#<-like barely but eh just in case

[zero-shame]

HE SAID "GO GET 'EM TIGER"!!

HE SAID "GO GET 'EM TIGER"!!!!

THEY GAVE AN MJ LINE TO HARRY OSBORN

[whaliiwatching]

sorry hobie those are hideous

prompt: thrift store

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Hit The Gas

[Written to 'Renegade (We Never Run)' from Arcane]

Technically speaking, Mr. Masters, Gotham's new aspiring crime lord, did provide them with a getaway car. It's just that, in Tim's honest, objective opinion, said car sucks major ass.

First of all, it's white, which is, well, not the best color for disappearing into the night. Then, it's old — not vintage old, thank fuck, but definitely made before 2005 — and long overdue for a makeover. Tim doesn't see a single part of it that doesn't have a scratch or a dent on it, and are those bullet holes on the passenger door?

Eh, whatever, this is a staged escape anyway. Tim doesn't need it to be successful, he only needs an alibi. Someone — their driver, in this case — to later tell Masters that Alvin Draper did everything he could to keep the package safe. So he can stay in the man's moderately good graces even after they get caught by Batman tonight.

Tim makes it to the car first, throws the back door open and slides inside in one motion, slamming it behind him. Jason, the drama queen, jumps in through the open window and into the front passenger seat.

"Hit the gas, they are on our heels!" He yells at the driver, struggling to turn himself over and put his ass in the seat. Serves him right, opening the door and getting in the normal way would have taken literally two seconds.

The car jolts into movement without a moment of hesitation — so at least the driver has a good reaction time — but Tim still hears a dull sound of a betarang hitting the rear end of it. Nice throw, Cass!

It's only then that he cares to actually look around and realize a few things. A few, arguably, very important things. Like the fact that their driver is a redhead girl who looks barely sixteen. Or that there are two kids, looking no older than ten, in the back seat beside him.

He blinks and stares. The kids — both boys, one of them white as milk with a dark mop of hair and the other one black, wearing glasses and a red beanie — pay no mind to either him, Jason in the front seat, or the speed the car is going at. In fact, they pay no attention to the outside world as a whole, hunched over an outdated PSP. They are playing it together, one of the kids in charge of action buttons and the other one controlling the D-pad, so Tim can understand the need to focus: it takes some impressive teamwork to sucessfully go through the game like that. And they are using some complicated combos while at it, wow.

Wait, no, this is such a wrong time to marvel at videogame skills! They are kids, in a car, in a getaway car, in the middle of a car chase with the fucking Batman!

They take a sharp turn, and Tim grabs onto the handle in order to not bump into the door.

"Oh, you didn't tell me we're racing with the Batmobile," the redhead girl says, but it sounds surprisingly nice and polite, like she's merely asking about the weather.

"Yeah, well, we didn't expect that kind of trouble either," Jason snaps back, scrunching his nose, but the girl just laughs softly.

"No, don't worry. It's no trouble," she assures almost gently, and then reaches one hand behind the seat without looking, tapping the black boy on the knee, "Tucker, sweetheart, switch with me?"

Hold on, what?..

"But Ja-a-azz," the white boy whines.

"We've just got to the boss fight," Tucker pouts, but the redhead just taps his knee more insistently.

"And I'm sure you'll get to it again after we make it out," she says, still perfectly polite and collected. Tim glances out the window. Either this girl has nerves of steel or there's something very wrong with both her and the kids; they are going at least 95 mph, and she keeps only one hand on the wheel like it's nothing.

"Ugh, fine," the kid rolls his eyes and nudges his friend in the shoulder, passing him the console, "Save it, I'll get the cord."

"What cord?" Tim asks because he thought this was a simple undercover mission, but now he gets a sneaking suspicion there's a lot more to it than it looked.

Tucker, with one hand under the driver's seat and searching for something blindly, turns to glare at him.

"The control-cord," he answers like the dumb one here is Tim, "How else do you think- A-ha!" His face lights up as he emerges victorious from under the seat, holding... Yeah, a cord, okay. Which he plugs into the PSP that the other boy hands him without prompting.

"Maybe fasten your seat belts, this is about to get interesting," Jazz offers, but doesn't do so herself. Neither of the kids do it either, and Jason just snorts dismissively.

"You're saying it wasn't 'interesting' before?" There's definitely some teasing in his voice. Tim looks down to the package in his lap, a metal box holding some unknown but evidently very important content.

He fastens his seat belt just in time. The car jerks and speeds up — they are definitely past 110 now. And Jazz is not holding the wheel.

It only takes a moment for Tim to connect the dots and look to the PSP in Tucker's hands. Sure enough, instead of a game, his screen is now a perfect replica of the car's windshield in real time, and his fingers are firmly placed on controls. Like he's done it hundreds of times.

They are racing the Batmobile, and a ten-year-old is driving. This mission is fucking wild.

"Brakes, brakes, BRAKES!" Jason yells from the front, and Tim only gets a moment to notice the quickly approaching back of a truck in front of them and realize they are going to crash before their car just goes through it with no resistance. He even looks in the back window to make sure he didn't hallucinate the truck, but no, it's still there and still real.

Did they... Phase through it?..

"What the fuck," he mutters under his breath.

"Language, there are kids in the car," Jazz chides him with a huff of laughter, and then there's a click.

"What the f- fudge," Jason repeats the question, albeit much louder and way more alarmed than Tim before.

When he turns back around, the redhead is holding a grenade launcher. It doesn't look like a model Tim is familiar with, but it's for some reason painted white, just like their car. Is that some kind of Masters' thing?

Wait, that's a grenade launcher.

Jazz ties her hair in the back in less than two seconds and then reaches up to the roof of the car, pressing a button to open the sunroof.

"Wait, you can't shoot a vigilante, they'll-" Tim yells over the wind, but Jazz just smiles at him and stands up on the driver's seat, peeking out and taking position. Tim throws a panicked look at Jason — they sure didn't plan for anything like this. The car chase was supposed to be over in less than a few minutes, none of them thought that Masters, a fairly new figure in the Gotham underground, would have a kind of vehicle that can phase through things and drive at- at 150 mph through the city roads! Not to mention some strange fucking kids and a teenage with grenades!

"She won't kill anyone," a voice comes from Tim's side, and when he turns his head, he finds the other kid, the one he doesn't know the name of, looking at him, his eyes calm and unblinking. And slightly glowing, okay, and here he was, thinking this clusterfuck of a ride can't get any weirder.

"How do you know?" Tim snaps because there's only so much he can deal with at once in the span of five minutes. The kid shrugs.

"It's Jazz. She has morals," he says, like the word disgusts him, and Tucker huffs a laugh.

"You have them, too. Vlad and Dan killed people before, though," he argues, his eyes still glued to the screen of the PSP.

"Not in Gotham," his friend adds, seemingly just for the sake of having the last word in the argument.

Whatever Tim wants to say back gets cut off by a sound of a gunshot. He turns to the back window again, his heart stuck in his throat, but it looks like the white kid was right: the roaring Batmobile is still on their heels. Whatever the redhead tried to do, she missed.

"Danny, on three!" Jazz yells from above, and the kid springs to action like he's been waiting for this moment his whole life.

"One!"

Tucker moves out of the way as Danny climbs over him and towards Tim, unceremoniously shoves the precious metal box away and all but falls into Tim's lap despite his loud yet wordless sounds of protest.

"Two!"

The boy yanks the latch and throws the door open, leaning down while still sprawled over Tim's knees, and Tim grabs the back of his shirt out of reflex. It doesn't matter that the whole thing is a disaster, he's not letting a ten-year-old fall out of the car on his watch.

"Three!"

There's a loud pop somewhere behind them, and the car suddenly turns and drifts sideways, the sound of skidding tires grating on Tim's ears. Yet, he still feels Danny move and sees him reach and touch the ground. There's a short moment of panic — at this kind of speed, the pavement will shave the skin off the boy's hands in seconds — but then there's a shimmer of white bursting from Danny's palms.

When Tim looks up, the road behind them is covered in ice, the smooth surface of it shining in the yellow light of streetlamps. And, a bit further, there's a thick layer of smoke that should definitely hide them from the view of pursuers.

Smoke grenades. And ice powers. That explains the glowing eyes, Danny must be a meta.

The car shifts again, changing directions, and Tim, almost like in slow-mo, sees the metal box that they've gone to such great lengths to steal, slide towards the open door and tip over the edge.

He is still holding Danny's shirt, and the boy is still hanging halfway out of the car.

The seat belt is pressing tightly into his chest.

The box falls out, and Tim shuts his eyes close. Fuck it, he can fail the mission, it's not the end of the world, Jason can still try and weasel his way into Masters' close circle, and Bruce would understand if Tim explains why quickly enough, it's okay, no big deal-

"Gotcha!" Danny yells cheerfully as the car makes a sharp turn and comes to a halt all of a sudden.

Tim opens his eyes.

Danny, a wide, wicked grin on his face, is holding the box in his hands.

"You're a little shit," Tim breathes out, and the boy laughs, wiggling on Tim's lap and trying to get back inside the car.

"Born and raised," he answers with such a shit-eating expression on his face that Tim doesn't even bother holding back his urge for petty revenge. He releases his death grip on the back of Danny's shirt and gleefully watches the brat lose his balance and faceplant the ground.

The 'quick' undercover mission is sure getting an extension, but somehow, he can't bring himself to feel bad about the fact.

