#lt derrick macdonald

[glassbxttless]

American Trad Dad

lt. derrick “mac” macdonald x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k+

summary: Mac’s been hiding a secret and it comes in the form of two american traditional tattoo sleeves.

warnings: swearing, mac’s got tattoos

notes: Soooo I love Mac and his tattoo artist girlfriend. This AU is always so fun to write. Everyone thank Tara for puttin this brainworm in my head. Anytime you guys picture Mac, picture full american trad sleeves under that uniform. Thank you to @robinbuckleywife @getaapologist and @punkrockmlchael for reading this over for me! And big thank you to @peachyproserpina for editing!

Mac’s face is lit up by the soft glow of his living room lamp. The screen of his phone is angled just enough that you get the occasional glimpse of Pippa sprawled across his lap like a limp noodle. You’ve been on FaceTime with him for about forty minutes now— half-listening as he recounts something about a barbecue gone wrong at Sam’s and a very unlucky golden retriever— when he shifts suddenly and tugs at the neck of that olive green hoodie that you love so much.

“God, it’s warm tonight,” he mumbles, more to himself than you, mid story. “Hang on, I’m dyin’.”

You barely look up from your sketchpad as you keep doodling a new flash design. “That’s because you’re wearing an entire extra layer in the middle of April, genius.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your sass to yourself, tattoo girl,” he grumbles and rolls his eyes.

You set your pencil down, eyes flicking toward your screen. You watch in idle amusement as he pulls the hoodie over his head, tugging it off with that casual, half-wrestled struggle guys do when they’re too stubborn to stand up. That white t-shirt he was wearing underneath rides up a little in the process— not that you’re looking (you absolutely are)— but that’s not what stops your eyes wondering and sends your brain into a flurry.

It’s the arms. His arms. The sudden, glorious appearance of two full sleeves of American traditional tattoos.

Your jaw almost drops. “Mac.”

He’s tossed the hoodie beside him and he’s leaned over to grab his glass from the side table. And he pauses mid-sip of his water. “Hmm?”

“Are you so fucking serious right now?”

“What?”

“You’ve been walking around this whole time with full sleeves like that and you just… forgot to mention it?!”

Mac blinks and then looks down at his arms like he’s never seen them before, letting out a soft chuckle. “Oh. Yeah. I guess I just always wear long sleeves when we talk. Didn’t think it was a big deal?”

“You didn’t think I, your tattoo artist girlfriend, might want to know that your arms are literal walking flash sheets?!”

He grins, completely and utterly unrepentant. “Guess I was saving it. A little mystery, you know? Already seen my dick, gotta keep the magic alive somehow.”

You shake your head, trying so hard and failing not to smile. “You absolute shit.”

Pippa shifts on his lap some, nosing at his thigh before curling up again. His hand slides down to pet between Pippa’s ears gently. Jazz snores somewhere in the background like a dying engine.

“Alright,” you sigh dramatically and sit up on your arms just a bit. “Let’s see the goods, Lieutenant.”

Mac rolls his eyes and then sets his phone up on the coffee table obligingly. Starting to show off, rotating his arm like he’s been waiting for you to figure it out all this time. “It’s all American traditional, of course,” he says proudly, sending a wink your way. “No watercolor. No micro stuff. If it can’t be done with five lines and some sailor spit, I don’t want it.”

You burst out laughing, but the fond smile never leaves your face. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Hey! Can’t blame me. Classic never goes outta style.”

There’s a full eagle sitting on his left bicep, the wings are outstretched like it’s mid-screech. Beneath that there’s a black panther mid-pounce. A clipper ship rides a wave along the inside of his forearm. Near his wrist, there’s a coiled snake and a dagger with a very dramatic blood drop. There’s a few others, complete with colored filler dots. 

“God, this is so much ink,” you murmur, eyes wide, surprised that not once had your boyfriend mentioned it. “And it suits you. You look like you belong in a bar fight.”

“Why is that weirdly flattering?”

“Because I’m great at compliments, obviously.”

He continues rotating his arms for you, but there’s a smile on his face. There’s a skull with a top hat. A broken bottle with a banner that says Stay True. That one makes you snort. There’s a bat face right under the ditch of his right arm. A bleeding heart wrapped in thorns with Mother scribbled across it.

You pause his tour, eyebrows knitted down as you try to get a better look. “Hold up. That one— under your elbow. What’s that little bird?”

Mac glances down and smiles quietly, and this time it’s not the usual cheeky grin he flashes— it’s soft. Fond. “That’s Rosie.”

You know Rosie. He’d spoken of her a few times. You quiet your voice. “Your grandma?”

“Yeah.” He adjusts the angle to show you the little bird better. It’s a robin in flight. It has a bright red chest and bold lines, perched just above a little banner that reads Rosie in a script that definitely must’ve been her handwriting. “She always said robins were messengers. After she passed, I kept on seeing ‘em everywhere. So I figured she deserved a spot.”

Your chest tightens a little at the words. “She’d probably hate the skulls, huh?”

“Oh, vehemently. She’d have threatened to scrub ‘em off with steel wool.” He laughs a bit, his eyes glistening in the lamp light before he dips his head, looking at the tattoo again. “But she’d like the bird.”

Neither of you say anything for a moment. You just smile at him through the screen like your heart’s trying to crawl up out of your throat. He fidgets there on the couch, adjusting Pippa’s head just a little, then he flashes you a grin. “You know,” he says softly and smiles, leaning back against the cushions. “I’ve got one last empty spot up here.”

You tilt your head, raising your brows, “Where?”

He raises his arm again, his sleeve rolling up just a bit. He lets his own eyes drift down and then he points to the inner part of his left bicep— right there, a perfect little patch of skin tucked between the panther and an anchor you hadn’t seen before. “Been saving it for something special,” he says softly and shrugs.

You grin, brushing your flyaway hairs from your face. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I was thinkin’ maybe…” He trails off, trying to look casual, then fails spectacularly as his eyes meet yours on the screen. “Maybe someone I trust could put something there. You know?”

If your heart hadn’t succeeded in climbing out of your mouth before, it absolutely does try to leap out of your chest this time. “You mean me?”

“Who else?” he laughs, shaking his head as his voice softens. “You’ve already got my heart, baby. Might as well take the arm too.”

You go silent after that.

He doesn’t push any further, he just smiles at you like he always does— like everything he’s ever felt is written all over his face, and he doesn’t mind if you read it.

You bite your lip, trying not to look like you’re swooning (you’re absolutely failing at it). “You’re lucky you’re cute. Because that was dangerously close to being too cheesy.”

“Oh come on, it was adorable! Harper would agree with me.”

“Harper would also tell you to grow a spine and get a tramp stamp, but you don’t see me listening to her.”

Mac bursts out laughing, hard enough he has to wipe a tear from his eye. “Okay, now I want her to design it instead. If not, I’ll just get ‘Property of Harper’ in bold script right above my ass, see what happens.”

“Pippa would fucking disown you.”

Pippa, for her part, lifts her head like she knows she’s been mentioned, then immediately flops back down against his lap.

The call lingers on for another hour or so. Eventually, you’re both half-asleep, him on his couch and you in your bed. You’re barely talking now, just sharing space and silence with one another like you’ve always belonged in it. Together. 

You don’t say I love you yet. But you almost do.

And you think he might be about to say it too.

tags ;; @djomorelikedelulu

[glassbxttless]

Funfetti

lt. derrick “mac” macdonald (warfare) x fem!reader

word count: 2.3k+

summary: It’s your birthday and between having to get Waylon to soccer and then to Courtney’s— it seems like Mac’s forgotten to celebrate.

warnings: some swearing, Courtney’s a bitch again, suggestive dialogue, lots of cake

notes: Happy birthday to one of my favorite girlies @wheels-of-despair! I hope you can enjoy this as much as I did writing it lmao.

Your birthday starts, unsurprisingly, exactly like any other Saturday. It does not start with breakfast in bed or flowers or even a card. It starts with Waylon tearing through the house looking for his other cleat, and Mac— standing over the laundry basket by the door, holding up a shin guard.

“You wanna explain to me,” he calls toward the kitchen with a sigh, “why this was in the damn couch cushions, bud?”

There’s a clatter of what you can assume is toys and a faint, defensive “I don’t know!” from Waylon.

You roll over in bed, press your face into the pillow and really try not to laugh. By the time you climb out of bed and shuffle downstairs, Mac is crouched by the mudroom bench, trying to retie Waylon’s cleats for him because apparently the kid forgot how to use his own hands. Mac looks up when he sees you, and his mouth softens into that little grin you know all too well. “Hey,” he smiles. Then, once he’s done with Waylon’s cleats, he stands and wraps an arm around your shoulders. He tugs you in and kisses your temple gently, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

That’s it. There’s no big gesture. No confetti cannon. Just his hand sliding down your back when you step past him to pour your coffee. Still— that kiss was all you needed to keep your heart warm, at least for now.

But the morning doesn’t let up.

Mac’s phone goes off just as you pull on your hoodie, about to leave with your guys. So you get stuck driving Waylon to soccer practice while Mac finishes his call on the porch, gesturing wildly at whoever’s on the other end.

Soccer practice is uncharacteristically cold for July, the field is wet from the rain this past week, and it’s loud and full of other parents shouting things like “get in position!” while you sit in the car answering scheduling emails from the office and watching Waylon trot around the field like a distracted golden retriever. When you get him home, you think maybe— just maybe— you’ll get an hour to yourself. But the second you step in the door, Waylon stops short in the hallway and spins around, his eyes wide.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “Mom asked if I could switch this weekend with dad. We’re going to the beach! I forgot to ask.”

Mac, who’s sitting on the couch with his legs stretched out and an unopened beer in his hand, glances up at you, then over at Waylon. His lips twitch like he’s holding in a laugh.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you say flatly.

Waylon shakes his head.

Mac sighs and sets the beer down and pushes himself up. “Alright. C’mon, we’ll run you over there. Unless you wanna pack a bag and walk, bud.”

Waylon groans again but disappears upstairs to grab his stuff.

In the car, Mac drives while you sit in the passenger seat watching the sunset through the windshield. He’s got a hand on your thigh. Waylon sits in the back, humming something that sounds like one of Mac’s old records and kicking his bag every few seconds. When you pull into Courtney’s driveway, Mac cuts the engine and leans an elbow on the steering wheel, turning slightly to face you. “You want me to go up?”

You shake your head. “Nope. I’ve got it.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

You grab Waylon’s bag, climb out, and walk him up the short path to the door. Your routine for the last month or so. Ever since Courtney found it appropriate to comment on Mac’s appearance. 

And Courtney answers after exactly three knocks, like she was standing right there waiting on you. And of course, she looks perfect— slim little dress, her hair done, flawless lipstick. Definitely not beach ready. She takes one look at you— at your sweatshirt and your messy ponytail and your expression— and smiles. That tight, brittle smile she does. “Well,” she says, looking you up and down. “You look… comfortable.”

You frown, caught off guard for a second.

Waylon slips past her into the house with a quick, “Hi Mom!” and then disappears into the living room.

Courtney doesn’t shut the door and just leave this where it’s at. No. She just stays in the doorway, her arms folded over her belly, gaze sweeping over you like she’d like to wring you out for tracking mud onto her entryway rug.

“You didn’t pack him pajamas,” she adds pointedly.

You hold up his bag to hand over. “They’re in here.”

“Mhm.” She glances at it skeptically, then sighs and finally takes it from you. “Well. I guess this’ll do.”

You bite back about six things you could say and settle on a bland, “Thanks.”

Before you can turn to go, she steps just a few steps closer. She drops her voice so only you can hear, undoubtedly not wanting to disturb Waylon or that new stuck up mop of blonde curls sitting on her couch. “You know,” she says, still wearing that faux-sweet smile Mac never fails to mention that he hates, “he really does do better when he sticks to a schedule. Not… whatever all this running-around you two are doing with him is.”

You stare at her for half a second before answering, voice level, trying not to lose your cool. “He’s fine, Courtney. I think we know him pretty well.”

“Mhm,” she says again, like she knows him better. Even if she only has him two fucking weekends a month. Then she glances over her shoulder toward the living room and chirps, “Way, say goodnight to—” She hesitates, her eyes flicking back to you before finishing with, “—dad!”

