were participating in their normal brotherly bickering. Dean, ever the grumpy of the two, was going on and on about how things went south on a hunt. Sam, the usual voice of reason between the two, was reassuring him that it was no big deal since the job still got done. You hated when they would bicker regardless of how big or small the issue was, usually being the one to constantly remind them that they were being stupid and ‘the only two I know who can say that they’ve literally been to hell and back for each other’.

It was silly really, feeling as if you had to test the waters almost three years into the relationship. The Dean you first met would’ve gotten a kick out of your silly puns and one-liners, it was one of the many reasons he fell in love with you in the first place. You were the comedic relief to Sam’s nagging, the one who kept him sane in the early days.

The motel room was thick with tension long after the argument had settled. It was mostly on Dean’s end, as Sam had gone on a walk to give his brother the space he needed. Dean was laying against the pillows, gaze fixed on whatever nonsense he could find on television to distract himself. He was halfway through a case of beer when you got out of the shower, figuring he must have made a quick store run while you were mid-hair routine.

It was an unspoken rule that whenever Dean made a store run that he would always make sure you got something sweet. Cookies, candy — hell, even the donuts in the convenience store display case would satisfy you. It’s been a long enough tradition that he couldn’t justify breaking that habit, going as far as putting his pride to the side after arguments and complicated hunts to come back with a bag of your favorite snacks.

That’s why it stung so much more to see the empty beer bottles on the nightstand next to him.

Normally after a hunt he’d be all over you, Sam giving you the space to make up for lost time much like he was tonight. Right now, it felt as if approaching Dean was the equivalent of detonating a bomb. He barely glanced your way as you made your way over to your side of the shared bed, shuffling closer to him as you settled under the blankets.

You could handle an angry Dean on a regular basis. Grumpy should’ve been his middle name with his constant bad moods, but you were the calm to his storm. This was nothing new for you.

Right?

“Did I ever tell you about the bossy man who walked into the bar?” You break the silence, matching your boyfriend’s gaze on the television. He muttered what sounded like a ‘No’ before taking a sip from a freshly opened bottle.

Now, make that four bottles on the nightstand. Two remaining in the carrier. You braced yourself for what came next.

“He ordered everyone around.”

Silence. Not even that smile where he pretends your jokes aren’t funny even though he’s crying with laughter on the inside.

A few years ago Dean would’ve laughed at your joke. Now you can’t help but feel as if you were the last person he wanted to be around. It was suddenly hard to breathe under the weight of the amulet around your neck.

“Dean… are you sure?” There’s a bewildered look on your face as he places the amulet in your hand, the one initially given to him by Sam.

“S’not like I’d let anyone else wear it.” Dean shrugs as he crouches down to your eye level, giving you a small smile. His arm wrapped around your shoulders as he held you close to his side. “I’m not afraid to let the world know that you’re my girl, either.”

“You’re such a sap.” You giggle, playfully swatting his chest before draping the necklace in place. Dean couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face.

“Only for you.” He teases in return. “It’s something until I can get a ring, but you’re it for me.”

You suddenly felt sick to your stomach at the memory. The thought of Dean, your rock, your protector, becoming a stranger had become the reality in recent months. The hunts were longer, the communication slowed, the affection disappeared, and intimacy was nonexistent. It wasn’t fair to you to always feel like the only one in this relationship.

Most of your time was spent in whatever motel room the boys scammed themselves into for the night. Dean didn’t want you on hunts unless it was absolutely necessary for you to be in their line of sight, so the most action you saw on a regular basis was walking to the closest diner for a bite to eat; sometimes ordering to-go so you could go watch whatever was on television as a way to entertain yourself. It used to be like clockwork — Sam would take his nightly walks so you and Dean could make up for lost time, but as of late it seemed like he preferred to catch up with a case of beer.

Dean takes one last swig of the bottle before wiping his mouth and standing, turning to grab his jacket and keys while mumbling some sort of goodbye under his breath, eventually exiting the motel room completely. The tears fall as soon as the door clicks and you’re left to cling onto one of the pillows for dear life, sobbing harder as his lingering scent hits your nostrils. You were hoping Sam would extend his walk and God knows wherever Dean went, not really wanting either Winchester to see you in your current state.

You found yourself at a crossroads. Was it still worth it to stay? Most of your relationship was spent on the road and living out of motels. Dean didn’t have the career path that would warrant him want to settle down long-term, and there’s no way you wouldn’t feel guilty for bringing a child into this lifestyle. It was sustainable in the early days when the two of you were younger, the combination of puppy love and high sex drives keeping you two attached at the hip. Now the two of you were getting older and you were wondering if it was ever going to be more than weapons, late night check-ins and random dive bars.

Would settling down even be the answer? There was a part of you that still yearned to be a wife and a mother, but you couldn’t live with yourself if you pulled Dean away from the only lifestyle he’d known. Realistically, he wouldn’t be able to be stationary for more than a few days at a time and he wouldn’t even know what to do with a pet, let alone a child. He’d get the itch to go back to hunting before the first box would get unpacked. You would never get that if you stayed and you loved Dean too much to just up and leave, but at some point you had to choose yourself.

Sam had beaten his older brother home, but you were gone before Dean had made it back. Packing everything into a bag you headed off to the nearest diner, grabbing a bite to eat before calling yourself a taxi. Your phone was going off with calls and texts from the Winchester boys, but your phone was on silent as the yellow cab drove you to the next town over.

[tispyyyy]

Hiii, I know you mentioned that the MC is more of a glorified hostage, however I am curious... you mentioned that mc sexuality and/or gender will have influence down the line....

How will same-sex romances work? is there like no cultural issue with them? Are they side-eyed but allowed to be like unofficially official? How about marriages?

As of right now, because the MC is in the Emperor's Harem, so any and all romance would have to be low-key, same-sex or nah.

But later on in the story, if the MC decides to leave the emperor's harem and romance another RO, then the MC's sexuality and gender starts coming into play.

Like, Same-sex relationships are like an open secret in this IF, that maid that is a little bit too close to the noble lady 👀, or those two noble men that are bestiess 👀, idk if you gwim.

As for the marriages, most people don't care as long as you don't cause a scandal, and you have an heir to carry on the family's name and an opposite sex spouse to keep up appearances.

In general, Lavender marriages are very popular among the nobles.

[thecatsaesthetics]

I don’t even think it’s about bloodlines (bc he’d eventually get that with a Jace-Baela child) but more about controllable. Rhaenyra was a child he had groomed to be dependent on him, and even though Rhaenyra was Queen she was easily manipulated by Daemon.

Jace by all accounts had a strong personality and would not be ruled by anyone. If Rhaenyra had died prior to or even during Visenya’s birth I can imagine Jace would have clashed with Daemon. Maybe Daemon would see an out with killing Jace and controlling Luke and Joffrey, but both were coming up on adulthood fairly quickly their book ages being (14 and 12) and likely would not have taken too kindly to Daemon killing Jace to rule through them.

Even if he set up a regency under Luke (or Joffrey) it wouldn’t last long and Daemon could be out of favor by the time they reach majority. He might not be executed but he would back to square one, the younger brother of a late king, and likely given no influence or power at court.

Aegon III is 9 and Viserys is 7, and are just safer bets for Daemon. It will be years before they are in maturity and he is their father and likely would not fall out of favor with his own sons. Daemon also has had more time to groom (not sexually) them in his favor and to be more pliable than their half brothers.

But also in this scenario as well, say Rhaenyra successful somehow (idk Viserys abdicates in her favor) but dies in childbirth with Visenya you would still have the Greens. You would have Aegon - his line - Aemond and Daeron, all three dragon riders and probably whispers would be raised they should be the rulers.

And even if some restraint took place when the reign first starts, who’s to say it will last? It took Daemon Blackfyre ten years before rebelling against Daeron. No final insult or catalyst happened for Daemon to declare war on Daeron, it was simply ten years of people whispering in Daemons ear that he should be king, that his brother was weak, he looked like the conqueror, that he bore the conquerors sword, etc.

Even if Aegon II was content to let Rhaenyra (and then Jace) succeed we have no guarantee that eventually Aegon wouldn’t raise up or that lords in his name would. And again you have the same issue with Aegon III and Jace, even if Aegon III was comfortable being Jaces brother who’s to say that YEARS of men whispering that his brothers were bastard and he was the true heir would not eventually get him to rebel? Or hell what if Aegon III still marries Daenaera and has Daeron I? Daeron I was impulsive and rash, and add a dragon to that mix… a succession war is inevitable.

It’s the old quote, “too many Caesars is not good”

The ASOIAF fandom is truly something bc they are CONVINCED the sons of Rhaenyra (or their descendants) wouldn’t have fought over the crown and meanwhile both the descendants of Aegon III and Viserys II duked it out for a near century…

[feline-evil]

Dick or no dick confirmation Pickles was always going to be trans to me anyways; if he's swingin' somethin that's phallo babes, if he's not then his t-dick fat. What's not to get.