[monzabee]

fashion emergency - a. hotchner

criminal minds masterlist || part of the nanny series

Summary: hotch’s nanny is back with everyone’s favorite hotchner and a go-bag.  

Pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

Word Count: 0.9k 

Warnings:  none  

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

Preparedness is something crucial in Aaron’s line of work. So much so that he has a to go bag packed at all times, under or near his desk, with clothes packed with their back-ups. So, imagine his surprise, when he has to leave on a case in thirty minutes, and he realizes that he doesn’t have his bag with him.  

“You owe me, big time,” You grumble over the phone, “Jack and I were just about to go to the flower market.”  

He hears Jack in the background. “Hi, Daddy!”  

“I am your boss,” He reminds you with an eyeroll you can’t see and a miniscule grin that threatens to take over, “but thank you. I appreciate you bringing my bag to me.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you huff, but there’s no real irritation in your voice. “Just know that Jack’s demanding ice cream as payment for this little detour.” 

Hotch chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I’ll allow it.” 

“Smart choice, considering I was going to get him one anyway.” He can practically hear the smirk you have on your face, which isn’t surprising at all to him considering the fact that you spend majority of your free time making fun of his grumpy face. 

Before he can respond, Jack’s voice comes through again, full of excitement. “Daddy! Can we get the purple flowers today?” 

Hotch feels his chest tighten with something warm. “If that’s what you want, buddy.” 

There’s a muffled squeal of happiness before you return to the call. “Alright, we’ll be there in twenty. Try not to look too helpless until then.” 

“I don’t look helpless,” he mutters. 

“Eh, you kind of do,” you tease before hanging up. 

Twenty minutes later, the BAU bullpen is buzzing as you stroll in, Jack in tow, clutching a small bouquet of purple flowers. To your surprise, Aaron is already waiting for you in the bullpen—with the rest of his team.  

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasps, grabbing JJ’s arm. “It’s the tiny Hotchner! And her.” 

JJ suppresses a laugh. “You act like you’ve never seen them before.” 

“I’ve seen the kid,” Garcia whispers, eyes locked on you as you make your way towards the bullpen, “but she is an enigma wrapped in a mystery with a dash of Hotch’s undivided attention. Oh my God, look at those heels! I would kill for them!” 

Before JJ can respond, Jack spots the team and immediately breaks into a run. “Uncle Spencer!” 

Reid barely has time to react before Jack crashes into his legs, hugging him tight. “Hey, Jack,” Spencer says, crouching down. “Did you bring me flowers too?” 

Jack giggles, shaking his head. “Nope! These are for Daddy.” 

Garcia clutches her chest. “Oh, I’m deceased.” 

The entire team watches as Jack tugs Hotch’s pant leg, proudly holding up the bouquet of purple flowers. “I got these for you, Daddy!” 

Aaron kneels, taking the flowers carefully from his son’s small hands. His normally serious expression softens, warmth seeping into the sharp edges of his face. “Thank you, buddy. They’re perfect.” 

Jack beams before turning back toward the team. “Uncle Derek, did you see? I got Daddy flowers!” 

Morgan chuckles, crouching down. “I did see, little man. You’ve got good taste.” He winks at you. “That your influence?” 

You smirk. “I do have impeccable taste.” 

Garcia practically vibrates with excitement beside them, giving Morgan a look that says they are definitely going to talk about this later. “Jack, sweetheart, tell me, what’s your secret to being this adorable? Is it genetic? Because if so, I demand a DNA sample for science.” 

Jack just giggles, hugging the flowers to his chest as Hotch stands back up. 

You step forward, holding up the go-bag. “Your precious go-bag, safe and sound, Mister Boss Man.” 

Aaron takes it, shaking his head at your theatrics. “Remind me to hide this better next time.” 

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be wearing that god-awful backup shirt you’ve had in there since before I started working for you.” 

Morgan raises an eyebrow. “Wait, wait—Hotch, you forgot your go-bag?” 

The team immediately zeroes in on the statement, eyes darting between the two of you. “I didn’t forget,” Aaron corrects, sighing. “Someone took it to—” 

“To do your laundry,” you interject, hands on your hips. “Honestly, I cook for you, I clean for you, I look after your kid and still, I don’t even get one thank you.” You let out a scoff, turning to Jack, “Can you believe this guy?” 

Aaron exhales, looking at Jack, who is too busy now that he’s happily chatting with Spencer about how flowers grow. When he turns back to you, his eyes soften slightly. “Thank you.” 

Your smirk turns into something more genuine. “You’re welcome.” 

Jack tugs on your sleeve. “Can we get ice cream now?” 

Hotch nods. “Go ahead.” 

Jack cheers before grabbing your hand, already pulling you toward the door. As you walk away, you call over your shoulder, “Don’t get shot while I’m gone!” 

The bullpen erupts in quiet laughter as Hotch sighs, shaking his head. Morgan claps a hand on his shoulder. “Man, you sure you don’t have a secret girlfriend?” 

Hotch gives him an exasperated look. “Drop it, Morgan.” 

Penelope grins. “Oh, we’re never dropping this. I’m gonna make cupcakes so that you can take them home with you when you’re back.” 

“Garcia, you really don’t have to do that.” Aaron tries to argue, but she is already walking down the hallway.  

As Aaron turns back toward his office, he catches sight of the flowers still clutched in his hand. He sighs, but there’s a ghost of a smile playing at his lips as he follows the team toward the jet, the sound of Jack’s laughter still lingering in his ears. 

[alinathinkstoomuch]

DENIM DAY

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (part of my fake!fiancee series, but can be read as a standalone) summary: its denim day at work and you opt for the shortest miniskirt you own, but not before snapping a pic and sending it to your boyfriend who is not a happy bunny. warnings | an: suggestive, lots of teasing, allusions to a footjob LOL, hotch puts on tights for reader, hotch is whipped we all say in unison, yall this was going to go in a complete smutfest direction but i decided to behave... for now, established relationship word count: 2.3k

✧ masterlist

Hotch should’ve been relieved to not be out on a field case. To know that he’d be getting out of the office at a decent time, that there wouldn’t be extra forms or reports that needed to be completed because he was behind his desk all day. It should’ve been a pleasant reprieve – except that it wasn’t. Not in the slightest.

Not since he stupidly opened the picture you sent him.

Apparently, it was Denim Day at your office, and instead of opting for a pair of jeans like any reasonable person might, you’d decided on a skirt – if he could even call it that. He wasn’t sure there was enough fabric to qualify.

He wished, with everything in him, that your workplace had a strict dress code. But even if it did, it wouldn’t apply to you. You were in charge, after all. Hell, Denim Day was probably your idea.

And he vaguely remembered you mentioning shoots scheduled all week, which meant people. Lots of them. Models, makeup artists, photographers – all of them walking around while you were dressed in that ridiculously short skirt. All of them seeing what he was still trying to unsee.

He managed to make it through the rest of the morning with some semblance of focus, though his attention span had taken a noticeable hit. He read the same report three times, signed a form he wasn’t supposed to, and snapped at Anderson for no real reason – though in his defence, Anderson had knocked over his coffee.

By the time noon rolled around, his jaw was tight, his tie felt too constricting, and he’d definitely spent more time than necessary staring at the clock. He was just about to stand when Rossi strolled into his office, holding a printed menu like he was offering a peace treaty.

“We’re ordering from that little Italian place you like. You want your usual?”

Hotch shook his head, already reaching for his coat. “No, actually. I’m stepping out for lunch.”

Rossi’s brows lifted. “Stepping out? You?”

“Yes, Rossi. I do occasionally eat outside the building.”

“Of course you do,” Rossi said, clearly humouring him. Then came the smirk – that smirk. “Seeing your fiancée?”

Hotch exhaled slowly, fingers pausing on the lapel of his jacket. “She’s not my fiancée.”

“Eh. Technicalities.”

Hotch didn’t respond, mostly because the longer he stood there, the more obvious it became that yes – he was going to see you. That the whole morning had been a slow, agonising burn of frustration and that if he didn’t get in his car and head to your office soon, he might actually lose his mind.

By the time he slid behind the wheel of his SUV, Hotch had managed to convince himself – for exactly three blocks – that this wasn’t a bad idea. He told himself he was just going to check in, maybe have a quick lunch. A normal, professional, not-at-all unhinged visit to the woman who had sent him a photo in a skirt that had no business being worn in public.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

This was ridiculous.

You’d done this on purpose. He knew it. You’d chosen that skirt knowing exactly what it would do to him, knowing how tightly wound he was, how much of your games he could barely tolerate when you were in sweatpants, let alone when you looked like that.

He tried to talk himself down, told himself that he should just turn around and go back to the office. Eat the damn Italian food. But as he pulled into the parking lot outside your building, he was already unbuckling his seatbelt.

And getting out of the car anyway.

The one small mercy was that your office was on the ground floor – no need for stairs. Not that anyone needed to take the stairs, not with perfectly functioning elevators in the building. But of course, you were the exception.

He’d learned the hard way that you sometimes insisted on taking the stairs “to get your steps in.” You’d even lectured him about it once, accusing him of being “alarmingly sedentary for someone who tackles serial killers for a living.”

He really, really hoped today wasn’t one of those days.

The front doors slid open as he stepped inside, the cool blast of air conditioning doing nothing to steady him. The office was its usual burst chaos. Racks of clothing being wheeled around, someone shouting about a missing pair of heels and a latte order gone wrong, but all of it blurred in the background as he spotted Bella at her desk near the entrance.