You bite the inside of your cheek and step off the stoop before you say anything that would make Mac proud in entirely the wrong way.

When you climb back in the truck, Mac looks up from his phone, one brow raised. “You were gone a while,” he drawls.

You shut the door and let out a long breath. “She’s a delight,” You rub over your face and just lean back in your seat.

That earns you a laugh. “Did she give you the ‘he needs a schedule’ speech?” Mac asks as he eases the car into reverse. One of his hands is placed on the passenger seat as he twists to look out the rear window. 

“She did.”

“She give you the ‘you look comfortable’ line?”

“She did.”

He shakes his head as he backs out of the driveway. And by the time you get home, you feel absolutely wrung out.

You still have dishes to finish from breakfast, and there’s so much laundry to fold, and Mac disappears for a little while into the garage to fix something or other while you stand at the sink and let the water run hot over your hands. When you finally shower and crawl into bed, you feel the weight of the day— Courtney’s pointed looks, soccer field wind, the dull ache in your back— they all settle heavily over you.

Mac stays downstairs for a while. The faint hum of the TV drifts up through the floor. You’re just starting to doze when the door creaks open. You roll over groggily and squint.

And there he is— Mac, your beloved boyfriend— standing in the doorway wearing his favorite red plaid pajama pants and that faded old Marine Corps T-shirt that’s definitely seen better days, and he’s holding two plates of Funfetti cake in his hands.

You rub your eyes a bit, blinking as you sit up.

He grins like he’s been caught red-handed. “What?”

“…What is this?”

“What’s it look like?” he smiles, crossing the room. He steps over a laundry basket at the end of the bed and sits on the edge. “Birthday cake. Don’t make me sing.”

You take the plate he hands you slowly, still watching him. But there’s a smile growing on your face.

He sets his own plate to the side and peels off his socks. Then he climbs in bed beside you cross-legged, grabs his plate and digs right in. “You thought I forgot,” he says through a mouthful of frosting.

“You… looked like you might’ve.”

“Nope.” Another bite. “Planned this all along. Tactical Funfetti delivery. Best in the business.”

You can’t help but laugh, and something in your chest finally loosens up. The cake is sweet and soft and absurdly good for something you can assume is from the grocery store. Mac eats like he hasn’t seen food all day, crumbs already clinging to his mustache and a streak of frosting on his knuckle.

“You—” you start, pointing at his face.

“I know,” he interrupts, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “Don’t really care. Worth it.”

When you set your plate down to sip your water, he steals a bite of your slice.

“Mac!”

“What?” he says, feigning innocence. His hands up in mock surrender. “Yours tastes so much better.”

You both laugh until your sides ache. When the plates are empty, he sets them on the floor beside your bed and flops back against the mattress with a satisfied groan.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he mumbles after a bit of silence— holding his arm open to let you get comfortable against him. “Even if I didn’t get to watch you square off with Courtney tonight. You definitely handled it better than I would’ve.”

You roll onto your side and rest your head on his chest, smiling against his shirt. “She’s so impossible, I don’t understand how you were married.” you mumble, letting your eyes flutter closed for a few moments.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “But you’re better than her. And she knows it. S’why she acts like that.” His hand runs up and down your arm oh-so-gently before he starts to fidget beneath you. At first it seems innocent— just him shifting to get comfortable— but then his hand lands squarely on your ass. Not casually. Not accidentally. Definitely on purpose.

You lift your head to give him a look.

“What are you doing?”.

He flashes you that crooked, boyish grin that always has you weak in the knees. “Me?” he says innocently. His palm warm as he gives you a little squeeze. “Just… makin’ sure my birthday girl’s still alive after the absolutely brutal day she had. Just lookin’ for a pulse.”

You snort. “Pretty sure you don’t check a pulse there.”

“Shows what you know,” he laughs, already moving his hand up to the waistband of your pajama pants. He tugs very lightly, testing how far you’ll let him tease you.

You arch a brow at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet—” he drops his voice low, intimate for the two of you, and then he leans down so his mustache grazes your jaw in that way that always makes your skin twitch—  “here you are. In bed. With me. So who’s the real fool here?”

You shove at his shoulder lightly, but he just laughs and rolls onto his side to face you fully. One big hand slides over your stomach, under the hem of your shirt, and rests on your boob like he owns everything under the fabric of your clothes. “Y’know,” he murmurs, running his thumb lazily across the swell of your breast, “it’d be a real shame to let all these birthday crumbs go to waste.”

You just look at him, confused. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he says solemnly, though the sparkle in his eye gives him away. He presses a kiss under your jaw, “we could just… roll around in ‘em a little. Make some new memories in the Funfetti battlefield.”

You choke on a laugh. “You’re actually the worst.”

“The worst you’ve got,” he corrects cheerfully, nudging you flat on your back and propping himself up on one elbow over you. He leans down and runs his mustache deliberately along your neck, humming thoughtfully as you giggle and squirm. “Mmm,” he hums against your throat. “Frosting. Still smell it on you. This is a problem. Gonna have to take care of it.”

You can’t help laughing even as you squirm away from his ticklish kisses. “Stop,” you giggle, swatting at him half-heartedly.

“Stop?” he echoes, “Stop? Sweetheart, it’s your birthday. You earned this harassment.”

You glance up at him through your lashes, still grinning wide. “You call this harassment?”

“Oh, it’s about to be,” he promises, already slipping his hand down from your chest to your thigh and giving it a firm little squeeze as he pulls it up around his waist. “We’re talkin’… Grade-A, Marine-issued, birthday-level harassment. You’re gonna have to file paperwork about it in the morning.”

You laugh so hard at that you almost forget to stop him when he starts easing his fingers under the waistband of your pajamas for real this time.

“You’re out of control,” you manage between giggles, finally relaxing back against your pillows.

“Oh yeah,” he agrees happily, kissing your jaw again and again. “Completely feral. Somebody’s gotta keep the morale up around here.” And then he pulls back just long enough to give you a completely straight-faced, ridiculous suggestion. “Tell ya what,” he hums softly, like he’s pretending to think about whatever ridiculous idea is about to leave his mouth. “You lie real still… I’ll eat the rest of the cake crumbs off you. Sound good?”

You slap a hand over your face, laughing into your palm while he grins triumphantly. When you peek out at him from between your fingers, his cheeks are flushed red, his eyes gleaming the prettiest brown you’ve ever seen, and there’s still one lonely little sprinkle stuck in his mustache, which somehow makes him look even more incorrigible.

“Mac,” you groan, still laughing, “you’re truly unbelievable.”

“Mm. You keep saying that,” he chuckles as he finally leans down to kiss you properly. The kiss is slow and lingering and full of that ridiculous affection that always catches you off guard. “But you don’t exactly sound mad about it.”

And when his hand slides fully under your pajama waistband and his teeth graze your jaw, you’re forced to admit— silently and rather breathlessly— that you really, really aren’t mad at all.

tags ;; @dancininseptember @robinbuckleywife @kripkie101-blog @bradleybeachbabe @vinecstasy @thejordiverse @preciouslosers @keeryhours

[glassbxttless]

A Greek God

lt. derrick “mac” macdonald x fem!reader

word count: 3.5k+

summary: Courtney makes a comment about Mac’s weight and you just have to make sure her words don’t get stuck in his head.

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, Bullying, Mac’s ex wife is a bitch and makes a comment on his weight, self-esteem issues, smut, oral (male receiving)

notes: I hope you guys like this one. You can blame Wheels for this. Big thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing for me 🥹🫶🏻

You and Mac pulled into the usual spot— it’s the same tired corner of the strip mall parking lot. The one with the flickering light post that was covered in slap tags and broken graffiti. The curb crumbling beside you. The truck’s A/C wheezes in protest as it idles, a faint hum beneath the static of silence in the cab.

Waylon sits in the backseat. He’s quiet, but chewing the end of his hoodie’s drawstring despite the hot summer heat— the nervous energy he never could quite shake when it came to these exchanges. He always tried to play it cool, it was just his mom, but his knee still bounced restlessly and his hands wouldn’t stop moving.

Mac cuts the engine and rests an elbow against the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the street in front of them. You could see it happening already— the subtle clench of his jaw, the shift in his shoulders. She wasn’t even here yet, and he was bracing for whatever dumbass remark she’d have to make to him today. He was bracing like it was muscle memory, spurred on by dealing with her time and time again for the last twelve years. Like maybe if he tensed in just the right places, the words she spat at him wouldn’t land so heavy in his chest.

“She’s two minutes late,” he mumbles and leans back in his seat.

“She’ll be five,” you say gently, laying your hand on his thigh. You give him a gentle squeeze, trying not to look at him directly. “She’s always five.”

He doesn’t respond to that. He just nods faintly, his eyes still locked on the far end of the parking lot. And right on cue at the five minute mark, her white town and country rounds the corner. She barely slows before swinging into the spot two spaces over. The back of the car dipping with the force of her brake pedal. The engine cuts, but she doesn’t get out. She never does. She waits for Mac to walk him over. 

And Waylon lets out a soft sigh as he starts to gather his things, his shoulders are already pulling in on themselves. Mac turns in his seat, an almost sad smile on his face— and he lies a steady hand on his son’s shoulder. “You good?”

Waylon nods and gives you a small wave as he opens the door. “See you Sunday.”

“Bye, sweetheart,” you say softly, your smile softening as he climbs out of the truck.

Courtney sits behind the wheel of her town and country as Mac climbs out. Like a queen surveying her subjects— her sunglasses are on, she’s scrolling her phone one-handed and she reaches up with the other to press a button. The rear door pops open with a mechanical click. Mac exhales slowly, like he could feel the tension in the air thickening just as he gets close. He grabs Waylon’s duffel bag from the backseat and hands it over to him, letting a hand linger on his kid’s shoulder for a moment. “You got everything?” he asks quietly, his voice low, not above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Waylon mumbles and then sighs. “Do I have to—?”

“Just the weekend, bud,” Mac smiles a little. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”

You stay in the truck, watching. The window’s down, it doesn’t offer them much privacy. But you don’t mind. You know how Mac gets around her. 

It starts off polite. Too polite.

“Hi,” Courtney huffs, not looking up from her phone. “He needs a haircut.”

“He just got one,” Mac replies, using everything in his power to keep from groaning, so he just rolls his eyes. “Same barber he’s always had.”

She glances up then, barely. Her eyes flick back to Waylon as he starts to walk over to the van, then they land on Mac. “Well, maybe ask them to cut all of it next time. He looks like a sheepdog.”

Mac doesn’t flinch. Just kisses the top of Waylon’s head and turns to grab the duffel from him.

“Did you pack his inhaler this time?” she asks loudly, raising an eyebrow. “Or were you waiting for me to telepathically remind you again?”

“He was fine when he left, Courtney. I sent one a month ago. You should have it.” He sighs as he starts to hand the duffel over. 

“Oh, sure,” she scoffs and shakes her head. “He’s always fine right up until he isn’t. Typical.” 

She takes the bag without even glancing at it, then adds, like it was an afterthought not a necessity to Waylon’s stay, “Also, his jeans didn’t fit when he came back last weekend. Either you shrank them in that prehistoric dryer of yours or you’re letting him eat like you do.”

That one hits deep in his chest and you see it in real time. The flicker in his eyes, the way his hand pauses on the strap just as the duffel makes its way through the window, and then he lets go of it.

She doesn’t stop there, no, she goes for the fucking jugular. “Actually,” she says sweetly, “I’ve been meaning to ask, Derrick… are you okay? Like, health-wise? Because you’ve really filled out lately.” She raises her brows, her eyes drifting over him and then back up to his eyes. “Like, really. I almost didn’t recognize you last time you dropped him off. Didn’t know being single came with a second chin.”

Mac doesn’t say a word back to her. Just crouches again, gives Waylon one more hug, whispers something only he can hear, and shuts the door once he climbs inside, with the same care you’d use to close a sleeping baby’s bedroom door.

Then he walks back to you— he’s stiff. Like each step was measured deliberately so his heart didn’t shake loose from his chest. He gets into the truck, he doesn’t look at you, just stares out the windshield until Courtney’s van pulls away, like he was willing himself to vanish into the hot haze.

“She’s always been like that,” he says quietly after a moment.

“Mmhmm.”

“I mean, whatever. I’m not… it’s not like I don’t know I’ve put on weight. I’m not blind.”