[grave-st0ned]

i’m not a disney person like that but if i see two dolls i think would look cute together the urge is there and the ily 4ever daisy and minnie would be so cute together

[lulu-nightbon]

now, for serial designation L, we have a lovely little lesbian! she's a disassembly drone somewhere between j and v in height (though closer to j's height), and in terms of demeanor, she's somewhere between v and n, enjoying killing worker drones and generally just being pretty chill. i projected my vision issues (v & she just like me fr fr) onto her, so anything beyond 4 inches in front of her is a blurry mess of colors! to compensate for this (instead of fixing her vision because that would be too easy), she screams to echolocate. if she needs to discern exact shapes and locations, she'll just scream. no need for concern she's just blind- she also has a shriek which functions as an emp! it's generally tuned to worker drones, but is pretty potent- if she's close enough, she can actually stun/down a disassembly drone with it, and at point blank, she can stun a sentinel (needing to shriek right in its face like close enough that its snout is probably in her mouth to down it), though if she's ever that close to one she has bigger problems to worry about (especially since i hc sentinels to be social creatures/pack animals)- at point blank range, she can also actually shatter a worker drone's visor and damage their internals with the shriek. girlypop needs glasses so bad lmao- she also has another ability that she's actually not supposed to have. she can turn off her lights and visor entirely at will (though this renders her completely and totally blind), allowing her to play dead and set traps for workers (or just make someone think she's deactivated/dead if she doesnt wanna deal with em or wants to fw em lmao). this was actually a defect that she forgot to ask tessa to fix at the manor, and cyn couldn't fix it because she didn't know about it at the time of turning her into a disassembly drone. she also has a tendency to always wear the x on her visor regardless of if she's hunting, since she can't really see anyway. she wears a long trenchcoat with no sleeves (because when i was trying to draw her she decided she was going to serve CUNT and now im actually scared to finish her ref lmao-)

back at the manor, she was a rather timid maid drone with a MASSIVE crush on j. just absolutely PINING after her. there's hopelessly in love, and then there's whatever the fuck she is. im indecisive, so L has four canons based on the answers to two questions (meaning only two of these aus are canon compliant), and this creates the first point: whether or not j and L were secretly dating back at the manor. while it's not too important a point, it does create some extra angst on j's end if they were, and by some i mean i threw this bitch in the blender emotionally. L went through the most memory wipes of the crew, and the most thorough ones, as well- more than even n. she was never even allowed to remember her name. she would simply wake up next to the basement door, with her only memory being screaming and clawing at the floor as she was dragged in. she would gravitate to the same book in the library and read to try and calm herself down, and every time, j, ever the one keeping them all in line and as safe as she could, would have to be the one to remind her who she was, who they were (which is especially angsty if they were dating- j would have to go over this with her girlfriend over and over and over again, facing the pain every time as this shy drone looked at her in fear of being hurt or decommissioned for no reason. if they weren't, she simply kept having a crush on her and not knowing why. however, if they were dating, it can be reasoned as a specialized form of torture from cyn, making j go through this again and again). due to the frequency and intensity of these wipes, L ended up with irreversible damage to her processor, though it's minor (this also is the context behind her favorite pet name from j, which is "toaster drone"). then, we come to the second point where the aus split: whether or not L was sent with the crew to copper 9. if she wasn't, it's canon compliant- if she was, she does pose an additional threat to uzi and throws a massive wrench in their plans (though they get there in the end).

if she was sent to copper 9, she follows j closely. anything she asks, L will perform without question, like a little puppy in love. she tends to stand on one leg and mimic j's movements and positions. she also tends to not wear the x on her visor when close to j, instead letting her eyes show. she's effective and good at making quota, and she's never once posed an issue. her alignment is easy to misread with how she acts getting closer to the final battle, but she isn't particularly malicious, interacting with n and v calmly when uzi isn't around. she was never loyal to the solver- she was loyal to j. she just wanted j to love her, and she wanted to love j even if it was never returned. if they were together on the dl back at the manor, then it's difficult for j to cope with this, but L's unwavering loyalty and affection is still a comfort, something cyn never quite erased after everything, even if j can't indulge for the safety of the squad and to make sure she doesn't take L away again like she did over and over again at the manor.

if she wasn't sent to copper 9, however, she shows up after the series, having piloted her way there looking for j after regaining her memories on some other planet, desperate to reunite with her (and their friends, too, if she's lucky), hoping that she'd remember her. this also results in a special interaction upon meeting uzi lol- upon spotting the worker drone, she initially acts like she's going to try and kill her, but pauses and reels back, going "what's. wrong with this one-", as she recognizes that workers can't have yellow eyes LMAO. she's affectionate with j upon finding her, and excited to be back together (which ends up being extra sweet if they were dating). all in all L is just a sweetheart and i love her and i need to use her more because she deserves recognition! you can also have this sneak peek of her ref (with the SHITTIEST watermark for my md art blog that i still have to make the pinned post for because i screenshotted this on my p h o n e 😭)

do u like them 🥺

(also i forgot about serial designation e who like jinx is a universal variant of another oc of mine but they're on that list too lol)

I be forgetting to follow people back sorry yall cool asf I just got like 2% brain and maybe sometimes if god wills it 5%… moots ily let’s talk and make ocs together !! And discuss cool things that normal people talk about.idk im bad at conversation lol

[girltakovic]

hello upper middle class northern usamerican tumblr user. i want to play a game. you will notice that you are in a super america convenience store in rural kentucky - you have three minutes to purchase a snack and drink of your choice and make normal small talk with the cashier. however, if you use the word "cryptid" or generally make reference to appalachia and its inhabitants as "wild", uncivilized, or lacking restraint around alcoholic beverages during your time here, i will personally tie you to the chassis of a four wheeler and tip it into the river. live or die. make your choice

[pirefyrelight]

you know that reformed villain trope that's like "ugh, what is this you've infected me with, Morals?? How dare you. Being evil was fun, now I care about 'making sure nobody gets hurt when planning the plan' "

Thats me no longer keeping/taking pictures of tickets even though they'd be really funny to post on reddit, or to complain about the formatting.

[shokocide]

HEY, EMO BOY! - CHOSO KAMO

summary. Choso doesn’t do distractions. But then you walk into his show and ruin his focus with one look. And now, he’s handing you his guitar, his heart, maybe more. And baby, you haven’t even seen what those fingers can really do.

word count. 10.5k (i got a lil carried away)

content. mdni fem! reader, bassist! choso, mutual pining, heavy tension, choso is a tease (and so down bad), really lovey-dovey shi like bro's not even emo, pet names, smut, fingering, oral (fem rec.), p in v, mating press, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. saw this fanart and started ovulating on demand.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Shoko says, tugging on your sleeve with the persistence of a woman who knows you have no other plans. "You like music. You like hot guys. This is both."

You squint at her, unconvinced. "You said that last time and we ended up at some dude’s garage while he rapped about capitalism."

She grins. “And it was unforgettable.”

“You spilled beer on my shoes.”

“And I’ve had character development after that.��

You roll your eyes, but she already knows she's won. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as she drags you through the dimly lit alley that opens into an even dimmer basement venue—graffiti-tagged walls, sticker-covered speakers, the scent of cigarettes and something vaguely fruity in the air.

The lights are low, the crowd humming with quiet energy, and the stage is set but empty—just a drum kit, a couple mics, and a bass propped against its amp like it’s waiting for someone.

“You’re gonna love them,” Shoko whispers, already pulling out her phone to snap photos. “The music’s sick. And the bassist—”

You blink at her.

“The bassist,” she repeats, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “Tall, broody, pretty eyes. Never says a damn word on stage but plays like he’s in pain.”

You scoff. “You’ve got issues.”

“Just wait,” she says. “You’re not ready.”

And you’re not.

Because when the band finally comes on stage and the lights cut through the haze, your eyes lock onto him—tall, dark, dressed in all black with his bass slung low, rings glinting on his fingers, and a half-lidded stare like he’s seeing ghosts.

And when he starts playing? Oh. Yeah. You’re done for.

The lights dim, bathing the room in moody blue and red hues. The crowd hushes—just for a moment—then the first chord explodes through the speakers. It’s loud, raw, electric, vibrating through the floor and straight up your spine.

You don’t flinch.

You should. The guy next to you does. Shoko’s already swaying to the beat like she’s been here a thousand times. But you? You’re frozen—entranced.

Not by the music. Not really.

By him.

The bassist, standing off to the left like he doesn’t crave the spotlight, like he’s content letting the others take the lead. But he’s the one you see. The one who owns the stage.

He’s tall and he’s wearing a loose black button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons left undone to tease just enough of his pale, sculpted chest. The stage lights catch on the gleam of sweat on his collarbones, highlighting every sharp angle and subtle flex of muscle as he moves with the rhythm. His fingers dance over the bass strings with practiced ease, and that’s when you notice it—apart from the black nail polish, each one is tattooed with a letter: C-H-O-S-O.

His long, dark hair is loose, falling in waves to the base of his neck, the ends brushing over his collar. The soft purple eyeshadow dusting his eyelids makes his deep-set eyes pop, casting shadows that only add to his sharp features. A bold tattoo cuts across the bridge of his nose, stark against his pale skin.

His brows are furrowed, mouth set in a hard, concentrated line, and his fingers—god, his fingers—they dance over the strings like he was born with a bass in his hands. There’s something hypnotic about the way he plays. Focused. Intense. Like the world doesn’t exist outside of this moment.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until Shoko elbows you lightly. “Told you,” she shouts in your ear, grinning like the smug little shit she is.

You nod, but your eyes don’t move. You can’t look away. It’s like you’ve been put under some kind of spell.

And then—then—mid-song, his head lifts just slightly. His gaze cuts through the haze and crowd and colored lights, and lands right on you. You swear it. A spark of something sharp and electric zips down your spine.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just holds your gaze for a breath longer than necessary before he looks away, like he felt it too.

Like he knew.

Like the music wasn’t the only thing pulling strings tonight.

The band keeps playing, song after song bleeding into one another, but you barely register any of it.

Your eyes keep straying to him. Choso—at least, you think that’s his name, judging by the ink on his fingers. Fitting, really. It lingers in your head like a low bassline: heavy, addictive.

At one point, you swear he looks at you again.

Really looks.

And even if it’s just for a second, it feels like a live wire pressed to your skin.

You down the rest of your drink to keep yourself from combusting.

Shoko leans in and shouts something in your ear over the music—probably the band’s name or some fun fact about the drummer—but your eyes are locked on him. You nod absently, your smile weak, dazed, because how the hell are you supposed to listen to anyone else when he’s up there, commanding your every thought?

By the time the band wraps up their final song, you’re already craning your neck for a better look. You don't even realize you're moving toward the stage until Shoko’s hand snags your wrist.

"Where are you going?"

You blink, startled like you’ve been caught red-handed. "I—I don’t know."

But you do.

You’re hoping to get closer. Maybe he’ll notice you again.

Maybe he already has.

-

You find yourself outside the venue before you even realize what you’re doing—leaning against the brick wall, half hidden in the shadows, heart hammering like you’d just finished a set yourself. The crisp night air cools your skin, but it does nothing to quiet the heat bubbling beneath it.

You tell yourself you just needed some air.

That’s all.

Totally not waiting around like some groupie for a guy you don’t even know.

The door creaks open behind you, and a familiar pair of boots crunches against gravel. Shoko squints at you suspiciously.

“You good?” she asks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick. “You just disappeared.”

You shrug, too casual. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

She takes a drag, exhales slow. “Right. A breather. After not dancing and not drinking that much.”

You shoot her a side-eye. “Do you always interrogate people for wanting fresh air?”

“Only when they’ve been acting weird since the bassist took the stage.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not slick, y’know.”

You scoff, glancing away before she can catch the way your face warms. "I don't know what you’re talking about."

Shoko chuckles like she definitely knows what she’s talking about, but bless her, she doesn’t press it. Just smirks, gives your arm a little nudge. “He was hot, though.”