She looked up from her laptop, blinked once, and then grinned. “Agent Hotchner, didn’t expect to see you here today.”

He nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “Is she in?”

Bella didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head slightly, as if weighing how much trouble she wanted to cause. “She’s in her office,” she revealed, casually reaching for her phone. “Door’s closed, but I’m sure she’ll make an exception for you.”

Hotch ignored the insinuation. Or tried to. “Thanks.”

He started down the hallway, taking long strides to your door. When he reached the frosted matte glass, he could make out the faint outline of your silhouette behind it.

He raised a hand and knocked twice.

 “Come in,” you called out.

So he did just that.

And did he get there just in time.

You were bent over your desk, heels planted, back arched slightly as you read whatever was in front of you. At the sound of the door slamming shut behind him, you straightened immediately, nearly jumping out of your heels.

“Aaron!” you gasped, hand flying to your chest as you turned around. “You scared me.”

“Good.”

You circled behind your desk, all faux professionalism. “Did we have something in the calendar? Did I forget lunch?”

“You forgot pants.”

You laughed, pulling the measuring tape from around your neck and tossing it aside. “I’ll have you know I’m absolutely wearing pants. Under this one-of-a-kind denim skirt, thank you very much.”

He didn’t respond, just stared.

“Is that why you came all the way over here? To conduct a pants investigation? I’ll let you guess the colour if you’re so curious.”

“They’re red. And I got a full view of them the moment I walked in.”

You grinned, entirely unbothered, grabbing a stack of images from your desk before striding over to the whiteboard. “And?” you tossed over your shoulder. “Do you like them?”

He liked not seeing them anywhere but your apartment. Or his.

“You’re very quiet today, Hotch Hotchner. Something on your mind?” You pinned one photo up, then glanced back at him. “Have you had enough water?” you added sweetly. “And no – coffee doesn’t count.”

You pinned another image to the board, like you hadn’t just called him Hotch Hotchner and asked about his hydration levels while wearing a skirt that should not be allowed in a professional setting.

“Water,” he echoed finally. “That’s what we’re talking about now?”

“Well, we could talk about the real reason you’re here… if you’d prefer.”

His eyes moved down to your skirt and then back you to your face – your smug face because you knew exactly what you were doing. “I came here to see if you’d like to grab lunch.”

You turned back to the board, smoothing an image with a soft gradient of colours. "Lunch," you repeated thoughtfully. "Hmm. That sounds suspiciously wholesome for someone who's been undressing me with his eyes for the last five minutes."

Hotch sighed through his nose. "It's just lunch."

You glanced over your shoulder, eyes sparkling. "Right. Just lunch. And what if I said yes?"

"Then we go," he said, folding his arms. "I open the door for you. You roll your eyes at me. You make fun of my order. We eat."

"And then?"

“And then I bring you back here.”

You turned around slowly, lips quirking. "All very gentlemanly of you, Agent Hotchner.” You let a breath out, dramatic as ever. “Alright, I’ll bite. You can take me to lunch as long as I'm back before two. I have a very important meeting with Milan."

His eyes tracked you as you moved to a drawer on the far side of the room.

And bent over - again.

His jaw tightened, his hands slipping into his pockets, like that would somehow stop his mind from going straight to hell. You were still talking, something about calendar holds and fabric samples, but he couldn't hear a single word. 

Because that skirt? It should be classified as a weapon. 

Then you turned, holding out a small bundle of black fabric like it was nothing. "Could you give me a hand?"

He eyed it warily, already suspicious. Tights.

Of course it was tights.

Still, he took them without hesitation, because you could've handed him a live grenade with that expression, and he would've thanked you for it.

"My hands are super dry and the fabric always snags when I put them on. Honestly, it's a sensory nightmare. Could you do the honours?"

"Your hands are super dry?" he repeated, just as you reached for his jacket and started tugging him towards you, walking backwards until you perched on the edge of your desk, like it was the most reasonable place in the world to stage a wardrobe adjustment.

"Yes, it's gross, really. Skin's peeling off and everything. I'd usually slather them in hand cream, but l've been touching samples all day and I don't want to leave greasy fingerprints all over couture, so now I'm suffering."

That sounded almost half logical. Right up until you kicked off your heels, lifted one leg, and rested your foot just shy of his crotch. He tensed just as you pressed your heel the slightest bit closer. “Pretty please? You know I have delicate hands.”

He should've walked away. Should've told you to put them on yourself. Hell, he could've offered to go grab lunch and save you the trouble entirely. But what did he do instead? He lifted the tights – the ones made of delicately-thin fabric that somehow felt heavier than his gun – and began to bunch them up in his hands.

His eyes dropped to your legs, still resting against him like an invitation. All he had to do was take your ankle, lift it just a little higher, and he'd have a full view of the red lace panties he already couldn't stop thinking about.

If Rossi ever found out what he’d gotten himself into the one time he decided to step out for lunch, Hotch would never hear the end of it.

Before you could get him off with nothing but the arch of your foot, he forced himself to move, sliding the tights up your leg. “This is absurd.”

“You’re doing great,” you encouraged delightfully. “Though, should I be worried that you’re good at this?”

He didn’t look up. “Good at what?”

“Doing what you’re told.”

He could’ve argued, told you you’re wrong, but his mother raised him to be an honest man. You said things – ridiculous, flirty, completely inappropriate things – and he listened. You smiled at him, and suddenly, everything seemed negotiable. Boundaries, logic, professionalism, the whole lot of it.

Because it was you.

Because you could ask him to kneel in a room full of fire and he'd probably say yes, ma'am on the way down.

“I’m banning you from sending me photos while I’m at work,” he muttered, fingers dragging the fabric slowly up your calf.

“Oh yeah?”

His grip tightened a fraction. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to make a point. “You think I’m kidding?”

“I think,” you said, drawing the word out like it was your favourite accessory, right alongside lip-gloss and claw clips. “I should’ve sent you the one I took of me from behind.”

He froze. Just for a second. Then his hands moved again, dragging the tights up your thigh, and even he was a little surprised he hadn't torn them yet. You were smiling again, clearly enjoying your second-nature ability to make him weak in his fragile knees.

He shouldn't be taking you to lunch.

He wanted to – wanted to open the door for you, order your favourite, sit across the table while you made snide, flirty remarks and shamelessly stole the croutons off his salad like they were yours by right.

But the other part of him, the one you were clearly trying to provoke, had no interest in lunch at all. That side wanted to take you home and teach you a filthy, thorough lesson that had nothing to do with menus or linen napkins...and everything to do with that damn attitude that skirt had given you.

But you were at work. He was due back at work soon. And he figured there was no better way to get back at you – to beat you at your own game – than to make you wait. Make you squirm. Make you regret every single syllable that had left your pretty mouth since he walked in and caught you bent over, ass on display like it wasn't completely deliberate. Like he hadn't seen the phone in your hand. Like he hadn't noticed Bella reach for hers just before he walked in.

Because if you thought you were good at teasing, you had no idea what it looked like when he decided to play.

So, instead of acting on the thousand things running through his head, he let his touch soften, fingers smoothing out the tights and moving on to the other leg like his thoughts weren't indecent and laser-focused on exactly what he planned to do the second he had you alone.

He stepped back once he was finished. "I'll be at the front when you're ready.”

You blinked, lips parted like you were waiting for him to do anything but walk away.

And that was the best part. He didn't even look back as he adjusted his tie and headed for the door, fully aware of the way your eyes followed him.

Now?

You were the one with your composure slipping. 

And when he decided you'd waited long enough... he was going to make sure you remembered every second of it.

tags - @fandomscombine @dohmeti @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords

nanny!reader with a choking kink coming up next to an alina-blog near you!🌟

[wendichester]

Love your writing, you write Dean so well!!!!!! If you’re still taking them, can I request one based on the Siren episode, where reader is on the mission with Dean and Sam, and Dean’s dream girl looks eerily like the reader and you’re like “dude… why does she look like me?” funny, fluffy and smutty? Dean and reader have unresolved tension from previous missions

˙˖°🪞⋆｡⊹˚ ideal type,

summary. there's a siren on the lose and dean is its next target .ᐟ

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 937.

notes. i went to rewatch this episode because I had completely forgotten about it. i had a blast writing this and hope I was able to meet your expectations ehe ‹𝟹

The motel room is small, as always. One bed for you, another for Sam, and Dean relegated to the couch because he lost rock-paper-scissors. Again. The Siren case had been dragging on for days, and the three of you were starting to fray at the edges.

The oldest Winchester leans against the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on the woman before him. Her smile is teasing, lips curving in a way that sets his nerves alight. Everything about her feels familiar―too familiar. She leans in closer, brushing her fingers over his arm.

"You're tense," she says, voice smooth and low, like honey dripping off a spoon.

Dean chuckles, trying to shake off the unease pooling in his gut. "Yeah, well, comes with the territory."

She tilts her head, her dark eyes boring into his. "I can help with that."

Her hand slides up his arm, over his shoulder, and lands on his chest. Dean swallows hard. Something's off, he knows it. But her face... her face looks so much like you, it's unnerving. It's you, but it's not. Not really. Her eyes are just a shade darker, her voice carrying a sultry undertone that he's never heard from you. Yet, the curve of her lips, the line of her jaw... it's almost an exact match.

"You're so goddamn beautiful," he mutters, almost to himself.