You reach over and curl your fingers around his tightly. “Did I say a single thing about it?”

“No, I just—” His voice breaks a little. He shakes his head, his eyes still forward. Then he turns the key and starts the engine like it gave him something to do other than think about the little bit of softness accumulating in his middle. One hand is clamped hard to the wheel, the other is still gripping yours like it’s his lifeline. “I don’t care.”

But he did. You knew it. You could feel it.

He was sitting small in the driver’s seat now, hunched in that way he got when he didn’t want to be seen. Like maybe if he held still long enough, his entire 6-foot body could disappear from himself and everyone around him. “Pull over,” you sigh quietly.

He frowns and risks a peek over at you. “What?”

“Pull over. That empty lot behind the hardware store. Now.”

He looks at you, confused— but he listens. He pulls into a spot in the middle of the lot and turns off the trucks. He’s parked behind a pile of busted wooden pallets, and he looks at you like he was waiting for a lecture. Instead, you unbuckle, toss your leg over the center and climb into his lap. It wasn’t graceful, not in the slightest. The console got your hip and the seatbelt clicked against your knee, but his hands fly to your waist like it’s instinct, steadying you. “Jesus— Baby, what are you—”

“I love every inch of you,” you say quietly. Framing his face with both hands as you whisper, just loud enough for him. “Every inch.”

His eyes are getting wet, but you don’t stop. “I love your body, Mac. I love the way you feel. I love that you’re strong and solid and warm, and that I get to fall asleep on your chest like it was made for me.”

He tries to look away. But you hold him tight, not letting him in the slightest. This was something he had to hear. “I love that you’re not punishing yourself anymore to look like you did at twenty-two. I love that you’ve lived. That you eat real meals with me now. That you’re present. That your body shows the life you’ve built, not the war you fought.”

His throat works like he wants to speak— but he doesn’t trust his voice.

“She doesn’t get to do that,” you whisper to him, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “She doesn’t get to dig into your skin and make you feel small again just because she feels sorry for herself. She fucked up. You’re mine now. All of you.” You kiss the edge of his mouth, then his jaw. “And for the record— you’re like… stupid good in bed.”

That gets a ragged laugh out of him, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes yet, he won’t meet yours. “Derrick, do you think I’m lying?” you tease, soft, guiding his head until he has no choice but to look at you. “You fuck me like you’re trying to ruin me for anyone else. Like it’s your personal mission to make sure I never forget your name.”

His hands grip your thighs just a little tighter. “I think about you at work,” you mumble, your voice dropping as well as your hands. You run a finger up his chest and smile. “I think about how heavy you feel on top of me. How your belly presses against mine when you’re so fucking close and I wrap my arms around you like I never want you to move. Like never again.”

He groans, low in his throat. Like he shouldn’t be that turned on from just hearing you talk. His forehead drops to your chest.

“I love that little curve right above the waist of your jeans,” you whisper. “I love the softness in your middle and the strength in your arms. I love all of it, Mac. I love you. Exactly how you are… like this.”

His arms wrap around your waist and pull you in tighter than you were before. He kisses you then— it’s not urgent, but it’s so deep. Like he needed it. Like he was taking oxygen from your mouth. And by the time you pull back, your hands were threading into his hair and his eyes were glassy, tears threatening to spill. “You really think about me at work?” he chuckles softly.

“All the time.”

He laughs— hoarse, and in disbelief— but his grip on your waist doesn’t loosen. “I love you,” he says finally, each word punctuating deep in your veins like he means every single syllable.

You press your forehead to his, letting your eyes slip closed for just a moment. “I know you do. And I hope you know that I love you too. Exactly like this.”

He doesn’t say anything else after that, he just holds you like he’d never been held before. Like he was finally starting to believe that someone could look at him— just as he was— and want more than Courtney had ever given him.

-*-

There’s a movie playing— some action flick Mac picked, full of explosions and heavy sound design— but neither of you are really watching it. He’s lounged across the couch, his legs spread, one of his arms slung lazily over the backrest, the other lying loose across your thighs, thumb brushing the inside of blanket covered your knee. He’s warm beside you, radiating heat like a furnace, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.

You’ve been together long enough to recognize the difference between him being quiet and him growing more and more withdrawn. This is unfortunately the latter. You shift closer to him, tugging the blanket on your lap up just a little. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t respond at first. He just blinks at the TV, like he’s trying to stay interested in that instead. “It’s fine,” he says. It’s too quick. Too fucking soft. “Just tired.”

You place your hand on his chest and just feel the slow rise and fall beneath your palm. “You’re not tired, Mac. You’re sad. Because she said something fucking cruel, and you’re pretending it didn’t hurt your feelings.”

He doesn’t answer you right away, but his jaw flexes. Then— quietly— he sighs, “Yeah. I guess it did. I know she’s a piece of work. Hell, I was married to her for five years. I know she doesn’t matter… Or shouldn’t. But it’s like… once someone says it out loud, it’s all you hear for the rest of the damn day.”

Your heart aches for him. Not because you agree with her— God, not even close— but because he does. Because someone he once loved made him feel like less than he is, and he’s carrying it in his silence like a weight he doesn’t know how to set down. You do the only thing you can think of and move to straddle him, gently tugging the blanket down and off your shoulders. He looks at you, surprised— his eyebrows lifting.

“Baby…”

“I need you to hear me, Derrick MacDonald,” you say sternly, letting your hands slide up under his shirt. “And I need to show you. Because apparently you don’t listen and I don’t want even one more second to pass where you believe her bullshit more than you believe me.”

He looks like he’s going to try and argue— but you kiss him before he can. It’s slow and deliberate, with a quiet hum that melts into his mouth. Your hands are warm against his stomach, your fingers glide up his ribs. You’re feeling every inch of soft and solid skin that you love so much.

“Every single part of you,” you mumble against his lips, “is perfect to me. Not just tolerable. Not just good. Perfect. I look at you and I get so greedy.”

Mac huffs out a laugh. And then hums low in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper as your kisses make their way across his jaw and down his throat. “Your arms… Your chest… That perfect belly that I love falling asleep on. You walk around like this big, gorgeous mountain of a man, Mac… and you don’t even know how badly I want you all of the time.”

His hands settle on your waist, before you quickly remove them. His eyebrows knot down in confusion before you slide off his lap and onto your knees on the carpet. He leans back against the couch cushions and you tug gently at the waistband of his sweats. Then you pause.

“Can I?” you ask, your voice not above a whisper, looking up at him. 

He nods, the breath already knocked from his chest. “Yeah. Jesus, yeah.”

You peel his sweats down slowly, your fingertips brushing each newly exposed inch of skin. He lifts his hips to help you slide them down his thighs, and you tug his boxers down with them, revealing the heavy curve of his cock already growing thicker with every second that passes. He’s beautiful like this— half hard under you, warm, his skin flushed with the blood pulsing through his veins. His stomach rises and falls in slow, steady breaths as he watches you take your time in front of him, pressing kisses along the trail of hair that leads down, down. You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, stroking him slowly. You watch the way his mouth parts slightly and how his head tips back against the couch cushions. His thigh tenses beneath where your free hand rubs small circles into his skin, they’re thick and strong and a little soft around the edges— your favorite fucking thing to squeeze.

“Fuck,” he mumbles softly, letting his eyes slip close, his voice gravely. “You’re fucking unreal, baby.”

“No I’m not,” you say softly, leaning forward to lick a stripe along the underside of his cock from base to tip, “I just love you way too much to let you fucking doubt how hot you are.”

You give him one last smile before you wrap your lips around him and take him into your mouth. You’re slow about it, taking your time like you want to savor every. single. inch. He groans softly above you, his hand immediately coming down to rest against your head, his fingers threading through your hair gently. He doesn’t push— he never really does— he’s just holding on, giving himself something to do with his hands. You work him into your mouth deeper with every moment, your tongue dragging along the vein that runs underneath. Sucking him in until the head nudges the back of your throat and you try not to gag. You pull back up with a wet pop, saliva still connecting your lips to his cock, then you take him in again— messier this time. It’s hungrier, just what he needs. Your jaw feels like it’s working overtime, your breath coming hot and fast through your nose.

“Shit,” he breathes out softly, lifting his head to look down at you. His hand heavy against your skull. “I can’t— fuck— Your mouth… I can’t even fucking think.”

You moan around him when he speaks and then let your free hand slide up to his stomach. Your fingers splay over the softness there, loving him with touches. His body jerks under your touch. “I love this, too,” you mumble when you pull off of him again, your mouth slick and your eyes glassy. “I love all of you. You get that?”

He lets out a whimper— a whimper— his voice breaking as he mutters out a little please, his hips rock forward slightly just waiting for your mouth again, like he can’t help sitting still anymore.

So you give him exactly what he wants, he deserves it tonight. You lean back down and take him into your mouth. Your hand wrapping around the base of him and moving in sync, your tongue curls around him in ways that make him gasp and twitch under you. You suck, then swirl, then take him as deep as you can again. Your throat tightens slightly around him and he’s loud now. His breathing is harsh above you, he’s cursing under his breath as his grip curls around the edge of the couch cushion with one hand and tightens in your hair with the other.

“I’m close,” he warns you quietly, letting his head fall back again, low and strangled— straight from his chest, “Fuck, baby, I’m so fucking close—”

You moan in answer but don’t stop. You keep him deep in your mouth, looking up at him as you try and swallow around him. You let your nails dig lightly into the skin of his thigh as he jerks forward, moving both of his hands to your head to hold you there, his body hunching over you. He pulses in your mouth, that fire in his belly burning bright as he cums with a groan that you’re not sure you’ve ever heard before.

He spills hot down your throat, and you take it all— every fucking drop— then when his grip on you lets up and you can pull back, slightly, you gently suck him through the aftershocks. You don’t stop until his hand twitches and he mumbles something to you in that desperate and overstimulated voice he gets. You pull off of him slowly, licking your lips. And then as you climb back up into his lap, you leave a trail of kisses. You kiss his hip, his stomach, each part of him like it’s sacred. Then once you’re fully seated on his lap, your legs bracketing his hips, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. His eyes scan yours and then you dip down, resting your head against his chest. He’s still catching his breath but his arms wind tight around you.

“Jesus Christ,” he chuckles softly, his voice raw. “I didn’t even know I needed that.”

You tilt your head and press a kiss under his jaw. “Now you do.”

He lets out a weak, huffed laugh and then shakes his head. “You’re something else.”

You close your eyes and grin against his skin. “You feeling any better?”

“I feel like a Greek god who just got blown into another fucking dimension.”

“Pretty accurate, you look like one too.”

He catches your chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting it up. His eyes telling you everything he felt, then he kisses you long and soft and slow. His hand settles on the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your skin. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whisper softly, smoothing down his rucked up shirt.

He groans softly, peeking over your shoulder as you start to shift your body. “We are not turning that movie back on.”

“Mm. What a shame. I was starting to like it. Follow the plot, you know?”

“The plot now is you in my lap for the rest of the night,” he grins, hands sliding down your sides to slip under the hem of your shirt, tugging it up and over your head. “Might be my turn next.”

tags ;; @thejordiverse @vinecstasy @bradleybeachbabe @kripkie101-blog @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember

[glassbxttless]

The Steakhouse

lt. derrick “mac” macdonald x fem!reader

word count: 1.5k+

summary: You and Mac made it to your one year anniversary.

warnings: none that i know of! some humor. they’re eatin’ steaks for dinner

notes: Sorry for the out of order posting. Their anniversary wouldn’t leave my head, i blame the girlies who condone this brainrot. There’s more coming before and after this in the timeline! So here it is in all its glory. Big thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing this guys!!

You’ve made it to the one year mark. One year of laughter, one year of sharing smiles, jokes, kisses, and everything in between over morning coffee, one year of waking up to Mac. And you know just how seriously he’s taking the occasion when he shows up at your apartment with his shirt tucked in. Tucked in. He had the sheer audacity to look this refined as he opened the passenger door of his truck for you, all button-down charm and that damn belt he never wears. His sleeves are rolled up, leaving his forearms on display like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and his hair looks freshly cut— perhaps maybe even styled a bit. A bit messy from where he probably had  run a hand through it on the way over, and he’s already sweating, lord help you (and him).