You give a noncommittal hum, eyes scanning every shadowed corner, every rusted doorway, hoping—just hoping—you might catch another glimpse of him. Choso. You’re almost certain that’s his name. It suits him. Dark. Sharp.

You won’t tell her, of course, but—yes.

Yes, this was fun.

Yes, she was absolutely right to drag you here.

Yes, the bassist was fine as hell and maybe, just maybe, you’ve developed the tiniest, stupidest little crush on a guy whose voice you haven’t even heard yet.

But god, you want to.

Even just once.

A glimpse. A moment. Anything.

And just when you think it’s time to give up, to stop being delusional and head home—

The door swings open again.

And this time, it’s him.

Panic.

Real, irrational, full-body panic.

Because there he is. Standing a few feet away. In the flesh. The bassist.

Loose black button-up clinging to his frame, sleeves still rolled up from the show, revealing forearms that shouldn’t be legal. The glint of his rings catching the light. A faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone—god, you can see it because the top few buttons are still undone, teasing just enough pale skin to keep you up at night.

And his eyes—

His eyes are rimmed with that soft, dusty lavender, and they’re looking straight at you.

You glance side to side like you might Houdini yourself out of this moment. Maybe if you ran fast enough, you could avoid embarrassing yourself beyond repair. Maybe if you—

Shoko bumps your shoulder, casual and smug. “Now’s your chance.”

“Chance for what?” you hiss, heart thudding in your ears. “To spontaneously combust? To make an idiot out of myself?”

But it’s too late.

Because before you can overthink your next twelve moves or plan a strategic escape—

He’s walking toward you.

Slow, calm, confident.

Like he knows what he’s doing to you.

Before you can say something completely unhinged, like “your bass playing did something weird to my hormones”, you feel Shoko shift beside you.

You whip your head toward her, silently begging for assistance, for backup, for escape. But she just smirks, looking between the two of you like she already knows exactly how this night’s gonna go.

“Well,” she says with a wink, already turning on her heel. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Shoko. No. Shoko, wait—SHOKO.”

But she’s already walking away like she didn’t just abandon you to the mercy of the hottest man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

And now—

Now he’s standing right in front of you.

He smells like sweat and incense and something dark—something addictive.

“You waited,” he says, voice lower than expected, rich. His lips curl, just barely. “Were you hoping for an autograph… or something else?”

You blink.

He knows.

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

An autograph? Something else? What the hell does something else even mean—wait, you know what it means, OH GOD—

“I—I wasn’t waiting— I mean, I was, but not like—like in a weird way or anything!” you blurt, the words tumbling out like a panicked avalanche. “Not that liking your music is weird. I mean, it was good! Really good. You were good. Not in that way, I mean—not that you wouldn’t be—oh my God—”

You slap a hand over your face.

Abort mission. Let the ground open up. End scene.

When you peek through your fingers, he’s just watching you, amused, head tilted slightly to the side.

Then—he chuckles. Actually chuckles.

It’s low and quiet and kind of devastating.

“I was right,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed steel. “Cute.”

You make a high-pitched noise that cannot be classified as human.

And Choso—Choso just leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s offering a secret.

“Relax. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

You definitely stop breathing.

Your brain is just a dial-up tone as you stare at him, stunned into silence, because did he actually just say that? He did. He really did. And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for your answer.

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is: “I—uh—yeah. I mean no. I mean—I don’t know what I mean.”

He grins. Not a smirk. A real, soft little grin, like he likes the mess you’ve become.

“Wanna get some air?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the alleyway beside the venue, quieter now that the band’s done and the crowd’s thinned.

You nod way too fast.

So you end up outside, standing under the faded neon of the venue sign, arms crossed to hide how jittery you are. Choso leans against the wall beside you, lighting a cigarette. The glow flares against his sharp cheekbones, his lashes casting shadows on his skin.

“So,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You liked the set?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to look at his hands. His tattooed fingers. “You were… really good.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Still not in that way?”

You bury your face in your hands again.

He laughs under his breath, then nudges your shoulder with his. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. 

Oh, how you were so very fucked.

You tell him your name. And when he repeats it softly, your knees almost give out.

Then he offers, “I’m Choso, by the way.”

Like it’s a gift.

And before the night ends, he asks if you’re coming to the next gig.

“Only if you’re playing,” you manage to say.

To which he replies, “I’ll be there if you are.”

-

shoko: hello?? where are you???

shoko: ANSWER ME

shoko: sigh

shoko: i didn’t want it to come to this but you leave me no choice

shoko: i’m checking your location.

shoko: GIRL WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING THERE

shoko: 2 missed calls

shoko: you better give me answers the second you're online...or else.

you: dot dot dot

shoko: WHAT. HAPPENED.

you: emergency phone call

shoko: 🧍‍♀️

shoko: you’re a terrible liar

you: ok but like. 

you: it wasn’t a lie. it was an emergency. a hot boy emergency

shoko: OH MY GOD. 

shoko: OH MY GOD. 

shoko: OH MY GODDDDD.

you: he talked to me

you: HE TALKED TO ME SHOKO

shoko: AND???

you: and i said dumb shit

you: and he still talked to me

you: and i think i blacked out at one point??

you: but like. the good kind

shoko:YOU’RE TELLING ME MYSTERIOUS HOT BASSIST MAN TALKED TO YOU AND YOU LIVED???

you: barely

you: i think i ascended actually

shoko: you’re telling me you were about to dip and then HE approached YOU????

you: he remembered me from the front row 😭

you: called me cute 😭😭

you: asked for my name 😭😭😭

you: CALLED ME SWEETHEART 😭😭😭😭

shoko: …girl.

shoko: i don’t wanna be dramatic

shoko: but i might start planning your wedding

you: pls help i’m still outside the venue trying not to combust

you: he said he’d see me again if i came to the next gig

you: SHOKO WHAT IF I GO TO EVERY GIG UNTIL I DIE

shoko: yeah bestie we’re in our groupie era now

-

You show up a whole forty minutes before the doors even open—Shoko said she’d meet you later, but you’re already leaning against the building like a total loser. Or an over zealous fan. Same thing, really.

You're debating if you should take a walk to kill time when the door swings open, and out steps him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled up again, a few buttons undone, and that familiar purple eyeshadow hugging his tired eyes. His lip quirks up the second he sees you.

“Excited to see me?” he asks, cocking his head as he strolls over. His voice is low, teasing—but not unkind.

Your face goes up in flames. “What—n-no. I mean yes. I mean—Shoko said she’d meet me later and I didn’t wanna be late, obviously.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Mhm. Obnoxiously early, huh?”

“Fashionably early,” you grumble, and he laughs, like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s heard all day.

Then he nods his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

You blink. Wait. Right now??

You glance down at your outfit—cute enough for the gig, maybe not cute enough to meet him again, let alone his entire band. But he’s already walking, and you’re a fool if you don’t follow.

The door creaks open, and you’re hit with the low hum of conversation, faint music playing from someone’s phone, and the scent of sweat and cologne. Your heart’s going a mile a minute.

“Yo,” Choso calls, and two heads turn.

The tall white-haired man draped across the couch offers a lazy grin. “Oh? Who’s this?”

Choso leans against the doorframe and jerks a thumb toward you. “She’s the one I was talking about.”

Your eyes widen. Talking about?? Since when???

“Ooooh,” the other guy drawls from where he’s fiddling with a drumstick, hair tied back and gaze sharp as ever. “So this is her.”

“Shut up,” Choso mutters, but there’s a hint of pink dusting his ears. He looks back at you, eyes soft. “That’s Satoru—he never shuts up. And that’s Suguru. Don’t let him fool you—he’s worse.”

“Lies and slander,” Satoru says with a wink.

You’re frozen. Do you wave? Speak? Die on the spot?

“Hi,” you say, awkwardly.

Suguru offers a small nod. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally???

Satoru leans forward with a devilish grin. “Choso wouldn’t shut up about you, y’know?”

Choso visibly tenses. “Go bother someone else.”

But it’s too late—you’re already flushed to your ears, and Satoru’s howling with laughter.

“You’re cute,” he tells you. “You can stick around.”

You glance at Choso, and he gives you the smallest smile. Like you belong here.

And for the first time—you think maybe you do.

He walks ahead a bit, glancing over his shoulder as he gestures toward the sound booth. “That’s Nao, our sound tech. She’s the only reason we don’t sound like trash onstage.”

Nao waves without looking up from her monitor, and you awkwardly lift a hand back. Choso chuckles under his breath.

He keeps going, showing you the light setup, where they stash backup guitars, even the vending machine he’s pretty sure is haunted. Every person you pass gives you that look—oh, so this is the girl.

Your fingers twist nervously around the strap of your bag. It’s not like they’re being unfriendly. If anything, everyone’s nice. Welcoming, even. But still—you can’t shake the nerves bubbling in your chest.

You feel his gaze before you hear his voice.

“Nervous?” he asks, quiet and low.

You blink up at him. He’s standing close now, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, watching you like he’s not sure if he’s scaring you or if you’re just shy.

You swallow. “A little.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You don’t have to be. Everyone’s chill.”

You nod, but you know the tension is still written all over your face.

And then—he reaches out. Just a light touch to your wrist. “Hey. I asked you here ‘cause I wanted you to come. Not to freak you out.”

His voice is soft now, just for you.

You manage a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s just… new.”

He shrugs, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. But I’m not that scary, right?”

You meet his eyes, and the look he gives you—teasing but warm—makes your stomach flip.

“…Not yet,” you murmur.

And he laughs, head tilted back like you just said the funniest thing all night. “You’re cute.”

Great. Now you’re even more nervous.

He walks you over to the stage setup, lights dim and moody, the buzz of crew members in the background. The instruments are neatly arranged—drum kits, amps, tangled cords, and at the center, his guitar resting on its stand.

He picks it up effortlessly, letting the strap fall over his shoulder. His fingers settle over the strings, and he begins to strum, absentmindedly. It’s not even a real song, just soft notes—but it’s hypnotizing.

Especially the way his fingers move. Long, slender, practiced.

You're staring. Absolutely entranced.

“Wanna try playing?” he asks suddenly.

You snap out of it so fast it’s embarrassing. “H-huh?”

He chuckles, soft and low. “Bit distracted there, sweetheart. You okay?”

“I’m good. Mhm.” You nod a little too quickly, plastering on a tight smile as your face warms. You hope he doesn’t notice, but that knowing glint in his eyes tells you otherwise.