Her smile widens, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I know,"

Before Dean can process the odd response, she closes the distance between them, her lips pressing against his. It's electric, and for a moment, he forgets everything. Her hands curl into his hair, tugging lightly as the kiss deepens. Dean's hands move instinctively, gripping her waist and pulling her flush against him. The warmth of her body, the intoxicating scent of her skin, is almost too much.

But then, a sharp sting cuts through the haze, the back of his throat burning. His mind races―something's wrong.

The door bursts open, and Sam storms in with you trailing behind him, wide-eyed and alarmed.

"Dean!" Sam shouts, and Dean jerks back from the woman, his heart pounding.

Your eyes dart between Dean and the woman who looks just like you, horror and confusion etched across your face. "Dude," you breathe, your voice laced with disbelief. "Why does she look exactly like me?"

Dean stumbles back, his head spinning as the realization hits him like a freight train. "Wha‒I‒"

Sam doesn't hesitate. He grabs Dean's arm, yanking him back as the woman―the siren―advances. "She's infected you," Sam snaps, pulling out a bronze dagger from his bag. "Hold still."

Dean barely has time to react before Sam slashes his arm with the blade, drawing blood. Dean hisses but stays upright, his body tingling as the siren lunges. Sam moves like lightning, driving the blood-coated dagger into her chest.

The siren's eyes widen in shock before she collapses, her form flickering and changing, her resemblance to you fading as her true monstrous features are revealed.

The room falls into silence, save for Dean's labored breathing. He presses his hand into his bleeding arm, his gaze darting to you as you approach him.

"You okay?" your voice comes out soft.

"Yeah," he manages to mutter hoarsely. "I'm okay."

Hours later, the Impala hums softly on the road. Sam is passed out in the backseat, his head lolling the window. You sit in the passenger seat, arms crossed under your chest as you glance at Dean, who's gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

Finally, you break the silence. "Can we address the elephant in the room, now?"

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw working as he searches for an answer. "I... don't know."

You turn in your seat to face him, brows furrowing as the leather of the Impala cracks underneath you. "Dean,"

He glances at you, then back at the road. "Maybe it's... I don't know. Sirens mess with your head. Make you see things."

Your cheeks heat up, but you press on. "Technically―they show you what you desire most, ya' know... according to Bobby."

Dean's grip on the wheel tightens, his knuckles turning white. "Don't be a smartass," he grumbles under his breath, doing his best to avoid your gaze.

"I'm not being a smartass," you counter, your voice softer now. "It's okay, you know. If that's how you feel."

His jaw ticks as he glances at you again, his green eyes darker than usual. "You don't get it," he says, voice low. "It's not just how you look. It's... everything."

Your breath catches, and you struggle to find the right words. The tension in the car is thick, electric. Finally, Dean sighs, shaking his head. "Forget it."

But you don't want to forget it. Not when his words have your heart racing. "Dean..."

He pulls over suddenly, the Impala rolling to a stop on the side of the empty road. He turns to you, his expression intense. "I'm not good at this," he admits. "But, yeah. Maybe the siren got it right. Maybe I do... want you."

Your heart feels like it might burst as his words sink in. "You‒"

He cuts you off by leaning across the seat, his hand cupping your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. It's soft at first, hesitant, but when you kiss him back, it deepens, years of unspoken tension finally breaking free.

When you finally pull back, you're both breathless. Dean rests his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face. "You're not just what I want," he whispers. "You're what I need."

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, as the Impala's engine hums softly in the background. For the first time in a long time, you feel at ease, the only weight you feel is Dean's hand resting on your thigh.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery

[leashybebes]

have a little slice of misery inspired by the spoilers. (do i actually think they'll go there? eh, not really. is it setting off a diabolically uncomfortable scenario that is itching my brain incredibly just right? sure!)

under a cut, just in case

Evan clings, in the aftermath. Understandably.

He's always been a little clingy, in a way Tommy felt guilty for liking so much, but this is… This is something else. Before it was at least a little tongue in cheek, playing up to his tendency to be a brat, part of the easy dynamic they fell into the first time around. Now, it's like he thinks Tommy's going to disappear every time he walks out of a door.

(Tommy's never thought of himself as a good person. He tries to do good things, to make up for the rot in him, but he doesn't think there are enough good things in the world he can do to make up for the Tommy Kinard of it all. Letting Evan cling barely makes a dent.)

The 118 A shift are stood down for the time being, but Tommy has to go back to work two days after the funeral. He apologizes over and over, drops Evan off at Maddie's house so he won't be alone, apologizes again, lets Evan kiss him goodbye a half dozen times.

When he picks Evan up from Maddie's the next evening he's quiet for the whole drive back to Tommy's house. He says he's not hungry, that he ate with Chim and Maddie, but the beginnings of a hollowed out look around his face says otherwise. Tommy doesn't push it. He doesn't know when it will be safe to push, but it doesn't feel like it's tonight.

Evan cries himself to sleep in Tommy's arms and Tommy strokes his hair and holds him carefully and feels something heavy and solid inside him click into place. He thinks, this is it. I can never leave him now.

And he doesn't even want to leave, is the thing. Hasn't ever really wanted to leave, just has never known how to stay. And apparently this is what it takes.

Yeah, Tommy's never thought of himself as a good person.

When Evan's sound asleep, his face finally relaxing out of the picture of misery it's been ever since - well, ever since, Tommy slips out of bed, grabs his jacket and pads out onto the porch. He lights his fifth cigarette of the day - the fifth one he's smoked in, Christ, it's gotta be more than a decade. 

You can't leave.

The thought settles into his bones, and it doesn't feel bad. It doesn't feel scary. It doesn't feel good, either. (Nothing, nothing feels good right now.) It just…is. 

You can never leave him now.

"Didn't know you smoked," Evan says, his voice rough with sleep and tears.

"Shit," Tommy mutters, stubbing the cigarette out against the deck like he's twelve and his mom's caught him buying loosies. "I haven't in a while."

"Can I bum one?" Evan asks.

"Yeah? I mean, sure."

Evan sits next to him on the deck, folding his long legs awkwardly. He holds the cigarette like someone who smoked at parties in college and then never again.

"I'm so - "

"Thank you," Evan interrupts. "For staying."

"Evan. Of course."

Evan curls into him, and they watch the cigarette burn down.

When the last embers fall, Tommy looks up at where the stars would be if it wasn't for the light pollution and thinks I swear. I swear I'm not going anywhere.

He wishes he was the kind of person who could be confident it isn't a lie.

[beenbaanbuun]

friends w/ jack hughes

words - 2.8k

genre - smut

warnings - afab!reader, lingerie, best friend!jack, friends to lovers to friends again, fingering, mutual masturbation, dirty talk

not proof read 🌝

——————————————————————————

“Hey, where’d you put my — holy fuck—“ You hear the voice before you can even register the door of the guest bedroom you’re in swinging open. It startles you enough to grip at your bare skin as if he hasn’t already seen everything you have on offer right now. As if he isn’t currently staring at you like me might die if he looks away. Typical man, you suppose; all dick, no brain.

The question he was preparing to ask you seems to have no weight to it in that moment, and neither does your twelve years of friendship. After all, it's not often you look at a friend with that look in your eyes. Sinful and doused in so much lust that he wouldn’t even need words to express what hes feeling right now. You try your hardest to not let your gaze move south. To say you’re afraid of what you might be met with is an understatement.

“What the fuck, Jack,” you yell, no doubt loud enough to catch the attention of whoever else is in the house right now. It’s no real concern to you; if they do hear, you doubt they’ll come looking. They’ll likely chalk it up to your two’s regularly scheduled antics, and fortunately your other two best friends—and walking nightmares, in the case of Trevor—aren’t here to want to join in on the fun. You can only imagine the hell you’d be put through if they saw what Jack could see. “You never heard of knocking or something?”

It's rhetorical, but he taps his knuckles against the wood anyway; a strange juxtaposition of defiant obedience that would make you giggle if it were anyone but you on the receiving end. Like he’s making sure you know he doesn’t care enough to change his behaviour, whilst still following your orders in the most annoying way possible. You’re honestly not sure what you want more; to applaud his audacity or to smack him into next week.

Of course, smacking him would require a hand, and yours are both in use, covering as much of your body as they possibly can.

“Came to see if you’d seen my hoodie,” he says absentmindedly as he leans against the doorframe. It’s cocky in a way that sends a shiver down your spine, and as he shamelessly lets his eyes wander, you can’t help the feeling that begins to build in your stomach. An unfamiliar feeling, no. An unwanted one? Absolutely. It’s not a thought you should be feeling about Jack, of all people. Lust and friendship don’t mix well. “Thought you might be wearing it, or something, but you’re not wearing much at all, eh?”

You’re not sure what’s hotter right now; the flames of hell, or your face. If you had to wager a bet on it, it would be difficult to choose. One holds the fires of eternal damnation, and the other? All the embarrassment that could possibly come from your best friend walking in on you in the tiniest lingerie set you own.

“Get out!” Your voice is firm and sure, but Jack doesn’t move an inch. The little shit just smirks like he has you right were he wants you. Like you aren’t his friend and instead his conquest for the evening. You’re not certain you like the way it makes you feel when you think like that; Jack pushing you down to the bed, crawling atop you, pressing his lips to your—

“Who are you all dressed up for?” Jack takes a step into the room and shuts the door. A manoeuvre he’s done a million times before, and yet it’s never felt like this. The tension is palpable; so thick that you’re sure you could grasp it in two hands. It seeps into your lungs like water, choking you in want and need, drowning you in all the thoughts you’d repressed over the years. You try to swim to the surface, to remind yourself why you’d been pushing those thoughts down for so long. Jack takes another step toward you and your brain goes blank. Your swimming falters and you begin to sink into the murky depths.