The steakhouse isn’t really fancy-fancy, but it feels special enough tonight. You’d had your first date here. There’s brick walls, low hanging golden lights, dark wood furniture, and those heavy laminated menus that may double as self-defense weapons. You take one look around the dining room and already feel a little fluttery, this is it. You’d made it— and it’s romantic but not too done-up, intimate without being stiff. It smells amazing as soon as the doors open. The scent of charred meat, melting butter, roasted garlic twists around you before you even make it two feet inside. You get seated in a booth tucked away near the back. It’s not too quiet, but it’s private enough that you can lean in and talk, pretending like it’s just the two of you. Mac slides in across from you and immediately tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“Jesus Christ, it’s like a sauna in here,” he mumbles, lifting his napkin and swiping it across his forehead. “Feels like I’m sittin’ under a fuckin’ interrogation lamp.”

“Maybe they’re trying to smoke you along with the brisket,” you laugh softly, watching as his eyes drift to you— latching onto you with a grin.

Then he points a finger at you. “That’s rude. True, but rude.”

The waitress appears just a few seconds later. She’s bright-eyed, blonde, with sparkly nails. She can’t be much older than a high school graduate. Mac turns on the charm like a switch the second she’s close enough to hear him— he calls her darlin’, asks how her night’s going, and even compliments her earrings, which are shaped like tiny steaks and sparkly to match her nails.

“They’re cute, right?” she beams at him and then she turns her attention to you with a wink, as if she’s you’ve got a good one here, and she’s right. You do have a good one.

You order a steak, medium, with garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus on the side. He gets the largest slab of fucking beef on the menu— The Wrangler, a 20-ounce sirloin that so’s large it might require its own zip code— plus mac and cheese and something called cowboy carrots.

“Do you even know what cowboy carrots are?” you ask after she walks off with your orders.

“Nope,” he says cheerfully and shrugs, that smile you’ve loved every day for the past year on his face. “But they sounded like something Clint Eastwood would eat, and I trust that.”

You raise your glass of water to him. “To your mystery carrots and my sweaty cowboy.”

He clinks his beer bottle against yours, shaking his head as he rolls his eyes. “Amen.”

The conversation between you both flows like it always does with him— it’s effortless, funny, a little flirty around the edges. He tells you about his day. About a guy on base whose dog peed on the gear locker, a briefing that ran way too long because Erik wouldn’t stop arguing about a hypothetical hostage scenario, and Tommy getting into it with a vending machine that stole his dollar. “He shook the thing so hard I thought it was gonna tip over,” Mac says, laughing. “I told him if he died under a vending machine, I’d lie at his funeral and say it was a shark or somethin’. Ain’t nobody goin’ out like that on my watch.”

You laugh so hard your face hurts. And he smiles so wide he thinks it may be a permanent fixture. 

The food arrives and it’s better than either of you had expected it to. The middle of your steak is perfectly pink, the mashed potatoes are buttery and smooth, and the asparagus has just the right amount of char. Mac’s steak looks like it could’ve been hunted, dragged into the kitchen, and grilled on the spot. He slices into it like he’s been waiting for it his entire life.

“These carrots,” he moans after a bite, “are candy. Literal candy, babe. I dunno what makes them cowboy, but I’m havin’ a spiritual experience over here.”

You steal one off his plate and pop it into your mouth. “That’s the brown sugar. And a lot of butter. And possibly crack.”

He looks at you for a moment, letting himself admire everything you both have built. He’s so in love with you, he can’t imagine not having you in his life. He shakes his head a bit, sliding out of the booth. He grabs his plate and his beer, moving so he’s sitting beside you on your side instead of across. “You were too far,” he says softly. “Don’t like bein’ that far from you.” His knee knocks against yours under the table, and his arm drapes across the back of the booth. His fingers brush your shoulder every now and again. You rest your head lightly against him, and he leans down, pressing a kiss to the crown of your hair without a word. 

And just as you start to fall comfortable in the silence, Mac gives your shoulder a squeeze.

“Waylon said somethin’ to me the other day,” he says casually as he bites down on another carrot, like his words are not about to punch you directly in the feelings. “Told me that if I marry you, he wants to be the best man.”

Your head lifts slightly, brows arched. “What?”

Mac grins and shakes his head a bit. “Yeah. Said he’ll wear a tie and everything. Whatever color you pick. But only if we have cake. Chocolate cake. With a dinosaur on it. He’s apparently got high standards.”

You just blink at him, a little stunned. A forkful of mashed potatoes stalls halfway to your mouth. “And what did you say to that?”

“I told him he better start savin’ for a ring.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest. “For me?”

He snorts and kisses your head gently. “No, for him. I said don’t propose unless you’re serious.”

You shove his shoulder, and then he laughs. It’s all warm and smug— he’s a little pink in the cheeks now, though whether from the heat of the overhead lights or the happiness welling up in your chests, you’re not sure.

“Relax,” he mumbles softly, turning back to his plate. “I’ve got your ring covered.”

Your stomach flips as soon as the words hang in the air. He doesn’t say it like a joke, not really. There’s a steady stream of confidence in his voice again— the same one you fell in love with a year ago. He doesn’t get nervous around you, he never has. Mac loves you in a grounded, rooted, here to stay kind of way. It’s not about the big gestures or fireworks sparking with every single touch. It’s the quiet stuff— it’s mac moving to sit closer, or ordering too much food so you can taste absolutely everything. It’s him remembering your wine preference, telling you what Waylon said because he wants you to know you’re a part of his life in ways you probably haven’t even imagined yet. You finish your meal with shared bites or steak and cowboy carrots. You share loving smiles and lazy kisses each time your eyes meet, his hand rests on your thigh under the table. His thumb brushes slow circles against your skin. You’re not sure he notices. It’s just muscle memory to him, he just likes doing it.

When the check comes, he grabs it before you can reach and turns away to pull his own from his back pocket. “Put your wallet away,” he says. “You wore that dress. That’s payment enough for me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “This dress cost like… $40.”

He grins and shrugs. “And you look like a million bucks in it. So I still owe you a lot more than dinner, if I can cash in on it later.” 

You walk out of the restaurant hand-in-hand. Your bellies are full of steak. Your hearts are full of laughter and an immense amount of love. He opens the passenger door of the truck just like he did earlier. It comes so natural to him, like he’s never not going to do it while you’re near. Once you’re inside and buckled, he shuts the door and walks around himself. He pulls himself into the driver's seat and smiles before leaning across the console. He hums softly, “Next time, let’s bring Waylon, yeah? We’ll get him his damn dinosaur cake so you can have the wedding cake of your dreams.”

And then he kisses you— slow and warm and just a little buttery from dinner— and you think, yeah. This is it.

tags ;; @thejordiverse @vinecstasy @bradleybeachbabe @kripkie101-blog @robinbuckleywife @dancininseptember

[glassbxttless]

Hmm could I please get the chicken sandwich on pumpernickel bread with baby Swiss and a bit of nutter butter? 😽😽

Coronado

lt. derrick “mac” macdonald x fem!reader

word count: 1.4k+

summary: Sandwich Shop Request from anonymous | Mac gets a little emotional and tells you a dream of his over a morning cuddle.

warnings: Nothing really, swearing? There’s a sex joke but that’s all.

notes: I love writing Mac and his tattoo artist girlfriend SO much. All of the sandwiches that allow me to write them, you have my gratitude. Thank you to @keeryhours @getaapologist and @robinbuckleywife for reading this over for me. And biggest thank you to @peachyproserpina for editing 🥹🫶🏻

You wake up so fucking warm.

You can hear the hum of the air conditioning unit in your window, so it shouldn’t be this warm. It’s the kind of warmth that means Mac is definitely wrapped around you. And judging by the warmth half-sprawled across your back, the assumption isn’t wrong. He’s like a weighted blanket that snores and sometimes drools. His arm is slung loosely over your waist, his hand resting low on your stomach with his fingers splayed out, and his thigh is wedged firmly between yours like he had to make sure you didn’t escape in the night.

You shift under him just a little. It’s only a bit so you can stretch, but that bit must’ve been enough to get him stirring behind you.

“Mmf— don’t you dare move,” he mumbles softly, his voice thick with sleep. He nuzzles his nose against your shoulder. “There’s no sunrise. It’s not even eight yet.”

“You’re so dramatic, D.”

“You’re so cruel.” He mutters again as he presses a kiss against your neck. 

You laugh under your breath and try to turn over in his arms, but Mac only tightens his hold on you. And then he pulls you flat against his chest with a grumpy grunt, pressing a kiss against your temple. 

“This is what I get for dating a Marine,” you say softly, not bothering to fight it any longer. “You’re supposed to be strong and brave, not a barnacle.”

“I am so brave. I survived three weeks without your legs wrapped around my hips.” He dips his head and his lips press to your neck. “Just barely though.”

Your heart squeezes a little at his words. Because yeah, even if he was making a quip about sex— it hits you deep in your chest that you have only seen each other in person five separate times now. Three times here in Maine, twice at his in California. You still count them like days on a calendar. Like little stars twinkling in the sky. The rest of your relationship— six months’ worth— has been spent on FaceTime calls before bed, with blurry photos of weird gas station snacks, and long texts that turn into longer phone calls, that turn into sleepy voices saying, “I know it’s late but I just needed to hear your voice.”

You’ve gotten good at living with missing him.

Which makes mornings like this— slow and tangled up together— feel like something stolen from a novel. Something you can’t help but hold onto with both hands as tightly as you can.

“Hey,” you say after a few minutes, your voice quieter. “You good?”

Mac’s fingers shift slightly against your stomach and then he smooths the hem of your sleep shirt, kissing the crown of your head, slow and soft. “Yeah,” he says. Then again he speaks just a little softer, “Yeah.”

Something in his tone makes you turn around to face him anyway as his arms loosen on you. You blink at him, golden rays from the morning sun now rising in the sky spilling through your windows, bracketing you both in a soft glow— his eyes are squinted, his hair sleep-tousled, there’s crinkle lines at the corners of his mouth that haven’t left since you made fun of him for snoring on night two.

He looks back at you like you hung the moon in the sky and he’s still trying to figure out how he got so lucky for you to love him back.

“You sure?” you ask softly, sliding your hand up. You thread your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting a few strands. It wasn’t too long, but it was longer than you knew he liked to keep it.

He nods slowly. Then he shifts, tugs you even closer to him until you’re nose to nose, sharing the same breath. “Just… thinkin’.”

“Hopefully not too hard, don’t want to set the smoke detectors off.”

“Harsh.”

You smile at the joke, thinking he’d crack one as well, he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts one hand to cup your cheek and traces his thumb along your jaw. “I think about you all the time back home,” he says softly. “Even when I shouldn’t be. Like during training, or briefings, or when I’m trying to do my goddamn laundry and I see that dumb little pink hoodie you left behind last time.” He sighs, his forehead resting against yours, “I think about what you’re doing here... If you’re warm enough. If you’re sleeping okay. If you’re eating real food or just that weird ass granola you like and enough caffeine to kill a horse.”

“I like that granola!” You laugh softly. 

“Yeah, well, I like you. More than you like granola. Which might be saying something.”

That earns a small, giggly smile from you. “That is pretty serious, Derrick. I’m afraid you may be in love.”

Mac exhales slowly, his eyes fluttering closed. “I’m tired,” he says, but it’s not about sleep. It puts a twinge in your chest. “Not of you. Just… of missing you. I’m tired of counting the days until the next time I can see you. I’m tired of measuring fucking everything in how long we have together before one of us has to hop on another flight.”

Your throat tightens and you’re afraid the tears may start to spill. 

“I love your apartment, babe,” he says softly as he opens his eyes, the hand cupping your cheek trailing down your arm, rubbing your skin up and down gently. “I love waking up in your bed next to you. Love your weird bat decor and the flash sheets piled up everywhere. I love this weird-ass orange throw blanket.” He nods his head towards the velvet hole-filled blanket at the foot of your bed, “and that smell your pillow has, like your shampoo, and the sound of your upstairs neighbor walking like he’s got fucking bricks for feet.”

“Jerry.”

“I take it back, I kind of hate Jerry.”