He steps toward you with the guitar, offering it out with a slight tilt of his head. “Here.”

Your hands hover uncertainly. “O-oh… I don’t know how to play.”

He just smiles. “It’s alright, I’ll help you.”

He walks behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your back. You swear your heart skips a beat when his arms slip around you, guiding yours. He’s gentle as he places your left hand along the neck of the guitar, adjusting your fingers over the frets, his hand covering yours.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, voice right by your ear.

Your breath hitches.

“Shit—sorry, too close?” he asks quickly, voice laced with concern.

“N-no! It’s fine! Totally fine.” You somehow manage to stand upright.

He smiles again, that soft kind of amused. “Alright, just press here... yeah, that’s it.” He places your fingers on the strings. “Now, strum with this hand—lightly. Let the strings breathe.”

You try, hesitantly dragging your fingers down the strings. A clumsy note sounds out.

Choso hums. “Not bad. Now, try a G chord—here, like this.” His fingers mold yours again, warm and careful.

You nod, barely able to think with him this close, and repeat the motion. It sounds... slightly better.

“See?” he says, praising you with a smile in his voice. “Fast learner.”

You glance up at him over your shoulder, heart fluttering. “Maybe I just have a good teacher.”

His lips quirk, and he looks at you like you’ve just made his night.

“Well,” he says, “I am good with my hands.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He grins when he hears that soft, breathy little sound escape your lips.

“O-oh,” you stammer, eyes wide as you blink up at him.

His smile deepens, all teasing and low charm. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous,” he says, though he definitely did. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but your brain’s gone completely blank. The only thing in your head is him. His voice, his scent, the low buzz of his guitar still humming in your hands.

“I—uh, yeah. No. You’re doing great. I mean—I’m doing great. I mean—thank you.”

He laughs. Not mockingly—it's soft, sweet, like he finds you genuinely adorable.

“You’re cute when you get flustered,” he says, voice quiet.

You look down at the guitar in your hands, pretending very hard to be focused on the strings.

“Maybe we’ll get you to play a whole song next time.”

You blink. “Next time?”

He shrugs casually, stepping back just enough to make you miss his warmth. “If you’re coming to the next gig, I figured I’d see you again.”

And then, with the most casual confidence, he adds, “You wanna?”

You blink up at him, heart still pounding from the way he practically wrapped himself around you moments ago. But then—somehow—you find your footing, just enough to muster a sliver of confidence.

You clear your throat, giving him a lopsided little smile. “Let’s see how this one goes first.”

His brows shoot up, clearly amused. “Is that a challenge?”

You shrug, trying not to melt under his gaze. “Depends. You think you can handle it?”

Choso laughs—a low, warm sound that vibrates in your chest more than your ears. He leans in again, just a little, his face dangerously close to yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice like silk, “I know I can.”

-

The crowd is thicker than last time. Hazy neon lights wash the walls in streaks of violet and red, and the room thrums with anticipation. You can feel the energy buzzing through your fingertips, your legs bouncing where you sit off to the side of the stage.

Choso catches your eye just before stepping on. He’s dressed in that same loose black button-up—top few buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos stark against his pale skin. His eyes are lined in that soft purple hue again, hair falling wild to his neck, and yet he somehow looks composed. Grounded. Like he was born to be here.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look—half smirk, half something softer—and it sends butterflies flurrying in your chest.

And then: the lights dim. The crowd erupts. The band takes the stage.

Suguru on drums, flashing a grin at the front row before twirling his sticks and slamming into the first beat like a force of nature. Satoru struts forward, mic in hand, already oozing charisma, and Choso—Choso slides into position with his bass like it’s a part of him. One hand gripping the neck, the other plucking strings with a lazy, practiced ease.

The sound hits you like a wave. Loud. Gritty. Addictive.

But even as the music drowns everything out, your eyes stay locked on him.

Choso doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. He’s in his own world—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, swaying with the rhythm like the bass is leading him. And yet, somehow, he still finds a way to glance at you.

Just for a second. A flicker of a smirk.

And that’s when you realize it.

He’s playing for them—but looking at you.

And that smolder in his gaze? That spark that coils low in your belly?

It’s all for you.

-

The crowd’s roars have faded, the lights are dimming, and you’re still standing there, heart racing. Choso’s walking off stage, sweat-slick and glowing, bass still strapped to his back, and the second his eyes find you he smiles. Soft. Lopsided. Like it’s just for you.

He weaves through the staff with ease, and before you can fully brace yourself, he’s in front of you, that same lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually stick around,” he teases, voice low, raspy from the set.

You roll your eyes, a little bashful. “Had to see if your fingers really lived up to the hype.”

His brows shoot up, surprised—and then he laughs. It’s deep and warm and it makes your stomach do flips. “Oh? And?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I’m not sure yet. Might need a private performance to decide.”

And damn, now he’s the one blushing.

He blinks. Once. Twice. And then that lazy grin deepens into something more—something that makes your throat dry.

“A private performance, huh?” he echoes, slinging the bass off his shoulder, setting it down like he’s done this a thousand times before—cool, collected, practiced. “You planning to book me?”

You cross your arms, trying to look unbothered despite the heat crawling up your neck. “Maybe. Depends on your rates.”

He steps closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down to look at you properly. His voice drops lower. “I charge in coffee. Late-night conversations. And the occasional secret.”

“Oh?” you arch a brow. “That’s expensive.”

He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re worth it.”

Pause.

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

And suddenly it’s too quiet. The post-show noise is just background hum now—muffled cheers, clinks of beer bottles, bandmates laughing somewhere behind you. But he’s looking at you like you’re the only person who matters in this moment. Like he wants to learn you.

So you try to deflect, half-teasing, “You say that to all the girls who hang around after shows?”

He hums, like he’s pretending to think. “No,” he says finally. “You’re the only one who stayed quiet the whole time. Just… watched.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Was it creepy?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. It was nice. Felt like you were listening to more than just the music.”

You weren’t. You were listening to him.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you glance away, pretending not to be swooning.

And then—

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging your chin with two fingers to bring your gaze back to his. “Wanna get outta here?”

Your breath hitches. “Huh?”

He smiles, easy and relaxed, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing it. “There’s this spot a few blocks from here—low lights, decent drinks, great fries. Thought maybe I could buy you one. A drink, not a fry,” he adds with a little chuckle.

Your heart is thudding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. “Are you… asking me out?”

He shrugs, casual but undeniably charming. “If I said yes, would you say no?”

You try to play it cool, crossing your arms even though your insides are a whole storm. “You planning to pull that whole mysterious musician act the whole time?”

He leans in just a bit, close enough for your noses to nearly brush. “Only if it gets me a second date.”

And just like that, you’re done for.

“...I guess I could go for a drink.”

His grin widens. “Good. I’ll grab my jacket.”

-

The bar he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t find unless someone told you about it. There’s warm yellow lighting, a soft hum of old-school music playing on the speakers, and barely anyone around. It’s intimate in a way that makes your skin feel warm before you’ve even taken a sip of your drink.

He lets you slide into the booth first, then settles in across from you. His hands rest on the table, rings catching the light, and you find your gaze drawn to them—again. Damn those fingers.

“I’m not used to people sticking around after shows,” he says, eyes not leaving yours.

“I’m not used to chasing after bassists,” you shoot back, lips twitching.

He smirks. “So I’m special, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile you’re fighting wins. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Your drinks come. He lets you steal a sip of his. You let him steal two of yours.

“What got you into music?” you ask after a while, resting your chin on your hand.

He leans back, gaze flickering up like he’s searching the ceiling for the answer. “My dad, actually. He taught me how to play. He was obsessed with rhythm—said it was the heart of everything.”

You nod slowly. “He still around?”

Choso shakes his head. “Nah. Been a while. But I think he’d get a kick out of seeing me like this.”

There’s a quiet between you, not awkward, just full. You sip your drink.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not falling for mysterious musicians at dive bars?”

You raise a brow. “Who said I was falling?”

His lips curve. “Touché.”

You end up telling him more than you thought you would. About your work, your favorite food, even boring little details. But he listens like every word matters. Laughs when you least expect it. His foot nudges yours under the table halfway through the night, and it stays there.

Eventually, the lights get lower, and the bar empties out.

“Guess we closed the place down,” you say, glancing around.

Choso’s watching you with a soft look. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Your heart flutters. “Same place?”

He smiles, gaze never leaving yours. “Sure.”

The night doesn’t end there.

He insists on walking you home—no arguments, no jokes, just slips his hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you let him, fingers intertwining with his, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a quiet walk, but not the awkward kind. It’s that gentle, late-night calm. Like the whole world slowed down just for the two of you.

And for once, he’s not the brooding bassist with sharp eyeliner and calloused fingers. He’s just Choso. A guy who likes the way your hand fits in his. A guy who lets out a soft chuckle when you shiver and instinctively step closer.

You reach your place too soon.

You stop at the doorstep, neither of you making a move. No one says anything. You should probably say something. Goodnight. Thanks. This was fun. But the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

He steps closer instead.

There’s a breath between you. Just one.

And then his lips are on yours—soft, almost hesitant, like he’s asking if this is okay. And you answer him by fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in. His hand comes up to your cheek, holding you steady as he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still quiet. But it makes your head spin all the same.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, forehead pressed lightly to yours.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Your heart might’ve actually stopped.

You slam the door shut behind you, back pressed against it, heart pounding so hard you swear it echoes in your ribcage. You stare at your phone, wide-eyed, thumbs flying:

you: SHOKO

you: SHOKO I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP

you: THIS IS AN EMERGENCY 

shoko: it’s literally 1am

shoko: you better be on fire 

you: I KISSED HIM

shoko: what

shoko: WHO

shoko: WAIT

shoko: WAIT.

you: YES. HIM.

shoko: THE HOT GUITAR PLAYER???

you: CHOSO. YES. YES. YES

shoko: oh my god you’re so gone

you: HE WALKED ME HOME. HELD MY HAND. KISSED ME. I AM GONE GONE.

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAA

you: HE SAID ‘GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART’

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

you: I KNOW

You toss your phone onto the bed, face planting right after it, squealing into your pillow like a teenager all over again.

Because you kissed him. And he kissed you back. And you’re never sleeping tonight.

-

You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet—too quiet. You’ve already scrolled through your entire feed twice, tried reading, even got up to make tea you didn’t drink.

Then your phone lights up.