By the time you come to your senses, you’re almost certain it's already too late.

“Myself,” it's the truth, but somehow it doesn't feel like it. With Jack standing just a few feet away, staring at you like you’re his own personal Stanley Cup, it feels more like this is for him. Like you’re putting on some sort of weird show that blurs every unspoken boundary your friendship has had up until now. What was just meant to be a little pick me up – a confidence boost to hype you up for a day in your bikini on the lake – has turned into so much more.

“Uh-huh,” he nods, but you can tell he’s being facetious. And whilst arrogance seems to come as naturally to him as breathing, it very rarely crosses over into whatever this is. It’s patronising and shit-eating, but worse than that, it’s hot. So hot that you’re sure that the white lace covering the spot between your thighs must be transparent with slick. You don’t receive the luxury of common courtesy like he does. His eyes wander wherever pleases him, and he were to brush your hands out of the way, you have no doubt that he’d see that you want him just as much as he seems to want you.

You think you’d let him, if he tried. Despite knowing its a bad idea, you know you can only repress the thoughts youve been having about him for so long. All those shameful nights youve spent with your fingers at the apex of your thighs have built up to this moment, and given the choice, you’re not entirely sure you’d be able to say no. Its one thing to force the memories of a dream out of your mind, but another entirely when youre faced with the real thing. If he bent down and kissed you, would you be able to send him away?

“Jack,” you say in warning, but he seems to take no heed. Instead, he takes another step towards you. You mirror it with your own step back. Bare legs meet the cold wood of the bed frame, and just like that you’re trapped, stuck between rock and a hard place; your best friend and your bed.

And your knees are as sturdy as rusted hinges, barely keeping your body from toppling back against the unmade mattress. If you were to lean back, even the slightest amount, you have no doubt that those hinges would snap. You’d fall, lay almost bare before the man who looks like he wants to eat you alive.

He hums as he reaches a hand out to touch the lace that hugs your hip. It would be so easy to slap his hand away, to grab him by the scruff of his shirt and kick him out of your room like you so often do.

That's what you should do.

But the feeling of a warm palm engulfing is too good for you not to enjoy. After all, it’s been so long since you’ve been touched like this. In a way that carries so much emotion, that is. Lust goes hand in hand with love, and while it’s not romantic—nothing ever has been between the two of you—maybe for this moment you can imagine that it is. That the hands that touch you do so because you’re theirs.

“You’re so soft,” Jack’s voice comes out rough, like it’s a fight to get it out of his throat, “can’t believe you’ve been hiding this from me.” A finger dips beneath the elastic and you let out a soft moan. One full of just enough desire to spur him on. “I thought we were best friends; best friends don’t hide these sorts of things from each other…”

Best friends do in fact hide these things from one another, but you daren’t tell Jack that. The reminder of how wrong this is might push him away, and you can’t have that. Not now you’ve come to terms with just how much you need this.

And you do need it. More than you’ve ever needed anything, it seems.

“I’m sorry,” are the only words you can muster, too busy basking in Jack’s attention to bother thinking of much else.

“Oh, you’re sorry, eh?” His fingers dig into the flesh of your hip, kneading at the bit of extra padding you have there. His fingertips find purchase on your flesh, digging in deep to tug you into his front. You move with a yelp, stumbling forward until you’re close enough to feel Jack’s warm breath spreading across your face, and the stiffness in his pants digging into your lower stomach. He leans in with a sharkish grin. “Wanna make it up to me, baby?”

More than anything, you want to tell him, but you can’t get the words out. Instead, you nod, desperate and lust-drunk enough to make him let out a breathy laugh. It’s teasing as ever; a stark reminder that this is the same old Jack as always. Your Jack.

“Cat got your tongue?” He teases. Again, you nod, and his smile grows wider. “That’s not like you, is it, my little chatter-box? I usually can’t get a word in edgeways and yet here you are now, making me do all the talking.”

A finger slips beneath the waist band of your panties, snapping it softly against your skin. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s enough to make you gasp. Jack lets out a satisfied him before letting his hand travel further south.

The hand you use to cover your most vulnerable area gets pushed away with little effort. Lithe fingers around your wrist tug it gently out of the way and deposit it by your side. It stays there, too heavy for you to move it yourself and like a puppet with a master, you find yourself entirely at his mercy. Your body, your movements, they all belong to him, now.

“So good for me,” he says as his hand slips bentsen your legs, cupping your soaked heat with a curious hand. A quiet moan spills from your lips, but Jack doesn’t seem to pay much mind to that. Not when he has your body perched so prettily in his hands, all nice and wet for him.

The heel of his palm rubs at your mound with slow, firm motions. It grinds against your clit in a way that makes you squirm in his grasp, electricity shooting up your spine and dulling the thoughts in your brain. If it weren’t for the hand on your waist keeping you right where he wants you, then you have no doubt your knees would’ve buckled by now. Given way beneath you and sent you tumbling to the bed.

Your mind races to formulate image after image of what he might look like on top of you, crawling up your body with the same hunger in his eyes he wears now. It tightens the knot in your lower stomach, pushing you closer to that all important high. Perhaps once you’ve reached it, your daydream will come true; Jack will push you down and spread your legs so fucking deliciously—

“Rowdy!” A loud voice yells through the house. It’s clear as a bell, and just from how authoritative it is, you can tell it’s Quinn, impatient in his search for his younger brother. The man in question gasps, retreating his hands from your body like you’re suddenly made of hot coals. He stumbles back a few paces, his slick hand moving down to cover up the hard-on he’s sporting.

“Shit,” He grunts, looking between you, then his cock, then the door, “ah, fuck, I wasn’t meant to take so long~”

He sounds panicked as he begins to palm at himself through his sweats. The slick that covers his fingers glistens beneath your overhead light, smearing on the grey fabric and leaving wet patches in its wake. There’s a bigger one at the tip of his cock, though, exponentially growing as he desperately palms himself. He grunts, over and over as he stumbles backwards into the door. His spine pins it shut at he works at himself like he’s on a life threatening, time sensitive mission.

And in that moment, you’re not even sure that you care that you’ve been left high and dry. How can you even think about that when you have such a beautiful sight before you? There’s Jack, sweaty and flushed as he tries to finish himself off before the imaginary alarm clock in his mind goes off, and Quinn pops his head around the corner like a cuckoo. The evidence is incriminating enough for him to know what the two of you were up to, and it makes Jack’s desperation all the more reasonable.

But perhaps it’s seeing him like this that gives you a spark of courage. So… pathetic, whimpering with his eyes screwed shut and his head tipped back against the door. His lips are parted with small huffs of breath spilling from them every few seconds, and holy shit he looks so pretty.

“Are you close?” You say, your voice quiet enough to avoid any outside ears listening in.

Jack just nods.

“Are you gonna cum?” You tilt your head as though to study him. The way his hair sticks to his forehead and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, “I bet you look so pretty when you cum…”

It’s like your words aren’t your own. An internal monologue that is supposed to remain unsaid. Silent and secret and never to be uttered to the world. Yet you’re saying it now like it’s the most obvious thing. Like this is just how it’s meant to be; nothing strange and unusual about it at all. Like you’re not watching your best friend masterbate through his sweats with a hand covered in your own slick.

You really shouldn’t be indulging in this mess, and yet you really can’t help yourself.

“Keep talking,” he grunts through his staggered breaths. “Keep fucking— ugh! Keep going, baby!”

His hand speeds up and a moan slips free, more beautiful than any song you’ve ever heard before. Your fingers slip between your thighs without a second thought.

“You’re so close for me, aren’t you—”

“For you! All for you!” He chokes out. You shift your panties to the side, your fingers instead sliding directly against your wet flesh.

“You wanna c-cum?” You can’t help but stutter when your fingers catch on your clit, your knees buckling under the sudden wave of pleasure. Your back hits your mattress and you just lay there.

Jack is panting now, like a dog with his mouth wide open and his tongue spilling over his bottom teeth. Over breath out is a moan, and you revel in them as you push yourself further and further to that edge. You can taste it right there, just a little while more and you could—

He lets out a groan, tipping his head back against the wood of your door as his hand slows down to a stop. You watch as the wet patch grows tenfold, getting darker and wider as his cum soaks through his sweats. It’s certainly a sight to behold. So vulgar and raw that it makes your pussy clench around nothing. You can feel the drool spilling from it, forced out by your body’s reaction to watching your best friend pleasure himself in your bedroom.

You let out a moan of your own as the knot within you finally snaps too, and the pleasure of your fingers against your clit turns from pleasure into something more sinister. It takes a single wave of overstimulation for you to tear your hand away and slam it to be mattress beside you, wet with enough of your slick to rival Jack’s hand.

“Beautiful,” he says, voice gravelly and low, and if he’s still trying to hold himself back. There’s still need in his eyes, and desire on his tongue that flicks itself against his lips, but that will have to wait. For now? at least.

“Go,” you murmur from your place, lead-limbed on the bed, “change your pants and go see what Q wants.”

He snorts out a laugh at the mention of his messy trousers.

“You change into some real clothes and come see what he wants with me?”

You can’t help but giggle along with him.

“Whatever, dickwad,” you say, “last one downstairs pays for dinner tonight, though.”