You snort out a laugh and shake your head.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this without really scaring you off… but considering half of the guys I know meet a girl and marry ‘em within the month…” Mac admits, kissing your forehead gently. “I’d move here if I could… You know that. But I’d really like it if you were with me. In Coronado. I wanna wake up next to you. Want to see you curled up on the couch drawing instead of watching over a screen. I wanna take the girls on walks with you.”

You go still at the words while he watches you carefully, his hand still cradling your arm. It trails down to settle on your hip. “You don’t have to ever say yes. I know it’s a big deal… You’ve got your job and Harper and your life here. But if you ever wanted to… if you ever thought about it… I’ve got the space for you.”

“I have,” you whisper back, leaning into him a bit more. “I do.”

Mac closes his eyes again for a second like it physically hurts to feel that much relief. Then he nudges your nose with his, gently. “I don’t wanna pressure you,” he mumbles softly. “I’ll take you however I can have you. And if that means coming here every chance I get for the next ten years… I’ll do it. Just… thought you should know what I hope for. What I dream about.”

You smile, your heart doing little flips in your chest at the thought. “You really dream about me?”

“Every night,” he says without hesitation, smile playing on his lips. “And like… half of my naps.”

You laugh and then he surges forward, his lips are on yours— they’re soft and sure and sleepy-warm— and you melt into his chest like gravity was made just for this. Just for you and him.

Later, you’ll make breakfast together. You’ll fight over how he likes his eggs. He’ll steal your bacon straight off your plate and he’ll tell you it’s all because he loves you. But for now, you stay right there in your bed, tangled up in sheets that suddenly begin to feel like they’re foreign. That you may find better sleep in that little two bedroom house in Coronado, California. The one with the tulips in the yard and the painting of a robin you’d done on the front door the last time you’d stayed. You stay wrapped around the man who’d move mountains just to stay wrapped around you. 

And maybe— just maybe— you’re starting to believe you’d move them too.

tags ;;

[glassbxttless]

I would like to order a sandwich!

Turkey and/or Chicken on Pumpernickel with American cheese and Nut Butter!

I think you could have fun with this! As with anything I ask another person to labor over, delete this if it does not inspire joy!

Love you!

Middle of the Map

lt. derrick “mac” macdonald x fem!reader

word count: 2.4k+

summary: Sandwich Shop Request from getaapologist | You have a booth at Middle of the Map in Des Moines. On the first day of the convention, you’re unfortunately running late. You seem to be having one of the worst days you could imagine at that point, only getting worse when the elevator you’re on gets stuck. But just maybe things start to look up when you notice you’re trapped there with a very handsome pilot.

warnings: Post Warfare events. It’s 2010! They have smart phones lmao. Mac’s 29 here. They’re trapped in an elevator.

notes: Order up for Tara! This was so self indulgent lmao. (I do tattoos for a job so this was really fun!). Big thanks to @keeryhours and @punkrockmlchael for reading this over for me! And biggest thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing this for me!

You’re running late, of fucking course you are. Your alarm hadn’t been loud enough, there was traffic you weren’t used to, your maps had cut out halfway to the convention center, and your iced coffee had exploded in the cupholder when you hit a pothole too hard. Now you’re practically sprinting down the hall with your tattoo gear in tow, muttering curses too low for anyone to hear and dodging attendees in full cosplay. Your phone buzzes again in your back pocket, but you couldn’t be bothered to pull it out in a moment like this. It was probably Harper, anyway. She was your booth mate, a fellow artist in the shop back home. And she had definitely been blowing up your phone since you missed your original check-in time that morning. Then comes another buzz, and another. So you sigh, clutching what was left of your coffee between your body and arm, reaching your now free hand back to fish it out. You tap the screen with your thumb, scanning the messages as you push through the crowd.

Harper had messaged. Four times. 

where are you??

girl the event coordinator is asking questions

you’re lucky ur hot

but also HURRY UP

You bite your lip, trying to hide your growing smile. Harper always sounds mildly murderous over text, but you know she’s just flustered with the situation. She hates doing the admin part of the job and you, unfortunately, had promised you’d handle everything about setup today and had slept right through your meeting time.

“Fuck me,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head as you press the elevator call button like it’ll go just a bit faster if you touch it enough. You bounce on the balls of your feet. Your shoulders are tight, your backpack awkward and hard against your back. You tug one of the straps a bit closer, glancing at your phone again, before you begin thumbing out a reply to Harper.

30 sec. if i don’t die waiting for the elevator first

The elevator dings and the doors open. You lunge forward, your body nearly colliding with the tall, broad-shouldered guy stepping in from the other side. He’s as equally distracted as you are, his own phone the center of his attention. And his eyebrows are drawn down into an annoyed scowl. “Shit, I’m sorry,” you mumble, side stepping back from him and squeezing yourself into the corner of the elevator with a breathless little laugh.

“No worries,” he replies absently, so focused he barely glanced away from the screen in front of him.

You immediately clock his haircut— short, but not too short— he was wearing a casual dark tee stretched over full arms, and worn jeans in a dark wash denim. You let your eyes linger for a moment, he wasn’t paying any attention to you anyway. He smelled faintly of sandalwood and downy fabric softener— the april fresh scent. Which you only knew as it was the fabric softener you used for your own laundry. The scent combination shouldn’t be as sexy as it somehow is, but here he was— smelling like your fresh laundry and it made your head spin just a little. He leans his back against the wall opposite you and sighs heavily, scrolling through his messages with the same frustration you’re feeling. The doors slide shut slower than you expect and the elevator jerks once, starts its ascent— and then promptly stops not even five seconds later with a loud and drawn out mechanical groan, metal scraping against metal, and an aggressively long ding.

You both freeze. You let out a sigh, deep from your chest. 

“…Was that supposed to happen?” you ask softly, more to yourself as your head thumps back against the wall for just a moment. Your gaze drifts over to him. 

Downy guy lifts his head, finally looking at you. His eyes are hazel, they’re a little bloodshot, there’s dark circles under his eyes. By the looks of it, he���s had a long morning too. 

“Suppose we’re in a movie now,” he chuckles softly, his lips pulling together in a smile. He’d had just a bit of facial hair, like he’d shaved a few days before— not the mustache though. That was trimmed up nice and neat. “One where we’re about to get murdered in a malfunctioning elevator.”

You blink at him and then let out a laugh yourself. “Oh fucking great. I hope you brought snacks. I didn’t even eat breakfast on my way out.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he slides his phone into his back pocket. “Afraid not. Guess we’ll have to fight for survival. First one to cannibalism wins.”

“I’ll go for the calves. They look tender.” You tease, looking down at his denim clad legs for just a moment before meeting his eyes again. 

He throws his head back, and the laugh that your joke brings out is loud, deep, and a little rough around the edges. You love it. The sound curled around your ribs like he was wrapping you in a tight hug. He offers you a hand to shake. “Derrick. Most people call me Mac.”

You raise an eyebrow and shake his hand. His grip is firm, the palm of his hand warm, and definitely not as clammy as yours had been. “Nice to meet you, Mac. I’m the poor soul you’ll have to live with in here when you start hallucinating from dehydration.”

He grins, giving that hand in his a squeeze before he retreats. “Lucky me.”

You’re quiet for a moment before you both push away from the walls you’re standing against. When you move, you both start pushing buttons like if you try hard enough, the elevator will start moving again. But, nothing happens. You try the emergency call button next. There’s a faint buzz that echoes throughout the small space, and then a voice crackles through the speaker, “Uhm… Hi, yes. We know. Maintenance is working on it. Might be a bit but we’re trying.”

“A bit?” you repeat, eyes wide.

The voice says nothing else but the speaker clicks off.

Mac pinches the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes flutter closed. “I swear to God. This is what I get for letting Tommy talk me into this.”

“You here for the convention?” you ask softly, letting your bag slide off your back and setting it carefully on the floor, so you don’t spill any of the contents. You place a hand on the wall, moving to sit down cross legged and you lean back against the wall. The ugly blueish grey carpet expansive beneath you and scratchy against the skin of your calves as you relax. There’s no point in standing when you’re about to be here indefinitely.

He nods in response, sliding down the wall to sit across from you. “Yeah. Some buddies of mine wanted to meet up. Get some dumb matching ink, drink cheap beer, flirt with the pretty artists who are way out of all of our leagues.” 

You raise a brow and laugh, cringing at how casually he says matching ink, and you shake your head picking at one of the rips in your jeans. “Bold of them to assume we flirt back.” Your voice is quieter than before, but just as teasing. 

“Oh, they’re truly delusional. One of ‘em tried to flirt with a barista once by saying, ‘Are you made of Stardust? Because every time you smile, the universe makes a wish.’”

“That’s… deeply troubling.”

“You have no idea.” He chuckles softly and leans his head back against the wall. His arms rest against his knees, locking his hands together.

Your phone buzzes again, so you shift and pull your phone from your pocket. You sigh, there’s another text from Harper. 

I’m going to kill you and it won’t be pretty

You snort and hold up your phone, turning it around so Mac can see the screen, “My booth mate. She’s handling my absence very maturely it seems.” Once he reads it, you turn your phone back to face you, trying to send a response. But each message fails. 

He grins, reading over the message and putting your earlier comment together. “You’re working the convention then?”

“Yeah. Tattoo artist. Harper and I have a booth together. We’re doing small flash all weekend. Wanted to enter a piece in the show, but all of my canvases backed out pretty last minute.” You explain and shrug, letting out a soft smile as you look Mac over. 

He whistles low and then chuckles. “Now I’m really lucky. Trapped in a metal box with one of the real artists.”

You raise your eyebrows again, clearly amused. “Are you flirting with me, Mac?”

He moves his arms behind him, placing his hands on the floor and then he leans back on his palms, a smirk blooming across his face. “That depends. Is it working?”

You pretend to consider. “Mm. Ask me again in an hour, if we’re still stuck in here and I haven’t eaten you yet, you might be in with a shot.” You send a wink his way, casually flirting right back. And Mac just grins. 

The next hour drags so slowly and then flies by so quickly at the same time. Mac is very easy to talk to— he’s laid back, funny, in a way that is so dry and understated. His stories make you laugh until your stomach hurts. He tells you about his team; his brothers it seems, about what he does for work, and all about the dumb bets they make with each other to pass the time on their deployments. 

So in return, you tell him about clients who want the most ridiculous tattoos. You told him about the time you had the chance to create a pretty lady with an astronaut helmet for a head, and about how Harper had once accidentally hit on a client’s dad during that client’s first tattoo.

“Okay, that’s worse than the stardust line,” Mac chuckles softly, grinning to himself.

“Right!? And she still insists it wasn’t weird. The kid looked absolutely mortified.”

He shakes his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. He can’t imagine a better way to have spent this fucked up day. He hadn’t been excited for this, but now here he is— enjoying every single second, hoping it wouldn’t have to end. “I just gotta say, if we never get out of here, this might be the best version of hell that I could imagine.”

That catches you off guard, “Excuse me?” 

He shrugs, dropping his eyes. He can’t look at you as he says it. “Think about it. We’re trapped in a suspended box with no service and no food. But you’re here. So, y’know… It’s not so bad.”

You feel warmth begin to creep up your neck and settle in every extremity you have. “Careful, Mac. That almost sounded smooth.”

“Almost?”

“Almost.”

By the time that same voice from earlier finally crackles back through the speaker saying the fire department is on its way, you’re sitting shoulder to shoulder with him. You’re sharing space like you’ve known each other longer than two hours. You’ve learned he has two dogs— one saluki named, Pippa, and an elderly Brittany spaniel named, Jazz (his family had gotten her when he was 15 and she had somehow weaseled her way into Coronado with him)— a house in California, a little scar on his chin from a bar fight when he was twenty that’s barely visible now, and a deep fear of lightning.

You’ve told him about your love for horror movies, your habit of stress-buying funky socks, and how you’re living your childhood dream. That makes him smile, which in turn makes your cheeks feel hot. 

When the doors finally drag open. There’s a crowd of a few men dressed in black fire department t-shirts and a sweaty-looking maintenance man who waves you forward with an exhausted “You’re good now,” but neither of you moves right away.

Mac brings it in himself to stand first. He reaches down and offers his hand to you again. “Y’know, since we didn’t die in there or have to eat each other,” he smiles, “how about I buy you a drink later? For surviving that with me.”