Incoming call: Choso.

Your heart stutters.

You take a breath and answer. “…Hey.”

His voice is warm on the other end. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see. “No. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Same,” he says. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your breath catches. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, like it might calm your racing heart.

There’s a small silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s soft. Comfortable. Like neither of you really wants to hang up.

He speaks again, voice a little lower. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You try to play it off. “I put in effort. Didn’t want to show up looking like I did last time.”

“I liked that too,” he says. “But tonight you walked in and I forgot what the hell I was doing.”

You laugh, hiding your face in your pillow.

“I wish I could see you again right now,” he says.

“Me too.”

“Would it be too much if I said I kinda wanna fall asleep listening to you?”

Your stomach flips.

You whisper, “Then stay on the line.”

And you do—both of you quiet, just breathing, letting the silence say everything.

-

You're standing outside the bar, shifting on your feet, trying to act like you haven’t been checking your reflection in every window on the walk here.

This time, your outfit isn’t casual by accident. You planned it. Styled your hair just right. Even put on that gloss you save for special occasions.

You step inside and immediately spot him, leaning back against a booth like he owns the place, one arm slung lazily over the seat. His eyes lift—

—and damn.

They rake down your figure slowly, like he’s drinking you in. And when they return to your face, there’s the smallest upward curve to his lips.

“Someone dressed to impress,” he says, standing as you approach.

“Maybe,” you reply, coy. “You are the star of the show, after all.”

He laughs low in his throat, hand brushing the small of your back as he leans in close. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Tonight, it’s all about you.”

You sit together in the same booth. This time, there’s no ice to break. The tension simmers warm between you—his knee bumps yours under the table and doesn’t move away. His eyes flicker to your lips more than once.

“So,” you say, swirling your drink. “What happens after drinks, guitar boy?”

He smirks, elbow resting on the table as he leans closer. “Depends. You thinking of letting me kiss you again?”

You raise your brows. “You planning on asking?”

He tilts his head. “I could. But you didn’t seem to need much prompting last time.”

That earns him a playful nudge. And a flustered laugh.

He grins. "Take your time, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

The jukebox crackles as the next track begins—slow, dreamy, sweet.

Like falling asleep in warm hands. Like the part in a romance film where everything softens.

Before you can even comment on the vibe shift, Choso is rising from the booth, hand extended toward you, palm up.

Your brows lift. “You serious?”

He just smiles. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

You hesitate—because, what? In a bar? With him?? But his fingers flex, waiting, and the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible to say no.

You slip your hand into his.

He pulls you gently to the dance floor. There’s no one else there—just you, him, and the slow rhythm bleeding from the speakers. His hands settle on your waist. Yours hover awkwardly before curling behind his neck.

You sway.

“I didn’t take you for a dancer,” you mumble, heart skipping when he twirls you suddenly.

He smirks. “I’m not.”

You laugh—loud and sweet and so damn happy. And when he catches you again, you don’t pull away. Instead, you melt into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the soft thud of his heartbeat under the fabric of his shirt.

His hand traces slow circles on your back.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, nuzzling in closer. “Yeah… It’s perfect.”

He rests his chin lightly atop your head. And neither of you says another word.

Not when the song ends.

Not when the next one starts.

Because for that moment—it’s just the two of you, swaying under dim lights, held together by the sound of a love song.

-

You step outside into the night, your breath curling in pale puffs. The air is colder than before, wrapping around your bare arms like a whispered warning. You shiver.

Without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, tugging you into his side. His hand rests at your waist, warm and firm, grounding you.

For a while, you just stand there—side by side, quiet. The city buzzes in the distance, cars passing, streetlights humming.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. Hard.

Like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your jaw. The way the wind lifts your hair. The way your lips part just slightly when you breathe.

“What?” you ask, a soft laugh in your voice, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just wets his lips. His fingers flex against your hip.

“I just…” he starts, voice rough with restraint. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

You blink, heart thudding once. Twice.

The pause stretches.

“Yeah?” you murmur, leaning in a fraction. Teasing.

He nods once. Barely.

You smile—heart pounding in your throat. “So why don’t you?”

And that’s all it takes.

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks like you’re made of porcelain. And when his lips finally meet yours—it’s soft. Slow. Full of the tension he’s been carrying all night, unspooling between you in breathless silence.

His nose bumps yours. Your hands fist the front of his shirt again. Just like last time.

Only this time, you don’t stop at one kiss.

And when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice low:

“You’re gonna ruin me, y’know that?”

You laugh, barely a whisper against his lips, breath mingling with his. “Then I guess I better make it worth your while.”

That gets a reaction.

His gaze darkens just slightly, lips twitching into the faintest smirk as his hands slide down from your cheeks, one settling at the nape of your neck while the other pulls you flush against him. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer.

Because you’re already kissing him again.

This time it’s different.

Less hesitant.

More hungry.

Your fingers find his hair, tangling in the dark strands that fall just past his neck, tugging gently until he groans into your mouth. He kisses you deeper, like he’s starved, like he hasn’t been thinking about this since the first night he met you in the crowd, eyes wide and awe-struck.

His hand grips your waist, fingers digging in—not too hard, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, tongue flicking against it before pulling back just enough to breathe:

“You’re trouble.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips kiss-swollen and heart racing. “You’re one to talk.”

And he laughs—low and breathy, pressing another quick kiss to your mouth like he can’t help himself.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me walk you home before I get any worse ideas.”

The walk back is quiet—but not the awkward kind. It’s heavy with something, charged with unspoken words and lingering touches. His fingers brush yours with every step, and each time it happens, your breath catches.

You swear he’s doing it on purpose.

But you don’t stop him.

The streetlights cast a soft glow on him, turning his features golden for a moment, then shadowed the next. He looks… different like this. Softer. Less like the untouchable bassist who had you practically drooling the first night, and more like someone you could fall for if you’re not careful.

You sneak a glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

You look away fast, heart leaping, and he chuckles under his breath.

"Cold?" he asks, tugging you gently closer.

You nod, even though that’s not why you’re shaking.

His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your head fits against him perfectly, and his hand rubs slow circles against your arm, warm and grounding.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs.

You laugh quietly. “Little bit.”

“Me too.”

You tilt your head to look at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods. “You make me nervous.”

You’re about to say something—anything—but then you’ve reached your place.

And suddenly, you don’t want to go inside.

He stops in front of your door, letting you go with a reluctant sigh. His hand lingers on your arm for a second longer before falling away.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and asks, “You gonna call me?”

You nod. “If you answer.”

He grins. “Always.”

You hesitate—just for a second—and then press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s quick, but the way his breath hitches tells you it did the trick.

“Goodnight, Choso.”

And before he can pull you in again, before you can throw all common sense out the window and kiss him properly, you slip inside.

Heart pounding. Lips tingling.

-

You wake up with your heart still pounding.

And not because of a nightmare.

Nope. This was worse.

Because it was real.

You kissed Choso.

Again.

And not in a dreamlike, floaty, “this could be a maybe” kind of way. You kissed him after swaying in his arms like some romcom protagonist. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and you felt your knees give just a little, and you definitely whimpered against his mouth like a fool.

You groan and roll onto your side, burying your face in your pillow.

You’re so doomed.

Your phone vibrates.

You blink and grab it, squinting at the screen.

choso: didn’t want to wake you but i just wanted to say

choso: thank you for last night

You freeze.

Sit up slowly.

Your heartbeat? Violent.

You tap out a reply, delete it, rewrite it, delete again. Finally, you just go with:

you: it was nothing :)

Immediately after sending it:

you: i’m being weird aren’t i ignore me please

And then:

you: but also don’t ignore me because i liked it and i like you and i’m going to stop talking now before i make it worse

Your phone is dangerously quiet for thirty seconds.

Then it buzzes again.

choso: you’re not being weird.

choso: you’re being adorable

choso: i like you too

choso: also… can i see you again tonight?

You shriek into your pillow.

And then type:

you: you better

-

You weren’t expecting it when he texted you earlier that day.

come to the studio. i want you to hear something.

Now here you are, walking through a narrow hallway that smells like cigarettes and worn leather, Choso’s voice telling the receptionist to let you in. He meets you at the door, hoodie on, hair loosely tied back, a pair of headphones slung around his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you with a small smile tugging at his lips.

You smile back, brushing past him as he closes the door behind you. The studio is dimly lit, a warm orange hue cast by the LED strips lining the edges of the ceiling. There’s a worn-out couch in the corner, an empty coffee cup on the desk, and wires everywhere.

He leads you to a chair beside him. “Wrote something last night. Thought you might want to hear it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Inspired by anything?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a look.

He clicks a few keys on his laptop, and music starts playing—slow, rich bass, soft drums, a melody that feels like it’s watching you breathe. Then lyrics—his voice, lower and raspier than usual.

And the words? They burn.

It’s about being unable to get someone off your mind. About how they haunt your quiet moments. About wanting something that feels dangerous and delicate at the same time.

When it ends, there’s a beat of silence.

“…You wrote that?” you ask.

Choso nods, slow. “All of it.”

“It’s…” Your voice catches. “It’s beautiful.”

He leans back, watching you carefully. “It’s about you. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

The room feels smaller. Hotter. You swallow.

You murmur, “I didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you.”

“You don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “You have more.”

He’s standing between your knees now. One hand on the armrest beside you. The other gently tilts your chin up.

“Can I kiss you again?”

You nod before your brain even catches up.

And then he does—slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. His lips slot against yours and the world blurs. His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck without thinking.

The music plays on in the background. But neither of you hears it.

His lips are warm against yours, stealing every thought from your head. One kiss turns into two, then three—deeper, slower, more intense. His hands settle on your waist, firm, grounding. You melt into him without thinking.

But then—between kisses, you manage a breathless whisper, lips brushing his as you speak.

“Choso, not here—there’s people around.”

His eyes open slowly, pupils blown wide. He glances around, then back at you, and that look in his eyes? It's trouble.

Without saying a word, he grabs your hand. “Come on.”

You barely catch your breath before he’s pulling you along, weaving past people, straight toward the exit. His grip doesn’t loosen, even when he’s fumbling for his keys. He unlocks his car in a rush and opens the passenger door for you before sliding into the driver’s seat himself.

The whole ride is charged—silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional stolen glance. He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, the ones that had just been ghosting over your skin minutes ago.

When he pulls into the parking lot of his building, he doesn’t waste time. Hands still locked with yours, he leads you upstairs, heart pounding just as fast as yours.