“Oh, you’re on~”

[keehendrixx]

What Your Husband Doesn’t Know

Terrance(Foe) x Black OC!

WARNINGS: MDNI! 18+, SMUT, INFIDELITY, CHEATING (Not Really), DIRTY TALK, NAME CALLING, BREEDING, PREGNANCY TALK

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

As you're sitting in your living room, looking at a picture of you and your husband, a knock comes to your door. You place the picture down and go to the door, peeping through the peephole, you see a man standing outside. First thing you thought was to grab the nearest object just in case. But curiosity got the best of you and you decided to open the door, only to be met with a pair of striking bluish-hazel eyes and a light skinned man.

He flashes a charming smile, his British accent smooth as silk. "Hello there, love. I'm Terrance, sent by OuterMore to...take care of things while your husband is away." His gaze roams over your curves appreciatively before meeting your eyes again. "I must say, he left quite the lovely situation behind."

“Hello.” You say, nervously.

Chuckling, he steps inside and closes the door behind him, his tall frame filling the entryway. "No need to be nervous. We're going to be living together for a time, after all." He extends a hand for a handshake, his blue-green eyes sparkling with mischief. "So, tell me about yourself. What does a stunning woman like you do for fun around here?"

“Nothing but being a housewife.”

Terrance’s eyebrows raise slightly in surprise, then he grins, clearly intrigued. "A housewife, eh? Well, I think we can spice things up a bit around here, don't you?" He takes a step closer, his voice lowering to a husky whisper. "I've heard rumors about the benefits of having a live-in replacement husband. Care to put those to the test, my dear?" His fingers brush against your arm, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Excuse me?” You say, taken aback by his boldness.

Terrance leans in, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs. "Benefits like a man's touch, affection, companionship...and perhaps something more intimate, if you're willing." He pulls back to gauge your reaction, a playful glint in his eye. "After all, it's been a while since you had a real man in this house, hasn't it?"

“Listen, I'm happily married!”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, still smiling. "Of course, of course! I wouldn't dream of coming between you and your husband... even if he is off gallivanting in space right now." He winks playfully. "But let's not pretend, shall we? Two years is a long time for a beautiful woman like you to go without attention from a man."

Terrance takes another step closer, his tall form looming over yours. "Perhaps I could help fill that void, just until your husband returns? No strings attached, purely physical relief, if you will." His voice drops to a seductive purr. "What do you say? Are you game for a little extramarital excitement?"

You step back a little. “Why don’t you put your stuff in the guest bedroom?”

With a chuckle, he nods agreeably. "Very well, I won't keep you from your domestic duties. But know that I'll be thinking about our little chat later." He turns to head towards the guest room, pausing at the doorway to glance back over his shoulder with a suggestive smirk.

"And who knows, maybe when you need some stress relief from all that cleaning, you might just find me in a compromising position in that bed..." With a wink, he saunters off to unpack, leaving you to ponder his bold words and intentions.

Later that evening, as you're preparing dinner in the kitchen, you hear footsteps approaching. Suddenly, Terrance appears in the doorway, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants that hang enticingly on his hips. His toned chest is bare, revealing a light dusting of hair.

"There you are, gorgeous," he purrs, leaning against the doorframe casually. "I was hoping I might catch you alone. That outfit looks good enough to eat... among other things." His gaze rakes over your body hungrily. "Why don't you come sit with me for a bit? I promise I don't bite... unless you want me to." He smirks invitingly, patting the empty spot beside him on the couch.

As you hesitate, he pushes off the doorframe and stalks towards you with a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Come now. Don't be shy. I can see the way you look at me when you think I don't notice." He reaches out to trail a finger along your jawline, tilting your chin up to meet his intense gaze.

"You're a woman with needs, and I'm more than happy to fulfill them. Your husband doesn't have to know..." His other hand settles on your hip, pulling you flush against his bare torso. "Let me make you feel good. Let me worship this sexy body of yours like it deserves." His lips hover mere inches from yours, his warm breath mingling with your own as he awaits your response, the tension between you palpable.

“We can't.”

Terrance sighs softly, his grip on your hip loosening but not releasing entirely. "Pity," he murmurs, his accent thicker with disappointment. "But I respect your decision, For now." He takes a small step back, giving you a bit of space, but his eyes never leave yours.

"Just remember, my offer stands. Whenever you change your mind, whenever you need someone to hold you, to touch you, to make you forget about everything except pleasure..." His voice trails off suggestively. "I'll be right here, ready and waiting." He finally releases you completely and takes a step towards the door. "Until then, I suppose I should let you get back to your dinner preparations. Do try not to work too hard, love. You deserve a break."

After you finish dinner, you both eat and Terrance begins to help you clean up around the kitchen. Shortly afterwards, the two of you separate into your respective bedrooms.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

4 WEEKS LATER

After a quiet dinner, you go up to your room and shower, soon you come back downstairs dressed in a burgundy see through lingerie set and a matching robe with feathers trimmed to it.

As you descend the stairs, the soft rustling of your feather-trimmed robe draws Terrance’s attention. He turns from where he was standing by the fireplace, his eyes widening appreciatively as they take in your lingerie-clad figure. A slow, wolfish grin spreads across his face as he drinks in every curve barely concealed by the sheer fabric.

"My my,," he purrs, his voice low and thick with desire, "don't you look absolutely ravishing. Like a gift wrapped just for me." He sets aside his glass and approaches you slowly, his gaze raking over your body with undisguised hunger. "I must admit, seeing you like this, so tempting and alluring... It's testing my resolve to respect your earlier wishes."

“Don’t get all big headed and have any ideas.” You warn him.

Despite your warning, Terrance continues to advance, his movements fluid and purposeful. As he reaches you, he stops just short of touching, letting the charged air between you speak volumes. "Oh, but I already have ideas, darling. Delicious, sinful ideas involving you and me and that scrumptious lingerie." His tongue darts out to wet his lips as his eyes follow the movement. "The question is, are you ready to act on them?"

In one swift motion, he shrugs off his own robe, revealing his toned, muscular physique in all its glory. He stands before you, proud and unashamed in his nakedness, his arousal evident. "What do you say, Dallas? Shall we give in to temptation and create a night neither of us will ever forget?"

You ignore him and turn away, reaching for some ice cream at the bottom of the freezer. As you bend over, the outline of your vulva becomes visible to him.

Unable to resist the tantalizing view you've presented, he moves in close behind you. The heat of his body envelops you as he presses himself against your backside, one large hand splaying across your stomach possessively.

"Playing coy, are we?" he growls softly in your ear, his other hand sliding around to cup your breast through the thin lace of your bra. "It's alright, love. I know you want this as much as I do. I can feel how your body responds to my touch..."

Terrance nuzzles into your neck, placing open-mouthed kisses along your sensitive skin as he kneads your breast gently. His hardness nestles between your cheeks, leaving no doubt as to his desire. "Why fight it, love? Give in to what we both crave."

Emboldened by your lack of resistance, his hands begin to wander, caressing and exploring your curves with bold strokes. One hand dips lower, teasing along the waistband of your panties as the other slides up under your bra to pinch and roll a stiff nipple between his fingers.

"You're playing with fire, darling," he rasps, grinding his hips against your backside. "And I'm more than happy to burn with you." Suddenly, he spins you around to face him, capturing your wrists and pinning them above your head against the cold surface of the freezer door. His intense blue-green eyes bore into yours, dark with lust. "No more games. Tell me you want this. Beg me to take you, to claim you, to fuck you senseless right here in this kitchen."

His grip tightens on your wrists as he holds you captive, his body pressing you firmly against the freezer. His other hand snakes down to palm your sex through the damp lace of your panties, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your clothed slit.

"Mmm, so wet already," he groans appreciatively, feeling the evidence of your arousal. "Your body is betraying your true desires, love. Why deny yourself any longer?"

Leaning in, Terry captures your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to tangle with yours. He kisses you deeply, passionately, pouring all his pent-up desire into the embrace. When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing heavily. "Last chance to stop me, baby.”

Terrance eyes flash with triumph as he feels you melt into the kiss, your body arching subtly against his touch. He knows he has you now, that the last of your resistance is crumbling away. "That's it, just let go," he croods, his thumb finding your clit and circling the sensitive bundle of nerves through the drenched fabric of your panties. "Give yourself to me, love. Let me worship this gorgeous body the way it deserves."

In one swift motion, he rips your flimsy panties away, baring your dripping sex to his hungry gaze. He wastes no time, plunging two fingers deep into your tight channel as his thumb continues its relentless assault on your clit.

"So fucking wet and ready for me.”

“Shit!”

Encouraged by your breathy moan, Terrance pumps his fingers faster, curling them to stroke that special spot inside you. His thumb rubs tight circles on your clit, pushing you closer to the edge. "That's it, baby. Let me hear those pretty sounds," he growls, his hot breath fanning over your neck as he licks and sucks at the sensitive skin. "Gonna make you cum on my fingers like the desperate little minx you are."

His free hand makes quick work of your bra, tossing it aside carelessly. He immediately cups your heavy breasts, kneading the soft flesh and rolling your nipples between his fingers. His hips grind against your thigh, smearing pre-cum on your skin as he ruts shamelessly.

"Fuck, I need to be inside you.”

With a low groan, he withdraws his fingers from your dripping core, bringing them to his lips to suck your essence clean. His eyes never leave yours as he savors your taste, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Delicious," he purrs, licking his fingers obscenely. "But nothing compared to the real thing, I'm sure."