You hesitate just long enough to watch his expression twitch with nerves, then you take his hand and nod. You pull yourself up until you’re standing, speaking softly as you reach down and tug your bag back up onto your shoulders. “Yeah. Alright. I’m down. But only if you swing by my booth first. Harper will kill me if I don’t bring you as proof.”

“Proof for what?”

“That I didn’t just ghost her messages and get lost in a stairwell.”

He chuckles, following you out into the fresh air of the hallway. Suddenly, in the bigger, more open space, you start to feel the nerves a bit more. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he says. “Booth number?”

“Oh, uhm… Seventeen. Right near the guy selling those anime airbrushed shirts.”

“Oh God,” Mac groans. “I can already feel my serotonin levels dropping by the second.”

You’re halfway down the hall, Mac in tow, when you hear your name being called. Harper is speed-walking toward you, anger painted her features— her face redder than you had ever seen her before.

“Don’t say anything, I have a good reason,” you warn her quickly, tossing your hands up in mock surrender. “I was trapped in an elevator with a very nice man.” You drop your voice so only she can hear, “who might even be my soulmate. It’s been a day.”

Harper stops in her tracks, her eyes jumping to Mac. Who gives her a sheepish wave when he notices her attention is on him. Her mouth drops open and then she closes it promptly, clearing her throat. “Okay. You’re forgiven. For now.”

Mac mock salutes. “Hi. I’m the excuse.”

Harper stares at him for a beat longer, then turns on her heel to head back to the booth. “Yeah. Fair enough. Carry on.”

You flash Mac a grin and nudge his arm. “See you tonight for that drink then?”

He leans in toward you just a little. “I’ll be the guy hovering near those airbrush shirts. Trying to recover from this disgusting case of elevator Stockholm syndrome.”

You wink at him and then start to hurry after your friend. “Bring your wallet, sailor.”

He watches you go, his head tilted slightly, that crooked smile still plastered on his face like he can’t quite believe his luck as he watches you laugh with Harper. And then he’s whispering so quiet he knows you can’t hear him. “I’m a pilot.” 

Neither can you.

tags ;; @djomorelikedelulu

[glassbxttless]

4th request is Pumpernickel with salami, cobalt jack, nut butter and onion rings.

Of course I need to send you a tattoo shop au 🤭

Three Months

lt. derrick “mac” macdonald x fem!reader

word count: 5.6k+

summary: Sandwich Shop Request from RobinBuckleyWife | Three months have passed since you met Mac at Middle of the Map. Three months of texts, phone calls, voice notes, and endless facetimes. Three months and Mac’s finally coming to visit you.

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, Mentions of Tattoo Cleaning Protocol, Jokes about sex, Smut, PIV, Unprotected Sex

notes: Order up for Julia! I hope you love them, because every time someone wants to hear more about Mac and his tattoo artist gf, an angel gains their wings. I had to substitute a few things in this to fit their storyline; (no make up sex and no second chance at love: but, they are getting together again after being apart for a long period of time! So maybe that’s their second chance?) Big thanks to @getaapologist for reading this over for me and to @peachyproserpina for editing!

The sound of a machine buzzing low and steady fills your ears. It’s a familiar undercurrent of white noise as you wipe down your station for the third time that day. You’re not even really sure if it actually needs another pass, but your hands are restless. Your brain is already halfway to the airport, picturing a pair of broad shoulders in a worn olive green hoodie stepping through the terminal and into your arms again.

You bite back a grin.

It’s late in the afternoon at The Silver Eel. The sunlight slanting in through the front windows and pooling around the plants and on the polished floors. The scent of green soap and latex lingers in the air, it’s mixed with the faintest trace of Harper’s peppermint oil diffuser. She swears “keeps the vibes good.” You know it’s mostly for the clients, but secretly, you like it too.

Harper’s working in her booth. She’s leaning over her client with her usual half-scowl of concentration. Her tattoo machine hums in confident little bursts while she shades a design you can’t quite see from where you’re standing. All you can see is her boots, one kicked out behind her, and her long braid, tucked under a carhartt beanie, swinging side to side slightly every time she tilts her head.

“So,” you call out, unable to keep the secret to yourself any longer. You let the word hang with as much casual cool as you can muster, and your poker face is failing, “Mac’s flying in tonight.”

There’s a pause in the sound of machine against skin— just for a second, signaling she had pulled her needle away— before she looks up with a smirk that’s way too pleased with itself.

“Well, finally,” she says with a laugh, like she’s been rooting for this plotline to move forward for weeks (She had. Anything to make her friend happy!). “I was starting to think you hallucinated him.”

You ball-up a clean paper towel from your station and toss it at her. It misses her by a solid two feet and lands somewhere near her trash can, but she ducks anyway like you were a real threat, and she’s laughing as she goes back to work.

“Three months of FaceTime calls and voice notes I’ve had to sit in on, and the giggling like a teenager at your station,” she adds, loud enough for the whole shop to hear as she shakes her head, “and you’re just now getting laid again? Girl. That’s restraint I simply do not possess.”

Your face feels hot almost instantly. You glance toward her client, only to spot a very relaxed and heavily tattooed man reclining in the chair. His headphones are slung around his neck and he’s chewing on the lip ring snuggly tucked against his bottom lip. It was Harper’s brother.

“Oh my god, Harper! Could you not talk about my sex life when your brother is right fucking there?”

“He doesn’t care,” she says, shrugging her shoulders without looking up. “Do you care, Wyatt?”

Wyatt doesn’t even blink, just carries on like this is a normal conversation. “I care deeply. I’d prefer not to be reminded that you, my little sister, has sex. Let alone that you speak so freely about your friend’s sexcapades.”

Harper snorts and shakes her head, going back to tattooing. “You’re not even listening, shut up.”

You roll your eyes with mock annoyance and go back to cleaning your station, but the grin tugging at your lips betrays you. Harper’s always been like this— she’s relentless, unapologetic, and occasionally a little too nosey about who you’re doing the horizontal dance in your sheets with— She had even become your closest friend over the past few years and you wouldn’t trade her for anything. Especially not when she’s the only one who knows just how much you’ve been looking forward to this visit. She was the one who sat with you the night after Middle of the Map. You both huddled up in your hotel bed, feeding yourselves greasy takeout, as she tried to tease the dreamy look off your face. She was the one who watched you fall for a man who lived a thousand miles away from you and she never once made you feel like it was stupid.

Still, she doesn’t let up. Not for a single second

“You shave your legs this morning?” she asks casually, her eyes flicking up to yours for just a moment, as if she’s inquiring about the weather.

You don’t answer fast enough, which is apparently enough of an answer itself to Harper.

“Oh-ho shit,” she cackles, her grin spreading ear to ear. “You did. You’re gonna get railed within five minutes of him walking through the door. I just know it.”

“Harper.”

“What? You think I didn’t plan a whole fucking wax appointment the first time Ben came back from that mountain trip? I swear the man didn’t even set his bag down. We didn’t make it past the entryway.”

Wyatt groans, his head falling back against her chair. “I truly hate it here.”

You sit back on your stool, your hands settling on your hips, and tilt your chin to level a look at her. “You say one more word and I’m going to start loudly describing how Mac kisses, again. In detail. With sound effects and everything.”

That gets her. She shudders dramatically and mimes zipping her mouth shut without actually touching her face with her glove, but the shit-eating grin she wears doesn’t fade in the slightest.

You really try to focus on your cleanup again— organizing your ink bottles, wiping down the stool legs, your usual end-of-day routine— but your hands are more than restless. There’s a buzz humming softly just beneath your skin. Part of it’s your nerves, part of it’s the want that’s been building for the last three months. And you’d never say it out loud (not with Harper listening at least), but there’s something deeper growing beneath the anticipation of seeing him again. You have never missed someone like this before. Never wanted someone like this before— every version of him. You were falling for the funny version who sends you blurry pictures of his dogs in their Halloween costumes, the tired version who calls you after late drills just to hear your voice before he crashes out for the night, and the quiet version who answers your FaceTime calls and looks at you like you’re the first breath of air he’s had after a long dive.

You catch your reflection in the glass jewelry case near the register— your eyes are wide, flyaways working their way out of your ponytail, everything felt so hot. Yeah. You’re a fucking goner.

Harper’s voice floats over to you again, it’s still teasing but much gentler now. Maybe even an edge of concern. “Hey... You nervous?”

You glance at her, taking a breath in. She’s still working, but you can feel her watching you out of the corner of her eye. You nod once, hoping she’d see it. And then add, just in case. “Yeah. A little.”

She hums, nodding herself as her wrist flicks. “It’s the second time you’re seeing him in person. First time doesn’t count. You were running on adrenaline and elevator Stockholm syndrome. Surprised you even lasted the three days before bangin’ him.”

You huff a laugh, your chest getting tight at her words. “I… yeah. Thanks for the support.”

“I’m just saying,” she adds, pulling her machine back and finally looking over at you, “this is where the real stuff kicks in, you know? Des Moines was fun and all, but you’re gonna be in your own space. There’s no hotel walls or flight times to hide behind. It’s just you and him and, you know… your weird little kitchen table.”

You roll your eyes at the mention. It is a weird little table. You had found it at a garage sale when you’d gotten the apartment, it had scratches in the top, mismatched chairs, and one leg is definitely shorter than the rest.

“I think it’ll be good for you,” Harper says after a few moments, a little more serious now. “You look really happy. A little horny. But mostly happy.”

You smile, turning away from her for just a moment as you collect your bearings. The nerves are still there deep down, but it helps— having someone who knows exactly how to needle you and exactly when to stop. Who’ll make the jokes about your sex life but still check in and make sure you’re alright. Who won’t let you get too in your head about any of it, especially this. You turn and toss your gloves in the trash, sighing out as you stretch your arms over your head. “All right, well... I’m heading out before you start asking about my underwear.”

Harper raises an eyebrow, turning in her stool to look at you. “Are you wearing underwear?”

Wyatt chimes in again, dry as ever, rolling his eyes, “Oh my god, Harper.”

You flip them both off with a laugh, making your way out the door. Your phone buzzes in your back pocket just as you hit the sidewalk outside of the shop, and when you check it, there plain as day is a text from Mac.

Just boarded. See you in a few hours, baby.

You stare at the screen for a moment longer than you really mean to. It’s a little more than a few hours. You’d heard the itinerary so many times at this point you know better. Then you type back a quick response. One that would surely have Harper rolling her eyes if she’d seen. 

Hurry up. I missed you.

And you swear you can already feel his smile from here.

-*-

You stand at baggage claim with your hoodie sleeves tugged over your fingers, practically vibrating in place. Your lip is tugged between your teeth as you wait, bouncing on the balls of your toes. He texted you twenty minutes ago and your heart was still thudding hard against your chest. 

Landed. Plane smelled like dirty diapers. I’m alive, though. Thought you should know. 

And then a minute after that, another text lights up your screen.

Didn’t get cavity searched. Disappointed, honestly.

You haven’t stopped grinning since you’d gotten them. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him— Middle of the Map still plays on an endless loop in your head like the earworm your favorite song brings— but this is different. This is your real life. This isn’t some convention fling. You had brought him home. He’s flown across the country just for you. Because of you.

You look around you, rocking on your heels. Before you’re turning your attention to the stream of passengers filtering toward the escalator. And then, like something from a movie, he’s right there.

Mac.

His hair is messy from the flight, that olive green hoodie thrown on, his backpack was even slung over one shoulder like he had wrestled it into submission from the overhead compartment. He looks exhausted, like he’d hardly slept this week. He looks incredible in person, even better than you remembered. His eyes catch yours and he grins, and suddenly you don’t care that you’re in the middle of a crowded airport or that your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics.

“Look who it is,” he calls out as he walks down the last few escalator steps and toward you. “The hottest woman on the eastern seaboard! Have mercy.”

You laugh, shaking your head as embarrassment starts to creep up your spine. You bite your bottom lip, watching as the last step causes him to skip a bit, and hop to catch his footing. “That’s not what the gate lady said when she gave me the directions over here.”

He stops in front of you, breathing a little harder than he should be. You attribute it to nerves. For a second you both just look at one another, unsure of what your next move will be. There’s a flicker in his eyes— something you aren’t quite sure how to place. Then he says, with the prettiest smile you think you’ve ever seen, “Permission to kiss you? And probably cry a little while doing it?”

“Permission granted,” your voice barely above a whisper.