The second the door shuts behind you, he turns around—and everything finally snaps.

Choso doesn’t pounce. He doesn’t rush.

He leans against the door, just watching you. Taking you in like it’s the first time. His eyes roam your face, your lips—your heaving chest. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, husky.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes off the door slowly, strides over like a man with nowhere else to be. His hands find your waist, gentle at first, then firm. His head dips down, lips ghosting over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—but he doesn’t kiss you yet.

“You look so pretty tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint.

His nose grazes your neck, and you shudder. Every place his breath touches feels like it’s burning.

“You always look pretty,” he adds, kissing just below your ear now. “But tonight?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips brushing lower.

“You’re killing me.”

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie, fingers twitching as you lift it up slowly—exposing the pale skin of his stomach inch by inch. He lets you, arms raised, letting the fabric slide off and onto the floor. The tattoos swirl over his chest, catching the soft glow of the apartment lights, and your fingers can’t help but trace them.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice rougher now.

You shake your head. “No. Just… can’t believe this is real.”

Choso tilts your chin up, makes you look at him. His gaze is so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

“It is,” he says. “And we’ve got all night.”

He kisses you again, this time softer, slower. No rush. Just lips moving against yours with quiet reverence, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

His hands stay on your waist, warm and steady, but you feel the way his thumbs are drawing lazy circles on your skin—like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he’s savoring the moment as much as you are.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He hums into the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair.

The path to the bedroom is a blur.

You’re not sure how you get there—if he carries you, or if you walk, tangled up in each other, lips never parting for more than a breath.

The room is dim, lit only by the city lights bleeding through the blinds. It paints both of you in silver and shadow. Choso backs you toward the bed, and when your knees hit the edge, he pauses. Looks down at you like you’re something sacred.

You swallow, heart thundering. “Are you gonna keep staring or—”

“Shh.” He dips his head, kisses your neck, just under your jaw. “Let me take my time with you.”

You shiver. God, his voice—low, velvet, dangerous.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

He pushes you onto the bed and you bounce slightly on it. He’s crawling up your body, hands trailing along your sides, slipping beneath your shirt—fingertips so gentle it sends goosebumps across your skin. You raise your arms, let him take it off. He discards it carefully, almost reverently, and then he’s touching you again.

It’s not frantic. It’s worship.

The way he kisses down your chest, murmuring things you can’t even process. The way he handles you like he’s scared you’ll break. His mouth is everywhere—leaving warmth and wetness and little marks that’ll be there tomorrow. Proof that this happened. That he happened.

When his hands slip lower, and he finally asks, “Can I?”—you nod, breathless, and he grins, slow and sinful.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not stopping tonight.”

His touch starts soft. Teasing.

His fingers graze along your thigh, slipping under your skirt. Just the pad of one finger tracing your inner thigh, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you. He watches your reactions closely—every breath, every twitch, every clench of your thighs like it’s his favorite show.

“Already shaking,” he murmurs with a smirk, fingers drifting up higher, stopping just at the edge of your underwear. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

When he finally slips his hand beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers are warm, his touch confident. He finds you wet—soaked—and he groans low in his throat.

“Fuck... all this for me?”

His middle finger drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering everything, spreading it around before circling your clit—just barely touching it. It’s maddening.

“You’re already this worked up,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “What happens when I really start?”

He’s rushing to take your underwear off, almost ripping them in the process. Then—finally—he eases a finger inside.

It’s slow at first. Just one finger, shallow thrusts, curling up and stroking that spot inside you until your hips start chasing him, greedy for more. He watches your face the whole time, eats up every whimper.

“Choso… more,” you whisper, barely able to speak.

His eyes flick up, dark and hungry. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You can take another?”

You nod, breathless.

He slides a second finger in—thicker, deeper. His palm presses against your clit as his fingers work inside you, curling just right, just enough pressure to make your back arch. His other hand grabs your thigh, keeps you open and steady as he builds a rhythm.

It’s obscene—the wet, messy sounds of his fingers fucking into you—but it only makes him grin.

“You hear that, sweetheart?” he says lowly. 

You’re gasping now, clutching the sheets, legs shaking. He really is good with his hands.

“C’mon,” he whispers against your neck, tongue darting out to taste you. “Let go for me.”

And with one more curl, one more stroke—you do.

You come around his fingers, back arching, a moan ripped from your chest as he keeps moving through it, working you until you’re twitching, thighs trembling against him.

When he finally pulls his fingers out, he brings them to his lips.

“Tastes even better than I imagined,” he says, voice low and ruined.

He doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

The second those words leave his mouth, his gaze drops—hungry, wicked—and before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s already moving.

He’s moving down your body, settling between your legs, hands parting your thighs, spreading you wide open for him. You barely manage a gasp before his mouth is on you.

And fuck.

He licks a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—moaning against you like he’s tasting something divine. His tongue is hot, wet, firm—flicking against your clit before flattening and dragging against it again. He’s not shy. He devours.

You twitch under him, gasping, and his grip on your thighs tightens.

“Stay still for me,” he murmurs against you, breath fanning over your soaked heat. “Let me eat, baby.”

And oh, does he eat.

He buries his face between your legs like he’s starved—lips and tongue and heat and mess, sucking your clit into his mouth, groaning when your fingers grab his hair and pull. His nose nudges your clit, the piercings in his ears cold against your thigh.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just right so he can get even deeper. His tongue fucks into you, messy and wet, before he pulls back to mouth at your clit again.

You’re a wreck—panting, eyes rolling back, legs trembling on either side of his head. He loves it. You can tell by the way he hums into you, nose buried in your folds, like every whimper out of you is a personal victory.

Your thighs start to close around his head—he lets them. Arms locking around your legs, holding you there like he wants to be suffocated. And with one more flick of his tongue—one more swirl, one more perfect pressure—

You cry out, hips jerking, thighs clenching, and he doesn’t stop. He works you through it, licking, kissing, groaning against your cunt like he’s drunk off you.

When your body finally slumps back against the mattress, dazed and spent, he pulls back just enough to look up at you.

His mouth glistens. His eyes are wrecked.

And he licks his lips.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Choso’s mouth is still hot against yours, the kiss messy and hungry, his tongue sliding over yours like he can’t get enough of the taste of you. 

He unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down along with his boxers, his girthy length slapping against his abdomen. Your mouth parts in a soft gasp at the sight of it. But you don't have time to marvel at it. His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them up—higher, higher—until you're folded in half in a mean mating press.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, chest heaving. “Wanna see your face while I fuck you.”

Your breath catches.

His hands hook behind your knees, holding them open as he shifts forward. The position has you completely laid out for him, helpless beneath the weight of his body. You feel his cock, thick and hard, dragging over your slick entrance—and then he pushes in, slow and deep.

You whimper—a sound torn from your throat, soft and wrecked, your back arching as he presses deeper.

Choso groans, low and guttural, head falling forward to rest against yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek, and you swear you can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds himself still—just for a second.

“F-fuck…” he breathes, voice rough with restraint. “You’re so fucking tight like this…”

His hips roll forward again, slower this time, the movement deliberate—like he wants you to feel every inch. “Feels like you’re made for me,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Your fingers scramble across the expanse of his back, nails dragging, searching for something to ground you. His shoulders, his arms, anything—because the way he’s filling you, stretching you, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Then he starts to move. Deep. Steady. And the new angle is devastating.

He hits every spot just right, his cock dragging along your walls, slow and purposeful, grinding into the deepest parts of you with every thrust. Your legs tremble in his hold, pinned back and open for him, the pressure building with each stroke. Your jaw falls open, a moan slipping free—high-pitched and desperate.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

But it’s not pain. No—never that.

It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. It’s him.

“You’re taking it so well,” he grits out, eyes burning into yours as his pace deepens. “Fuck—just like that, baby. Taking all of me.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted as your moans spill freely. He leans down—closer, closer—until your thighs are nearly flush to your chest and his weight settles on top of you, heavy and grounding.

And he fucks you.

Not rough, but intentional—each stroke slow and deep, hips rolling so he never leaves you empty. He watches your face, watches every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes. Like he’s trying to memorize it. All of it.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling when his thrusts grind just right. His name escapes you in a whimper—over and over, his name like a mantra.

“Choso—” you gasp. “Oh my God—Choso, I-I…”

“I know,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

You’re soaked—messy, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the room, underscored by the soft creak of the mattress and your broken cries.

He shifts, angling just so, and you shatter.

Your body seizes, nails digging into his back as your orgasm rips through you, sudden and all-consuming. A sob leaves your throat, your back arching as your walls flutter and clamp down around him.

With a low groan, he shifts—gently, carefully—his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lower them. You gasp softly when he wraps your legs around his waist, keeping you close, keeping you full, as his hips press flush to yours.

He groans—a raw, broken sound—his hips stuttering. “Shit—fuck, I’m close—where do you want it, sweetheart?”

You barely think. You just nod, desperate. “Inside—please—inside.”

That’s all he needs.

He presses in deep, body trembling, a shudder running through him as he spills into you, cock twitching with every pulse of his release. You feel the heat of it—so much, thick and warm as it fills you up. And still, he doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving—soft, shallow thrusts that drag it out, that make your body twitch and whimper, overstimulated and glowing.

His name slips from your lips again, quieter this time, your fingers trailing down his back, soothing over sweat-slick skin.

And then—finally—he stills.

Buried to the hilt. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting over your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice low and reverent.

His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he’s grounding himself.

"Don’t want to let go just yet," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion and aftermath. He leans down, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Feels too good like this.”

You hum, dazed and pliant, arms winding around his neck as your forehead rests against his. His weight, his warmth—it’s comforting. Heavy in the best way.

Every small shift makes you gasp—too sensitive, too raw—but you don’t ask him to move.

You don’t want him to either.

And neither does he.

So he stays there—buried deep, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies tangled as if they were always meant to be like this.

After, when the haze finally starts to fade, Choso is the first to move—but only just.

He brushes your hair from your face with slow fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and full of concern. Gentle. So gentle. “Was that… too much?”

You shake your head, barely able to speak as you whisper, “No. It was perfect.”

He exhales, and the breath sounds like relief. Like he needed to hear that.

Without a word, he slips out of bed, grabbing a warm cloth and returning to you. He moves with such care—his hands slow, wiping between your thighs with reverence, like you’re something precious. You flinch a little at the sensitivity, and he mumbles a soft “Sorry” as he presses a kiss to your knee, his gaze flickering up to check on you again.