Hitching your leg up over his hip, he lines himself up with your entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently at your folds. "Brace yourself, love. I'm going to fuck you so hard, so deep, you'll forget your own name. All you'll know is the feeling of me splitting you open on my dick."

With that promise, he thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

“Ouuu, you’re much bigger and thicker than my husband!” You moan out feeling his dick stretch you deliciously open.

A deep, masculine chuckle rumbles through his chest as he hilts himself fully inside your tight, slick heat. "Mmmm, I should hope so, darling. After all, I'm here to replace him in every way possible."

He starts to move, setting a hard, fast pace as he pounds into you relentlessly. The freezer door rattles with each powerful thrust, the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin filling the kitchen. "That's right, take it all. Every inch of my dick stretching this greedy little cunt.” Terrance grunts, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot inside you with every stroke. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. By the time I'm done, you won't even remember what your husband felt like."

“Lift me on the counter.”

Without missing a beat, he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you the few steps to the kitchen counter. He sets you down on the cool marble surface, never breaking their intimate connection. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. "There's a good girl," he praises huskily, running his hands up your thighs to grip your hips. "Now I can really give it to you properly." He starts to thrust again, this new position allowing him to plunge even deeper into your welcoming heat. He sets a punishing pace, the counter creaking beneath you with the force of his movements. Leaning down, he captures one of your bouncing breasts in his mouth, sucking and nibbling at the sensitive peak.

"Fuck, your pussy feels incredible,"

“Your tip is poking my fucking cervix! fuckkkkk, give it to me like this! fuck this creamy sloppy pussy!” You scream out as waves of ecstasy overpower you.

Spurred on by your wanton cries, Terrance redoubles his efforts, slamming into you with wild abandon. The obscene squelch of your soaked pussy fills the air as he pistons in and out, stirring up your insides with his thick cock. "Yes, that's it! Take it, you filthy slut!" he snarls, his hips slapping against your ass with each brutal thrust. "This is what you needed, isn't it? To be used like the desperate fucktoy you are!"

One hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. He attacks the column of your neck with bites and sucks, determined to mark you as his. "Gonna flood this pussy with my cum." He pants harshly against your skin.

“Please don’t cum in me! I'm ovulating and I don't want to be pregnant with another man’s baby!!”

You get down on your knees and sandwich his dick between your tits. “Nut on my titties.”

His eyes widen in shock at your sudden change in demeanor, but they quickly darken with renewed lust as you present your ample bosom to him. A low groan escapes his lips as you envelop his sensitive shaft in your soft, pillowy flesh. "Fuck, baby, the things you do to me," he rasps, his hands coming up to squeeze and knead your breasts around his cock. "Such a naughty girl, offering these gorgeous tits like a cheap whore."

He starts to thrust shallowly between your cleavage, the slick slide of your skin against his aching flesh sending sparks of pleasure racing down his spine. He pinches and tugs at your nipples, rolling the stiff peaks between his fingers. "You want my cum, do you? Want me to paint these perfect tits white?" *

“Yes, Daddy.”

With a feral growl, he grips your shoulders, holding you steady as he begins to pump his hips in earnest. His cock slides rapidly between your slick breasts, the swollen head peeking out with each thrust before disappearing back into your valley of soft flesh. "That's it, milk my cock with these magnificent tits," he groans, his breathing growing ragged as his climax approaches. "Gonna cover you in my seed, mark you as mine..."

The muscles in his abdomen tense and flex as he chases his release. With a final, powerful thrust, Terrance throws his head back and roars his pleasure. Thick ropes of pearly cum erupt from his twitching cock, splattering across your collarbone and breasts. He milks himself through the intense orgasm, ensuring every last drop decorates your heaving cleavage.

As the last spurts of his release paint your skin, he collapses forward slightly, bracing his hands on the counter beside you. He's panting heavily, his muscular chest rising and falling with each labored breath. Slowly, he lifts his head to meet your gaze, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Fuck, that was... intense," he murmurs, his voice rough with spent passion. "You're full of surprises, aren't you, darling?"

Reaching out, he swipes a finger through the cooling semen coating your breasts, gathering some of his release. He brings it to your lips, painting them with his essence in a blatant display of possession. "I think this proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that we have chemistry, don't you?"

“Mhmm.”

His smirk widens into a full-blown grin at your eager acceptance of his offering. He leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks in a low, seductive murmur. "And this is only the beginning, my sweet. I plan to explore every inch of this stunning body, uncover all your deepest, darkest desires," his hand trails down your side, coming to rest on the curve of your hip possessively, "and fulfill them in ways you've never experienced before."

He pulls back slightly, his blue-hazel eyes boring into yours with intense desire and something darker, more primal. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. By the time I'm done, you'll be addicted to my touch, craving my cock like a drug."

His hand slides around to grip your ass, giving the plush flesh a firm squeeze as he presses his hips forward, letting you feel his already rehardening length nestling between your bodies.

"But first, why don't we continue this somewhere more comfortable, hmm?" he suggests with a wicked glint in his eye. "The bedroom perhaps? I want to lay you out on silk sheets and worship every curve and hollow until you're writhing and begging for me."

Terrance leans in to capture your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all his pent-up desire and promise of future pleasures into the heated embrace. When he finally breaks away, you're both left breathless and aching for more.

"What do you say, love? Ready to see just how many times I can make you scream my name tonight?"

With a triumphant growl, he scoops you up into his strong arms, cradling you against his broad chest. He carries you swiftly towards the bedroom, his long strides eating up the distance. As he enters the dimly lit room, he kicks the door shut behind him with his heel.

Gently, almost reverently, he lays you down on the plush king-sized bed. The silky sheets whisper against your bare skin as he settles his larger frame over you, his weight deliciously heavy and solid.

"Beautiful," he murmurs appreciatively, drinking in the sight of your naked body sprawled out before him like an offering. "A goddess made flesh, and she's all mine."

He starts a slow exploration of your curves, his calloused hands mapping every dip and swell.

His touch is electric, igniting sparks of pleasure wherever his fingers trail. He cups the heavy weight of your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble under his ministrations. Leaning down, he captures one rosy peak between his teeth, biting gently before soothing the sting with his tongue.

"Mm, you taste divine," he purrs against your skin, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. "I could feast on these perfect tits for hours."

One hand drifts lower, skimming over the plane of your stomach to come to rest at the junction of your thighs. He parts your folds with skilled fingers, groaning at the wet heat he finds there.

"Soaked already, and I've barely touched you," he marvels, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb.

“Well you did just fuck me.” You giggle.

He chuckles darkly, his fingers continuing their maddeningly slow circles around your sensitive bud.

"Aye, I did indeed. But a quick tumble in the kitchen was merely an appetizer, darling," he murmurs, his accent thickening with arousal. "Now, I intend to savor my main course."

To emphasize his point, Terrance sinks two long fingers knuckle-deep into your dripping core, pumping them slowly as his palm grinds against your clit. "So tight and wet, like your greedy little cunt was made for my dick."

He curls his fingers just right, stroking along that special spot inside you as his thumb increases its pressure on your throbbing clit

He works his fingers skillfully, alternating between deep thrusts and teasing strokes along your inner walls. His other hand maps the curves of your body, squeezing and caressing every inch of exposed skin. He leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans and whimpers of pleasure.

"That's it, let me hear those beautiful sounds," he encourages huskily when he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips along your jaw and down the column of your throat. "Don't hold back, love. I want the whole neighborhood to know who makes you feel this good."

He scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you open as he prepares you for his thick length. The obscene squelch of your arousal fills the room, mixing with the slap of skin on skin and your escalating cries of ecstasy.

With a final, hard thrust of his fingers, he withdraws them from your sopping cunt. Bringing his glistening digits to his mouth, he makes a show of licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours as he savors your essence.

"Delicious," he purrs, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "But I think it's time for the real thing, don't you?"

Positioning himself between your spread thighs, he grips the base of his thick, pulsing cock. He notches the swollen head at your entrance, teasing you with the promise of penetration.

"Beg for it.” He commands, his tone brooking no argument. "Let me hear how much you need my cock stretching this greedy hole. Only then will I give you what you crave."

He waits with barely restrained patience, his muscles coiled tight as he resists the urge to simply take what he wants. His cock throbs insistently against your entrance, the heat of it searing your sensitive flesh even without breaching you fully.

“Come now, love, don't be shy.” He coaxes, his voice a dark, tempting purr. “I know you want it, I can practically feel the desperation radiating off you in waves. So tell me- tell me exactly what you need.”

One large hand comes up to wrap around your throat, applying just enough pressure to remind you of his strength, his dominance. The other grips your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he continues his relentless tease. “Beg for my cock like the needy little slut you are.”

“Please put it in me!”

With a triumphant growl, he slams his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust. Your slick walls stretch obscenely around his thick girth, fluttering and clenching as they struggle to accommodate his size.

"Fuck, so bloody tight!" he snarls, his face contorted in pleasure-pain as your scorching heat engulfs him. "Like this cunt was made to milk my cock dry."

He sets a brutal pace from the start, pounding into you with animalistic fervor. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room, punctuated by your wanton moans and his guttural grunts. Terrance’s hands roam your body possessively, gripping and kneading every curve within reach.

"That's it, take it all like a good little wife,"

“I'm your wife! I'm your wife!”