He cups your face in one hand like it’s the first time he’s touched anything soft in months and pulls you into him like the world might end right there. It’s not a perfect kiss, nothing like the movies— you bump noses and your teeth click against each other’s just a little— but his hand is trembling just slightly, and when he pulls back, nuzzling his nose along your cheek, he lets out a happy sigh.

You turn slightly and rest your forehead against his. Your hands are sliding up his arms to rest at his shoulders, and then back down again, squeezing just above his elbows. The fabric of his hoodie is a bit scratchy against your skin. He’s got a bit of stubble growing in, his mustache isn’t nearly as neatly trimmed as it had been on your call earlier that week. But he’s here. He’s real. You can only manage to whisper a small, “Hi.”

“Hi,” he breathes back with a little laugh and then he kisses you again. “God, you’re real. You have legs again. Holy shit. I missed your legs.”

You snort, feeling warmth start to bloom from deep in your belly. “My legs missed you, too.”

He pulls back then, just enough to look at you properly. He’s still cradling your face, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “You look so good. Like unfair levels of good, baby. Like if I didn’t already like you, I’d be real mad about it.”

“You’re jet-lagged and running on airplane trail mix.”

“Exactly,” he says with a shrug. “So if I pass out, just roll me to your place and lie next to me forever. That’s all I ask. Don’t even have to tell anyone. They’ll already know.”

You take his backpack and tug it up onto your back, despite his protests (he insists he’s a marine. He’s strong and capable of carrying his own carryon— you remind him he’s so tired he’s not even standing up straight), and together you navigate the parking garage back to the little black lincoln beater you’ve come to love. Mac keeps bumping into you on purpose. Shoulder to shoulder. Fingers brushing yours. He talks the whole way— about the guy who snored through the entire flight, the baby who kept blowing out his diapers, about the fact that his seatmate watched Twilight almost four times in a row.

“Did you know vampires sparkle?” he says as you unlock your car, leaning against it. “Like, glittery sparkles. You’ve been holding out on me with that knowledge.”

“You’ve never seen Twilight? Hasn’t everyone seen Twilight?”

“I’m a grown man, babe,” he says softly, slinging his arm around your shoulders. He starts to walk around the car, guiding you to the driver’s side like you absolutely might get lost without him touching you. “I only watch real shit like… Top Gun and videos of dogs doing agility courses.”

“Both very… on brand.”

He leans down to kiss your temple, lingering for a moment as his eyes flick down to your lips. “You’re very on brand.”

You roll your eyes at the bad attempt of a joke, but your chest aches in the best way.

Now, back at your apartment, you barely are able to get the door closed before he exhales loud and sharp. Then he drops his bag right there in the middle of your entryway. 

“God,” he says softly, taking a few steps in until he’s spinning slowly in your tiny living room. His hands on his hips, a smile taking up his entire face. “This is so… you.” He eyes a few framed flash sheets he sees with Harper’s name scribbled across them. There’s a blanket covered with little bats draped over the couch. “It smells like you in here. Like your shampoo and fabric softener.” He does well just to remember the faint scent for as long as he had. “I’m gonna start licking the walls. See if they taste like you too.”

“Please don’t.” you laugh softly, shaking your head as you twist the deadbolt shut. 

“No promises.”

You lift his bag out of the middle of the floor and set it down by the couch as he takes a slow lap around your place, like it’s a museum exhibit called The Girl I’m Lowkey Obsessed With And Wanting to Marry One Day. He stops to inspect a spider plant that you’ve definitely almost killed. He stares at a photo of you and Harper on the end table for a solid ten seconds. Then he looks over and spots your little crooked kitchen table through the arch and says, “That’s literally the ugliest thing I’ve ever loved.”

“Be nice, Derrick. It can hear you and It’s sensitive.”

He laughs and then turns to you. He’s quieter now, really taking in everything around him. “You let me into your space, babe… Your home.” he says softly, his lips tugging up into a gentle smile. “That means a lot to me. That’s— fuck, baby. It’s a huge deal.”

You walk over to where he stood and slide your arms around his waist. You tilt your head up to look at him, resting your chin against his chest. “Yeah, well... I like you. Kind of a lot.”

He wraps you up tight in his own arms, nudging your head a bit as he tucks his chin into your shoulder. He’s decided he never wants to let go. His voice is muffled when he says, “I kind of like you a whole lot too.” He mumbles, pressing a kiss against that little sliver of skin he can see at the collar of your shirt. He knows he feels a lot more than “like” but was it too early? 

You laugh in response, and he leans back to kiss you— it’s gentle this time. He’s slower with it, more deliberate. It’s the kind of kiss that promises a hundred more laced deep within it. The kind of kiss that says, Hey, I missed you. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.

“You hungry?” you ask as you pull away. You’re breathless, your face flush and your mouth still slick from kissing him.

“Starving.” He chuckles softly, watching as your eyes flutter up to his.

“For food, or…?”

Mac lets his hands fall to the curve of your ass and he squeezes through your jeans. “Yes.”

You swat his hands away, laughing as you start to pull away. Making your way through the archway that separates your kitchen and living room. You start to reach over to open your pantry door, grab him something to eat after the long flight he’d been on. He’s grinning as he follows you, close on your heels. And he catches your wrist as you pass, pulling you up short with that mock-innocent smirk that never seems to mean anything good. “Wait— Baby, come here.”

You let him pull you in. Of course you do.

He hooks one arm around your waist and brings you flush against him. And then he dips his head down, kissing you like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him alive. He’s messier about it this time— he’s fucking greedy. He’s had months of late-night calls and one-handed video chats and whispered soon, baby, soon’s and it’s all crashing together in the heat of his mouth against yours. You moan into it and feel him groan in return. The sound low in his throat as his fingers grip your lower back just a bit tighter.

“Go ahead and keep kissin’ me like that, babe,” he rasps softly, nuzzling his nose along your jaw, “and I’m gonna end up fuckin’ you right here on that weird-ass kitchen table.”

The words knock the breath out of your chest. It’s not because they’re that dirty, not really— FaceTime had seen its share of filthy nights over the last few months— but because it’s Mac. Saying it in person, right here in front of you. Because he’s standing in your apartment with his hands all over you like he’s starving and you’re the last goddamn meal he’ll ever have.

You blink, trying to find the right words to say when you feel as flustered as you did. “It’s not stable enough for that.”

“Neither am I, baby.”

You snort, but it dies high in your throat when he starts walking you backward until your back is flush against the frame of the archway. He’s kissing across your jaw, down your throat. He’s taking his time, like he needs to relearn the shape of you after spending so much time apart. He sucks at the base of your neck until your knees nearly give out and you’re sure there’ll be a dark bruise there the next day. His hands are dropping from your waist, gripping your ass and dragging you flush against him like he can’t stand the space between you.

“Jesus, Mac…” you breathe out softly, your lips are brushing his, your hands gently curled around the fabric at the chest of his hoodie. You can feel every breath he takes, every subtle shift in him as he presses closer, closer, to you. He’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of. And you can’t seem to get enough. Your hand splays wide as it slides up to his shoulder, around to the nape of his neck— toying with the hair there. 

“You feel that?” he hums, grinding against your hip. He’s hard, has been for a while now and he’s not subtle about it at all. “Been like this since I saw you at the damn baggage claim. Swear, I was two seconds from getting cuffed for indecent exposure.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m desperate. There’s a difference.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his brown eyes wide and glassy with want. “You think I was jerkin’ off to those fucking voice notes for fun, baby? I damn near got myself banned from the base.”

Your face burns hot and runs deep into your belly. “Mac...”

He grins. It’s flushed and absolutely shameless. He’s so stupidly beautiful, it has your chest tight. “Told you I missed your legs. The vision of your thighs around my ears has been stuck in my head for three damn months. Rent-free, baby. Fucking haunting me.”

He places one more kiss to your neck, his eyes glancing over your shoulder into the hall. Your bedroom door is open and he can see the bed from where he’s stood. His arm snakes around your waist and then you’re moving— you’re stumbling, he’s tugging. You’re kissing and touching each other like neither of you can believe this is real. Clothes get ditched in your dance down the hallway. 

First, he pauses at the end of the hall to tug your shirt over your head so slowly you think you might combust. His fingers trail against the skin of your tummy, his head dipping down to watch how he reveals a new piece of your flesh with every move upward.

Then your fingers are sliding under his hoodie, taking that up and his t-shirt underneath. You’re moving just as slow, leaning in to press a kiss against his collarbone when you tug it up and over his head, letting the articles fall into a pile beside you. Mac’s chest heaves as your eyes meet, there’s a smile playing on his lips and there’s a badly done smiley face tattoo right over his heart.

Your jeans get shucked off at your bedroom door and tossed in the direction of your hamper before someone trips over them. He nearly knocks over the lamp at the end of the hall trying to get them off of you. You shove him into the bedroom wall haphazardly. There’s laughter shared, swearing, and so much more kissing. 

By the time your back hits the soft plane of your mattress, you’re almost bare, panting, aching. Lying there under his gaze in just your panties and bra. Every inch of you is flushed, breathing heavy, and alive like you’ve never felt before.

His gaze lingers on you as he huffs out a quiet, breathless laugh. “You really wore a matching set for me, baby?” His voice is low as he teases you, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. “Thought I was gonna walk in and fuck you against the front door, did you?” He leans in to kiss your neck, then just above the cup of your bra, his fingers brush the lace at your hip. “You really do know how to make a man feel wanted.” He whispers as his kisses press right against your sternum, then just above your belly button, and finally right above the waistband of those panties, grinning against your skin. “You’re lucky I’ve still got some self control left.”

You sigh out softly, tilting your head down to look at him as he moves upwards.

Mac kneels between your thighs, he’s still in his jeans. His eyes are raking over you as his hands come to his belt, slowly unbuckling it as he drinks you in. He pulls back, just enough to shove them and his boxers to his ankles and kick them away, settling himself back against your sheets and between your legs in all of his naked glory. A lone tattoo on his leg, a tiger with its head busting through a heart, sits right there on the top of his thigh. Then his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open wide. He’s slow about it. He savors it. His thumbs are pressing deep into your skin like he needs to feel the reality of this before he figures he’s dreamt all of this up. “You’re gonna kill me,” he sighs softly, dragging his palms up your thighs to settle on your hips. “I’m not even gonna make it inside you, beautiful. Gonna keep looking at you and fucking explode.”

You reach for him after that, pulling him down into another kiss. Then— because you want it, because you’ve needed this— you roll him over and straddle his lap before he can protest. Before you settle down, you shift carefully. Tugging your underwear down your legs and tossing them towards the hamper. His breath catches in his throat as he looks up at you. Brown eyes pleading. He’s already so fucking hard, leaking against his stomach. He runs his hands up your sides so slowly, drifting back to let his fingers unhook your bra with an ease so practiced it almost makes you lift an eyebrow. He slides the fabric down your arms. His eyes zone in on your tits before they flick up to your own. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen anyone more perfect in his life. Each time he sees you naked for him gets better and better. You smile, and then trail a finger down his chest, as his hand snakes between your bodies. 

He wraps his hand around the base of his cock, tilting his head a bit to watch where the two of you are almost joined. He slides the tip through your folds, gathering the slick that’s pooled there. And then he’s lining himself up, breaching your entrance with as little resistance as you can manage. Your whole body clenches around him. “Fuck—” One of his hands fists the sheets, the other settles on your thigh, his head thrown back against the pillows. “Fucking Christ— you feel unreal— oh my God— never had a pussy like this.”

The stretch is delicious, perfect, as he feeds you his cock inch by inch. Your thighs are burning as you take him to the hilt. You’re both trembling now. It’s all hitting at once— the distance you shared, the loneliness you had felt, the months of want after one measly weekend built up like pressure in your chest. He grabs your hips with both hands now, as he looks up at you. “Been dreaming about this. About you. Every goddamn night. Knew you’d be just as good as I remembered, better even.”

Your hands are pressed flat against his chest as your hips move slowly, soaking in the feel of him. Rolling with each lift up and slow sink back down. You don’t miss the way his hips twitch up to meet yours— even if it’s barely there, or how his hands shake against your waist like he’s trying not to cum just from the heat of you clenching around him. 

“You okay?” he whispers. His voice a sheer contrast to the confidence he had felt before this had actually started.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, reaching forward to thread your fingers through his hair. He’d complained all week last week how grown out it had gotten, that he needed a good cut. “You?”