Once you’re clean, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls back under the covers. You instinctively curl into him, and he opens his arms wide, pulling you in, tucking your head beneath his chin.

His fingers trace slow, lazy circles along your spine. Your legs are tangled with his, your body warm and sore and safe. He smells like sweat and sex and his cologne, and you want to fall asleep in this exact moment, forever.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against your hair.

You blink up at him. “That’s my line.”

He smiles, barely-there but so real. “Guess we’ll take turns.”

You laugh—quiet, muffled against his chest—and he hums along with it, fingers still moving along your back.

A silence settles between you, but it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. The kind that only comes after letting someone see you bare in every way.

He breaks it eventually, voice thick with sleep. “You staying over?”

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

And neither would he.

So he kisses the top of your head one more time, murmurs something soft and unintelligible against your skin, and lets himself fall asleep with you in his arms.

Exactly where you both want to be.

author's note. this is just pure choso brainrot because i could not get that fanart out of my head so ofc i had to write something about it. (choso girlies, i'm borrowing your man for a while, thank you)

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

[leniisreallycool]

"His brown is short and but wavey and pretty and he has eyes." I'm such a good writer

[shouyuus]

18+, mdni, vi-shaped but what else is new

car mechanic!vi who's basically been working at her dad's autoshop hounds auto since she was like seven years old, running around handing vander the fuel pressure meter and fetching water, who grows up in the garage to the point that all vander's regulars know her by name and also all her favorite sweets (bc she DOES have a sweet tooth, despite her tomboy looks).

car mechanic!vi who's closet is exclusively stained gray tanktops, leather jackets gifted to her by all her dad's patrons, and old denim from thrift shops bc she likes how they feel worn in and also why bother getting "nice" clothes if they're just gonna get greased up anyway? who hums to herself when she's working, always has a cool beer chilling in the garage fridge and is doing her best to make sure she can send powder to caltech bc she knows her sister is a genius and is gonna be like a rocket scientist one day.

car mechanic!vi who laughs when you pull up one day with your 1960's cherry red corvette, climbing out of the driver's seat with your white fishnets and your pink croptop and your plaid miniskirt, your heart-shaped sunglasses propped on top of perfectly blown out bangs, and the only thing vi can think when she lands eyes on you is how much she'd enjoy taking you apart on the hood of your car, your thighs hiked onto her shoulders, your palm-prints inked into the bright red paint of your car.

car mechanic!vi who grins slow, slings a greasy towel on her shoulder as she comes out to greet you, hitching an eyebrow as you motion towards the car, your cheeks stained the most adorable shade of pink she's ever seen, saying --

"i think there's something wrong with it --" but when you purse your perfectly glossed, cherry-tinted lips, vi has to force herself not to lose focus because sweet baby jesus on a harley, that should be illegal.

"-- think you can help...?" you shuffle your feet, glancing at her even as she takes her time looking you over, doing nothing to hide the way her eyes rake over the length of your body and back up again.

"sure thing, sweets. mind if i pop the front?"

you swallow, nodding eagerly; vi doesn't miss the way your eyes linger on her arms and perhaps flexes harder than is absolutely necessary when opening up the front hood of the car.

car mechanic!vi who bends over to take a closer look and actually does miss the way you physically have to tear your eyes away from the bend of her ass, because holy shit? it does not help that vi shifts to lean further into the hood, a slip of skin peaking out from beneath her tanktop, and suddenly, there's a spring-water rush of blood behind your ears, threatening to drown out all other sound as she pulls back with a shrug.

"looks like the cooling system's busted," she says, scratching at the back of her neck, frowning as she looks back at you, "there's a couple things we can do --"

you swallow, "just a couple?" you ask, before you can stop yourself. you squeeze your eyes shut as the words leave your mouth. woops. fuck.

car mechanic!vi who blinks, cocking her head at you before a smirk teases across her lips. she leans back against the front of your car, crossing her arms loosely over her chest.

"yeah, for the car. but... dunno, if you wanna stick around for a bit, i can think of a ton more things we can do..."

you lick your lips, scuffing your mary janes against the cool pavement of her garage.

"define a bit... and also a ton..."

vi's grin is crooked; there's a fox-bright gleam in her eyes as she pushes off the car and makes her way towards you -- and for a moment, you can't help but wonder if she's a lamb in wolf's clothing, or perhaps (the thought singes a tantalizing line up your spine) just the damned wolf itself.

car mechanic!vi who tells you that for the car, she can either order all the parts that have suffered wear and tear, and then just replace them.

"issue with that is, in these older models, even with the parts replaced, it won't last you too long before you'll need them redone again."

"so..." you teeter, looking around at the various tools hung across the walls, every inch of space utilized to maximize efficiency, the high ceilings, the slow-turning fans, the propped up cars, some missing the front two wheels, some just a skeleton of mechanical parts.

"but lucky for you, one of my old man's pals just put a brand new crossflow radiator into his 1960's corvette, and he paid me to help him rig it. and i can do the same for you."

by the way vi smiles, it's obvious that this is the option she thinks you should go for. you blink.

"cross... flow... what?"

vi stares for a few seconds before letting out a startled laugh.

"wait -- i thought you said this was your car?"

you nod, fiddling with your hands behind your back.

"and... you've got no idea how to take care of a vintage car like this, do you?"

you shake your head, feeling a now-familiar heat prickling into your cheeks.

"my -- my dad got it for me for my 21st birthday..." you say, just on the other side of petulant.

car mechanic!vi who hums low in her throat and closes the distance between you in a few quick steps, a hand drifting up to trace along the line of our cheek.

"and you're just daddy's little princess, aren't you?" she asks, noticing with a dull ache in her belly, the way your breath hitches at the word princess.

she bites back another smirk as you bob your head once, your eyes flickering down to her lips before refocusing on her again.

"well..." she draws out the word, tugging back, a satisfied warmth pooling in her chest at the way your lips push out into perfect pout at her distance, "if you wanna give you daddy a call to ask what he might want..." she lets her words trail off. but you're already shaking your head, your eyes bright, your expression over-eager.

(she thinks you just might be the end of her; if she doesn't end you first.)

"no!" you squeak, "i -- i mean -- whatever you think is best --" you amend hurriedly, blushing something furious as vi leans back up against her workbench, her gaze locked on the shape of you, the hunger in her eyes now so evident that it sparks goosepimples down the lengths of your arms.

"yeah? you trust me that much, pretty girl?"

you nearly go into anaphylactic shock; your lashes flutter.

vi thinks she might honestly blow a fuse as you look shyly back at her, your gaze somehow both molten and hard.

"y-yeah. i do. i -- i trust you."

car mechanic!vi who wastes no time drawing up a plan for your repairs, but when you glance over the receipt, you notice that the number at the bottom is way, way too long, and you're fairly certain (even in your advanced stages of crush-induced lightheadedness) dollar amounts aren't usually broken up by dashes.

"is this... where i should send the payment?" you ask, holding up the handwritten receipt.

vi grins, tossing you a look over her shoulder as she steps out from behind the wheel of your car, now parked safely in her garage.

"nope. that's just my number."

"your..." you look back down at the scribbled series of digits. oh.

"so... are you gonna text me the final cost?"

vi chuckles, "sure, sweets -- if that's what you'd like. and if you're feelin' real frisky -- we can text about other stuff too."

your breath catches in your throat like thread around a barbed wire fence. you nearly drop the receipt.

"l-like what?" you ask.

"oh... i dunno..." vi says, the tease now obvious in her voice as she makes her way around the shop, gathering this tool and that, bending down to haul a massive toolbox from beneath a set of shelves. your mouth physically waters at the flex in her biceps as she carries it all back over to her workbench.

"maybe about the kinda coffee you like," she says, leisurely, "or how you'd like your eggs in the morning."

car mechanic!vi who wastes no time in asking if you'd like to go out the next day, because as much as she really loves the thought of pinning you to the hood of your car right then and there, a part of her wants to do this properly. and, she muses, there's no better foreplay than sharing a banana split sundae with a pretty girl.

she sends you on your way with the receipt tucked into your miniature handbag ("what's that even hold anyway?" "uhm... my card wallet, the keys, and lip gloss!" "...ah. of course. all the most essential things.") and a promise to pick you up the following day, since your ride's temporarily out of commission ("don't worry, sweets, i'll take real good care of this baby right here." you immediately wonder if it's normal to feel jealous of a car).

and pick you up she does, at 6pm on the dot, in black pants so tight they might've been painted on, and a cropped leather jacket, though you hear her revving her motorbike a full 30 seconds before her text dings on your phone --

look outside, sweetness.

car mechanic!vi who is so polite to your rather bewildered parents, smiles wide and charming, easily slips into conversation with your dad about the vintage cars in his collection, calls your mom "m'aam" and compliments her pearl earrings, promises not to keep you out too late. so that by the time she tells you to swing onto the bike behind her, you're convinced that your parents might like her more than they like you.

"hold on tight, princess." is all she says before she rips off down the street of your cul de sac and you're yelping, burying your face in her back, the leather of her jacket butter-soft and warm against your skin.

car mechanic!vi who's just a bit too smug and more than a little smitten when she has to help you off her bike in the parking lot of the cute little retro-themed diner downtown, you shaking out your hair from the helmet she'd handed you, your cheeks painted sunset as she guides you into the restaurant with a palm at the small of your back.

who enjoys talking to you way too much, who wants to bottle up the sound of your laughter in one of those old fashioned coca-cola bottles, all sweet and bubbly, and save it for the summer afternoons when the air's thick enough to slick the skin, pop it open and pour it down her throat, swallow around the sound of you, giggling into the curly fries, debating with her about the perfect ketchup-to-mustard ratio for the most optimum fry-eating experience.

car mechanic!vi who tells you that the sundaes here are the best in town, and nearly melts at how bright your eyes get, how excited you look as you nod and flag down the waitress to order one.

"just one?" the waitress asks.

"trust me, one is more than enough," vi answers smoothly, shooting you a wink that might've induced heart failure in a weaker soul (and you truly do not think you're one of god's strongest soldiers bc you definitely had to take a mental breather after that).

but it turns out that she was quite right, because the banana split is huge. dauntingly-sized. and vi perhaps has too good of a time watching you gape over it (she's not at all thinking about how your cute lil mouth, so round now, would look stretched over her strap, not at all nope, nope, nope) before motioning for you to dig in.

car mechanic!vi who thinks, for the first time, that she might've bitten off more than she can chew (metaphorically, of course) when you cut off way too big of a bite, and white whipped cream smears across your lips as you struggle to get the whole thing in your mouth, your cheeks puffed out, lashes fluttering.