“Gonna be real honest, m’close to crying.”

You laugh as your eyes close, shaking your head. Your head feels dizzy and you’re so full of him. You kiss him again, biting at his bottom lip until he lets out a little moan. And then he starts to move with you, his hips lifting off the mattress, gaining a steady rhythm. It’s messy and clumsy, but he can watch your tits bounce like this. And maybe that’s the reason he loses his pace halfway through a moan. You laugh and nearly fall forward when he bucks his hips a little too hard afterwards. Your pillow hits the floor when he readjusts his arm. None of it matters anymore. Every one of his thrusts hits a little deeper against that spongy spot along your front wall, every brush of his mouth against your collarbone makes you shiver, and every sound he makes turns you molten in his arms.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he groans against your shoulder, his arm coming up to pull you against his chest, “so perfect— fuck, I’m never letting you go, you hear me?” He mumbles into your hair as he holds you a bit tighter. 

You whimper, hips rolling harder in this position, your nails digging into his sides. “Mac— please—”

That’s all he needed to hear, before he flips you suddenly. It’s effortless and he’s pressing you into the mattress with his weight. “I got you. I got you, baby,” he pants, rutting into your cunt harder now, deeper, fucking relentless in the best way. “Gonna make you cum, baby. Wanna feel you fall apart for me.” He breathes out heavily as his hand slips between you. His fingers circling your clit with practiced desperation. You cry out, overwhelmed— he’s everywhere, inside you, over you, around you— and it crashes into you all at once, fast and hard and impossible to stop. That white hot band in your belly snapping taut and your orgasm tears through you like a live wire. Your whole body tensing as you sob out Derrick, Mac, Derrick into his neck.

Mac pushes himself up and pulls out of your tight heat at the last second, cursing as he fists himself. The muscles moving beneath inked skin stirs something deep in your belly. He gives one, two, three, tugs as he pants out your name, cumming with a groan from deep in his chest. He’s painting your belly in his spend as his thighs shake, his chest heaves, and his brain unable to catch up. You’ve done this once before, hurried and rushed in a Des Moines hotel room. But now? Fuck. Now he looks better than ever. Like every orgasm you’ve ever brought him to— your one night in person or the many over a screen— was just getting you ready for right now. His cheeks are flushed, his muscles twitching, and he’s got a hazy look in his eye that you cannot describe. He collapses against you, burying his face in your neck. 

You both lie there in each other’s arms, quiet and spent. Your breaths both ragged but smiles living on your faces. Then, he speaks up, his voice muffled against your skin, “Worth the flight.”

You laugh, fingers in his sweat damp hair. You brush a few strands away from his eyes. “You came early.”

“Emotionally or physically?”

“…both.”

He grins against your chest, presses a kiss over each of your nipples, and then he looks up at you— his eyes soft, sleepy, completely yours. “I love you.”

Those words steal the breath from your lungs even more so than the filthy ones— but you don’t hesitate to answer, “I love you too.”

He exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken since landing. Then he’s nosing between your breasts and pressing a kiss to your sternum. “Next time, I’ll last longer.”

“Next time’s already on your mind?” You laugh softly, “focus on the now, Mac. You’re getting the towel this time.”

He groans softly, dragging his nose along the swell of your breast again as he leaves little kisses in his wake. “You’re already making me move?”

“You’re the one who said I’m beautiful. Now you have to suffer the consequences.”

He grumbles something about cruel women and fucking limp legs, but he lifts himself up and trudges butt naked to the bathroom, but not before slapping your thigh affectionately on the way.

“You’re still the best lay of my life,” he calls over his shoulder.

You smile, lazy and full of warmth, and close your eyes.

He’s here. He’s yours. And it’s only the beginning.

tags ;; @djomorelikedelulu

[glassbxttless]

Sandwich Shop Fic Masterlist (Drop One)

You’ve visited the weirdest (and thirstiest) sandwich shop on the internet. This is where I’m parking all of the unhinged fics born from my fic event— each one is handcrafted with love, too much sauce, and probably at least one break down (i’m looking at you— Dinner for Two).

You’ll find everything i’ve written for the event linked by character below, because even in a deli of chaos, we like a little organization! (these fics can also be found on the main masterlist!)

Be patient with me getting them out. I have a lot of these to write and it’s just me, a keyboard, and your favorite disaster men asking if you want that toasted. If you’re cool with waiting— dig in, tip your fic writer (with comments and reblogs pls), and may your order always come up hot and fresh.

As always, Smut is indicated with ✦

Joseph Quinn

Eddie Munson

Dinner for Two ✦ | 4.9k+ | from 28bohemianmoons | when your car breaks down and the very handsome mechanic that promises to fix it invites you over for dinner, he gets a little more than he bargained for. (older mechanic!eddie au)

Had to See My Girl ✦ | 2.7k+ | from reformedkingsmanagement | You stop by the shop to drop off lunch for Eddie. You decide you just might have to do something about the pretty little thing that’s definitely flirting with him over her civic. (older mechanic!eddie au)

A Cabin in the Woods ✦ | 0.0k+ | from anonymous | You, Eddie, and Eddie’s friend Steve attend a wedding— and there’s only one bed. (older mechanic!eddie au)

It’s a Real Nice Summer to Make a Baby ✦ | 2.3k+ | from anonymous | Your journey in creating your family with Eddie, doesn’t stop just because there’s a change in scenery.

coming soon

Michael (Hoard)

Something Like That ✦ | 0.0k+ | from keeryhours | You and Michael haven’t been seeing each other too long before you’re shackled to one another with one very unfortunate snap of latex.

coming soon ✦

coming soon

coming soon ✦

Billy Knight

Since We Were 13 | 2.3k+ | from wheels-of-despair | You and Billy are best friends going on Holiday— the room you check into isn’t the double bed you booked.

coming soon ✦

Sam O’Brien (Warfare)

coming soon ✦

Code Red | 1.7k+ | from peachyproserpina | Sam’s youngest daughter, Cassidy, his baby girl— gets a surprise right before Volleyball practice, and it’s not the kind he’s equipped to deal with on a moment’s notice.

coming soon ✦

coming soon

coming soon ✦

Emperor Geta

Ocean’s Away | 2.0k+ | from minamoomoo | After a careless misjudgment on invitations sent, you find yourself at an Oceanside Villa with the Emperors— and are coming up short on somewhere to sleep.

coming soon

coming soon

Derwin “D.F.” Grunauer (Overlord)

What Party? ✦ | 1.6k+ | from wheels-of-despair | Derwin’s been adjusting to being back home and that means getting reacquainted with you.

coming soon

Ralph Penbury (Timewasters)

Sleepy Touches | 1.8k+ | from anonymous | You’ve got wandering hands and Ralph has a confession to make.

coming soon

coming soon

coming soon ✦

Eric (A Quiet Place: Day One)

coming soon ✦

Fred Hechinger

Emperor Caracalla

coming soon ✦

coming soon

Jason Hochberg

coming soon ✦

coming soon

coming soon

coming soon

Gwydion Lashlee-Walton

Gareth Emerson

Double Chocolate Chunk Brownies | 2.3k+ | from punkrockm1chael | Gareth’s going through it and as his best friend, you know exactly how to help.

Joe Keery

Steve Harrington

Summer Camp Stupid | 0.0k+ | from peachyproserpina | Steve and Eddie have crushes on the new girls cabin counsellors.

coming soon ✦

Gator Tillman

coming soon

Kit Connor

Tommy Gallagher (Warfare)

It Was Only a Kiss | 4.1k+ | from (getaapologist) | You’ve got a weekend you need to spend with your family, who definitely think you have a boyfriend. So you ask Tommy to step in. (separate from my main tommy x fem!reader au)

coming soon ✦

coming soon ✦

coming soon

Michael Gandolfini

Lt. Derrick “Mac” MacDonald (Warfare)

Middle of the Map | 2.4k+ | from (getaapologist) | You have a booth at Middle of the Map in Des Moines. On the first day of the convention, you’re unfortunately running late. You seem to be having one of the worst days you could imagine at that point, only getting worse when the elevator you’re on gets stuck. But just maybe things start to look up when you notice you’re trapped there with a very handsome pilot. (tattoo artist gf au)

Three Months ✦ | 5.6k+ | from (robinbuckleywife) | Three months have passed since you met Mac at Middle of the Map. Three months of texts, phone calls, voice notes, and endless facetimes. Three months and Mac’s finally coming to visit you. (tattoo artist gf au)

Coronado | 1.4k+ | from anonymous | Mac gets a little emotional and tells you a dream of his over a morning cuddle. (tattoo artist gf au)

coming soon ✦

coming soon ✦

Desperate Measures | 3.3k+ | from (robinbuckleywife) | Mac cancels another date without a reason, and you make a rather bold decision. (single dad mac au)

coming soon

coming soon

coming soon

coming soon ✦

coming soon ✦

Will Poulter

Erik Neumann (Warfare)

A Very Fulfilling Sandwich ✦ | 2.3k+ | from vinecstasy | Erik’s fallen in love; with you, with your boys— and he’s not afraid to tell you exactly what that means to him.

coming soon ✦

coming soon ✦

coming soon ✦

Cosmo Jarvis

Elliot (Warfare)

coming soon

coming soon ✦

[glassbxttless]

Lt. Derrick MacDonald (Warfare) Masterlist

Thank you for checking out my work! I appreciate it a ton! Remember that all of my fics are 18+ and Minors are NOT permitted to interact with ANY of my content.

My friends and I have dubbed Mac’s first name, Derrick, here on my blog, run with that if you’d like—

If you like a fic, consider giving it a reblog! They’re appreciated more than you’ll ever know! <3

Smut is indicated with ✦

Mac and His Tattoo Artist!GF (The Main AU)

-> masterlist ;; a collection of writings all in one little universe. (Here is where my main Mac AU lives)

Single Dad Mac (My favorite AU)

-> masterlist ;; a collection of writings all in one little universe.

Plant Daddy Mac (A Sandwich Shop AU)

-> masterlist ;; a collection of writings all in one little universe.

[glassbxttless]

THE FANFIC CIRCUS (AKA THE MAIN MASTERLIST)

Hi! So you’ve decided to dive headfirst into the bouts of unholiness that is considered my writing. That’s a bold move. Below the cut, you’ll find links to individual character masterlists— lovingly tagged and curated by yours truly, because some of us are mentally ill and very organized. Here are some of the basic things you’ve gotta know.

This blog is 18+ ONLY. Minors, I say this with love (and maybe a little fear) get out. Shoo. Go watch PBS or touch grass or whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing. You can come back after you turn 18.

Read the tags and warnings! I try my best to give you all the information you need to emotionally prepare for whatever filth, fluff, or family content you’re about to consume. If you ignore it and get wrecked, that’s on you, bestie.

Reblogs > likes. If you read something and think, “wow, I am never recovering from this,” the greatest thing you can do is hit that reblog button. It feeds my soul and my delusions.

You can join my taglist here!

So go ahead and pick your poison. Do you want traumatized Roman twin emperors? Emotionally dependent soldiers? Loverboy metalheads? They’re all here. Lined up like little emotionally unstable GI Joes just waiting for your attention. Happy reading. Try not to fall in love with more than three of them at once. (Actually, you know what? Do it. I have and I support you.)

recent updates

What Party? ✦ / derwin “d.f.” grunauer x fem!reader / June 9, 2025

The Steakhouse / lt. derrick “mac” macdonald x fem!reader / June 10, 2025

Pretty Little Bat / eddie munson x fem!reader / June 14, 2025

The Flaming Hearts Fan Club / johnny storm x fem!reader / June 27, 2025

The Bat / eddie munson x fem!reader / August 2, 2025

joseph quinn characters…

eddie munson

emperor geta

eric

billy knight

sam

michael

tom grant

ralph

d.f. grunauer

johnny storm

fred hechinger characters…

emperor caracalla

jason hochberg

gwydion lashlee-walton characters…

gareth emerson

joe keery characters…

steve harrington

michael gandolfini characters…

lt. macdonald

daniel blake

nicholaus steep

heath ledger characters…

patrick verona

warfare characters…

tommy

erik

my favorite retired characters…

commander mills • paterson • matt solo