"careful there, sweets -- don't want you to hurt yourself," she says, in a decent stab at her usual suave tone, but her voice comes out just a bit hoarse as she reaches out to try and wipe some of the whipped cream from your lips at the exact moment your tongue flicks out to do the same --

her stomach clenches as your tongue accidently laves along the pad of her thumb and the dollop of cream drops onto the table between you.

"whoops," you say, your shoulders shrugging up as you finally swallow the bite of banana and cream, reaching for a napkin to wipe your mouth before dabbing at the tabletop.

when you glance up at vi, she's still staring, her expression strangely blank as you meet her eyes. but the second your gaze catches on hers, you see the way her pupils dilate, darkness eating into pre-dawn blue.

car mechanic!vi who tries her level best not to fidget too hard as the pair of you diligently make your way through as much of the sundae as possible, before you toss down your fork with a sigh, shaking your head.

"wow, i'm so full!"

"mm... could be fuller, i'm sure," vi murmurs into your ear, grinning when you shiver at the low sway of her voice, the gentle dance of her fingers on your waist.

"v-vi!" you squeak, even as she ushers you from the diner with a bright grin at the waitress, promising to come by again soon, and to send their love to her dad and younger sister.

and fuck, she really did think she wanted to take this slow, but holy shit, she can't wipe the image of you swallowing around the mouthful of cream from her mind, the feeling of your warm tongue as it'd flicked across the pad of her thumb.

"c'mon, sweet girl," she says, grazing her lips along the soft spot behind your ear and your knees almost buckle then and there, but her strong arm is looped around your waist as she helps you back onto her bike and cups your cheeks, "god, you have no idea what you do to me, huh?"

your breath hitches; what you do to her? what about what she does to you?

car mechanic!vi who can't help the way she presses in to kiss you, hesitating for a breath to ask can i? against your lips before you're nodding, just as eager as she is, and tugging her in to kiss her. you taste as sweet as she'd imagined (and lord, has she been imagining, even though it's been less than 24 hours), the lingering taste of whipped cream and chocolate syrup on your tongue as she licks hungrily into your mouth, moaning as you whimper, your thighs squeezing around her hips, your ass nearly slipping off the seat of her bike.

she hitches you back up without breaking the kiss, heat rolling up into her neck and shoulders as she feels your fingers twisting in her hair.

"f-fuck --" she pulls back breathless, her head spinning, her eyes caught on the press of your kiss-bruised lips, the way you purse them as you glance up at her, already looking so debauched she's tempted to pull you into the shadow of the diner and take you against the wall.

but, she falls half a step back and breathes, grinning crookedly as you pout at her.

"a-are you gonna take me back to your place, or not?".

car mechanic!vi who lets out a startled laugh and cocks her head, thinking that really there is a god, and that this -- just you, sitting on the black leather of her bike, your hair a bit mussed up, your cheeks flushed with color, asking her to take you to hers -- is all the proof she needs.

"you really are a spoiled little princess, aren't you?" she asks, swinging her leg over the bike seat and adjusting her grip. your arms loop around her middle and she tries not to groan at the feeling of your body pressing up against hers.

"well, daddy always told me that i shouldn't settle for anything less than the best," you say, and your voice would've been lofty, had it not been for the way you lean up to ghost your lips by the shell of vi's ear, chasing shivers down the length of her entire spine.

her stomach roils with heat. she turns to shoot you a smirk over her shoulder.

"well then. guess i'll just have to ruin you for every other girl who might come your way, huh?"

car mechanic!vi who definitely breaks the sound barrier tearing through the few streets separating the downtown strip and the auto shop, who's barely done parking the bike before she's pulling you bodily off the seat, hitching your legs around her waist and carrying you into the shop, slamming a hand on the switch to close the garage door.

she's already kissing you by the time she sets you on the hood of your car, the height of it perfect for her to pull back and pin you down by your wrists. she thinks that you have no business looking so perfect against the bright cherry of the paint, and grins as she looks you over, pressing a knee up between your legs just to hear your breath hitch and admire the way your cute little plaid skirt rides up.

car mechanic!vi who drops to her knees, pillows her cheek on your thigh and groans as she flips up the hem of your skirt to press her the flat of her tongue to the damp patch already soaking through your pink lace panties. who's mesmerized by the sight of you arching your back on the hood of your car, your fingers scrabbling at the smooth metal, reaching down till you can grip at her hair, your lips parting over your little whimpers and moans -- she thinks, faintly, that she wants to fuck you till your voice goes hoarse.

"vi -- what if -- is anyone -- ah --"

she can't help smiling at the way you can't quite get a full thought out, leaning back as she hooks her fingers around your panties and tugs them down your thighs till they're dangling off one of your delicate ankles.

"no one's here, sweetness -- so you can be as loud as you want," she says, reaching down to slick her fingers between your pussy, admiring the shine on her skin.

"b-but what if -- mmngh -- someone c-comes -- b-back --"

and it's cute, really, how worried you are about all of it, even as she teases a finger around your sodden hole, her thumb flicking up against your clit, making your body jerk up. she smiles, easing a finger in with a soft groan of her own, relishing the way you squeeze around her.

"mm, well -- let's see..." she says, her voice low and steady even as she tugs back her finger and pushes it in again, slow as anything, "my dad's out drinking at my uncle's bar across town, and my baby sister's at benzo's place with ekko --" she allows herself a crooked grin as you keen around her just as she presses a second finger into you, "they said they were studying but..." she shrugs, her eyes hooded as she watches you squirm beneath her, "i'm pretty sure they're hooking up so --" she runs a tight circle around your clit with her thumb, puffing out a breath as your thighs clamp shut around her wrist and she has to pry them back open with her other hand, pinning your knee to the hood of your car, keeping your other leg still with one of her's.

"the only person you gotta worry about coming... is yourself, princess."

car mechanic!vi who fucks you through two orgasms, eats you out for a third, before finally letting up and carrying you up to her bedroom above the auto shop, asking if you want to text your parents that you're staying the night.

you do, and vi only teases you a little bit about being such a good girl, but she lets you burrow in against her chest, lets you kiss her neck and tug her phone from her hands before planting one on her lips and trailing your way down her chest, tugging at her tanktop till she laughs and pulls it from her body.

car mechanic!vi who nearly loses her mind when you look up at her from between her legs, all wide eyes and parted lips, pressing your perfectly manicured nails into the corded muscles of her thighs and asking her in the sweetest voice to

"show me what you like -- please? i -- i wanna make you feel good too."

car mechanic!vi who fucks your face till both of you are breathless, her hips bucking up against your perfect mouth, her mind fizzling out at the edges at the way you're moaning into her cunt, the way you're grinding your hips down over nothing as she talks you through how to eat her out just the way she likes. who jerks you up and hauls you into her lap to kiss you sloppy, her fingers digging into the meat of your hips as she grinds you down over her still-throbbing clit, who fucking can't get over the sight of you riding her even as both of you tip into the realm of overstimulation, whining and keening and you collapsing onto her in the muted, twilight dark of her room.

"h-holy shit..."

vi laughs, "yeah. you can say that again."

you look up, a soft, pliant smile, "holy shit, violet..."

and the sound of her name on your lips convinces her, more than anything, that (contrary to all her big talk earlier), you're definitely the one who's ruined her for any other girl who might come her way.

car mechanic!vi who wakes up to your lips on hers, who groans into the taste of you, kissing you, rolling over to pin you beneath her even as the early morning sun spills lemon-bright and spring-water-sweet through her half-closed blinds.

"morning, princess," she mumbles against your lips.

"morning..." you giggle, gasping as she drops a tender kiss to your shoulder.

"sleep well?" she asks, trailing down the smooth skin of your chest till she can lave her tongue around your puffy nipple.

"mm --" you suck in a breath, "y-yeah -- had -- had good d-dreams -- a-ah!" you arch up into her, your body soft and warm as a daydream, and she just can't get enough.

"yeah? tell me... what'dyou dream of, hm?" vi asks, letting the world hum through her throat, rumbling over your skin like thunder across a distant horizon.

you twist your fingers into her hair, gently tracing the tattoo on her cheek before smiling down at her with a smile that looks like the shadow of the rest of her living days --

"i... i dreamt of you."

car mechanic!vi who comes downstairs to find vander in the kitchen, powder nowhere to be seen. but vander takes one look at her and grins, chuckling, rolling his eyes.

"alright then -- what's her name?"

she hesitates for a second before telling him.

"pretty name," vander muses, even as he tugs open the fridge to pull out a few eggs and a half-empty carton of milk. he pushes the milk towards vi with a pointed look.

"vander -- i -- i think she might be the one."

to which vander only laughs, cracking an egg with one hand into the oiled up pan. almost immediately, the egg whites begin to sizzle.

"this the girl with the cherry corvette?" he asks. wordlessly, vi nods. vander chuckles.

"good for you kiddo -- i always told you, haven't i?"

"that i'll know when it's the one? yeah... i -- i think i get it now." vi runs a hand through her bedridden hair, staring at the carton of milk and the ludicrously proportioned cartoon cow, advertising full fat contents within.

"well, as long as you're sure," vander says, cracking another egg, and another.

vi lets out a weak laugh, nodding as she opens the fridge to pull out some orange juice and a few boxes of blueberries.

"yeah. i'm sure."

vander nods, brows furrowing slightly as he flips the eggs with an expert twitch of the wrist.

"good. and -- how's she like her eggs done in the morning?" he asks, reaching over for a plate. vi stares at the over-easy eggs sliding from the old nonstick.

she lets out a tired little laugh, "probably like... poached, or something."

vander whistles, "got yourself a little diva, huh? well -- can't blame ya -- your uncle silco --"

"okay, thanks dad --" vi cuts him off with a deep groan, nudging him out of the way to place a small pot in the sink to fill with water.

vander chuckles, "you gonna introduce me when she comes down later?"

vi takes her time placing the pot on the stove and starting the heat.

"sure, yeah. i'll introduce her."

vander reaches over to ruffle vi's hair, cackling when she tries to duck out from beneath his massive hands.

"'m happy for you, violet."

vi stills, a helpless smile spreading across her lips like sun-warmed butter.

"yeah... me too." she says, "me too."