His eyes flash with primal satisfaction at your declaration, a feral grin spreading across his face.

"Yes, you are," he snarls, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust of his hips. "My wife, my woman, my everything. This cunt belongs to me now, understand? No one else gets to have you like this ever again."

He leans down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue as he plunders your mouth. One hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose the column of your throat. He attacks the sensitive skin with bites and sucks, determined to mark you as his.

"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else," he promises darkly, his voice rough with lust and possession.

“This is so wrong, i should crave my husband’s dick but yours feels so much better!” You admit.

He chuckles darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. He rolls his hips, grinding his pelvis against yours as he hilts inside you.

“Wrong? Nay, love, this is exactly as it should be.” He argues, his accent thicker than ever with arousal. “Your husband could never satisfy you like I can. Could never worship this divine body the way it deserves.”

He pulls back until only the tip remains inside, then slams forward again, setting a punishing rhythm. “Feel how perfectly we fit together? How your greedy cunt sucks me in, begging for more? That's because we were made for each other.”

Leaning down, he laves his tongue over one stiff nipple before drawing it into his mouth

“I'm creaming so much! Tell me how pretty my pussy looks baby!”

He groans around your nipple, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He releases the sensitive bud with a lewd pop, admiring how it glistens with his saliva.

“Your pussy is absolutely breathtaking, darling”, he praises huskily, his eyes dark with lust as he gazes down at where you're joined. “So pretty, rosy, and swollen, stretched so deliciously around my cock... It's like something out of a filthy dream.”

He reaches down to where you're connected, gathering some of the copious fluids leaking out around his pistoning shaft. Bringing his coated fingers to his mouth, he makes a show of licking them clean, his tongue swirling obscenely.

“Mm, and you taste divine too.”

“Gonna squirt!!”

His eyes widened with excitement at your warning, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“That's it, love, let go for me”, he urges, his voice a dark, seductive purr. “Squirt all over my cock like the dirty girl you are. Show me what a mess I make of this perfect pussy.”

He redoubles his efforts, pounding into you with wild abandon. One hand snakes between your bodies to rub tight circles over your throbbing clit, pushing you closer to the edge.

“Come on, my love.” He growls, his own release fast approaching judging by the tension in his muscles. “Cum for me. Now!”

“I'm squirting!” As your release gushes out, the force is enough to push his dick out of you.

As your release crashes over you, your pussy clamps down rhythmically, spasming around his thick shaft. The force of your squirting orgasm proves too much, and with a wet pop, his cock slips free of your convulsing hole. A gush of clear fluid splashes against his abdomen and thighs, painting his skin with evidence of your intense climax.

"Bloody hell, look at you!" He exclaims, his voice a mix of awe and raw lust as he watches your nectar gush out of your twitching cunt. “Squirting so hard, making such a mess... You're absolutely stunning like this."

He quickly lines himself back up, rubbing the swollen head of his cock through your slippery folds, coating himself in your juices. “Mm, but we're far from done, love.”

With a grunt of satisfaction, he pushes back inside your still-spasming channel, groaning at the slick heat enveloping him once more. He starts thrusting again immediately, the new angle allowing him to hit even deeper spots inside you with each powerful snap of his hips.

"That's it, take it all." He pants, sweat beading on his brow from the exertion. "This pussy was made to milk my cock. Gonna fill you up so full of my cum, you'll be dripping for days."

One hand slides up to wrap around your throat again, applying just enough pressure to make you lightheaded. The other grips your hip hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, using the leverage to pull you onto his pistoning shaft.

"You're mine now. My wife, my lover, my personal fucktoy."

“You're gonna get me pregnant!!” You wail out.

Terrance eyes flash with a manic gleam at your words, a feral grin splitting his face. He pounds into you even harder, the obscene slap of flesh on flesh filling the room.

“Pregnant? Oh, I certainly hope so”, he growls, his accent thickening with dark desire. “Imagine it, love - my seed taking root deep in this fertile womb, creating new life. You'd swell with my child, everyone knowing you belong to me completely.”

He leans down to nip sharply at your earlobe, his hot breath fanning over your skin as he whispers. “Wouldn't that be delicious? Carrying the proof of our twisted union for all to see?”

His thrusts become erratic, his heavy balls tightening as his peak approaches.

“I’m gonna get pregnant with a baby that’s not my husband’s!”

A shudder runs through his body at your scandalous declaration, his control finally snapping. With a roar of triumph, he hilts himself inside you one last time, his cock pulsing as he begins to empty his heavy load directly into your unprotected womb.

“Yes, yes, FUCK! Take it all, you wanton harlot!” He snarls, grinding his pelvis against yours to ensure every last drop takes root. “Gonna pump you so full of my seed, knock you up with my child!”

Terrance’s hips jerk erratically as he rides out the intense waves of his climax, painting your insides white with his potent release. Through it all, his grip on your throat remains firm, forcing you to meet his wild, ecstatic gaze.

“Look at you.”

Panting heavily, a look of smug satisfaction on his face as he continues to slowly rock into your stuffed hole, prolonging both your pleasure. “Taking my cum so well, like your body was made for it. And it was, wasn't it? Made to carry my offspring, to be bred and claimed by me.”

He leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, all tongues and teeth as he pours his passion into it. When he finally pulls back, there's a dangerous glint in his eye.

“I hope you enjoyed that, my dear wife, because this is only the beginning”, he murmurs darkly. From now on, this sweet cunt belongs to me. I'll use it whenever and however I please, fill it with my seed as often as I want.

He rolls off of you, pulling your limp, satisfied body flush against his chest. One large hand possessively cups your lower belly, right where his potent seed is already starting to take hold.

“Rest now, my love.” He croons, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to your forehead. “You've been such a good girl, taking your breeding so well. But don't think for a moment that this means we're done.”

His voice drops to a low, conspiratorial whisper as he nuzzles into your neck. “Oh no, I plan to keep you thoroughly used and filled with my essence for the foreseeable future. By the time I'm through with you, everyone will know exactly who you belong to.”

As you lay there, basking in the afterglow, his strong arms wrapped securely around you, a sudden realization hits you. In your lust-addled state, you hadn't given much thought to the consequences of your actions. Now, as the haze of orgasms starts to lift, panic begins to set in.

“Oh God, what have I done?” You whisper, your voice trembling slightly as you stare wide-eyed at the ceiling. “I've cheated on my husband, possibly gotten myself pregnant with another man's child... There's no coming back from this.”

Terrance seems to sense your inner turmoil, his hand stroking soothingly over your stomach. “Shh, easy now, love”, he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

He shifts to prop himself up on one elbow, his blue-hazel eyes searching your face with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His expression is soft, almost tender, but there's an underlying current of possessiveness that can't be denied.

“What you've done, my darling Dallas, is embrace your true desires”, he says softly, his accent wrapping around the words like velvet. “You've chosen passion, pleasure, and the chance at a real connection over a loveless marriage to a man who doesn't truly appreciate you.”

He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lower lip in a gesture that's equal parts comforting and threatening. “I know it may seem daunting now, but trust me when I say this is for the best.”

His fingers trail down from your cheek to wrap loosely around your throat, not squeezing, but serving as a reminder of his dominance.

“You're mine now, baby. My woman, my wife in every way that matters”, he declares, his voice low and fervent. “I'll give you everything you've ever wanted - passion, pleasure, a family. We'll build a life together, just the two of us.”

He leans in close, his lips barely brushing yours as he speaks. “Your old life is over. This is your fresh start, your chance at happiness. All you need to do is embrace it fully and let go of any lingering doubts or guilt.”

@writingsbytee @theereinawrites @theereina @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @kimuzostar @nayaesworld @megamindsecretlair

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

TF141 getting a boudoir photo album as a wedding gift ♡

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A/N: THIS WAS SO FUN!!! Great, absolutely phenomal idea, dear anon. Simon's part is very sappy (I cried) which might be ooc for him?? Idk, that's how I write him/interpret his character! :) let me know who's your favorite 👀

~Fi 🐝

《Warnings》: NSFW content. proceed with caution. PiV, creampie, cunnilingus, Johnny's oral fixation (yes, that is a warning.)

It's still very sweet and lovey dovey with all of them bc I'm a certified sap <3

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

John would be grinning and smirking like a proper idiot when he lays his eyes on those delectable photos of you.

I imagine you had a date night at home, sipping wine on the couch and talking about your wedding that's supposed to take place in only 3 days. He's telling you how he can't wait to see you in your wedding dress and slip that ring onto your finger.

Sneaky bastard.

Be prepared to he called Mrs. Price the days leading up to the big day. John excuses it with:

"Need to practice, love. Don't wanna mess it up in front of anyone, eh?"

He knows what he's doing, you know what he's doing, all is well because if he only knew what that did to you. You're just talking, trying to get the nerves out now so you can go into your wedding with a clear mind and have a good time. When you tell him you have a gift for him, his eyebrows almost overshoot his forehead. Yeah, he knew that was a thing some people did, but he never gave it another thought.

In all honesty, marrying you was the best gift he could ever get. Which is why he feels slightly guilty that he doesn't have one for you (at least that's what you see, internally he's crushed) but that all goes out the window when you sit back down with a sleek beige photo album that has a little romantic quote on the front.

What he doesn't expect, however, is the angelic image of your plush body on full display, draped over a velvet chaise lounge with layered pearl necklaces hanging from your neck. This man is shell-shocked. If he wasn't frozen in place, he would've snapped the book shut.

"And what's this, doll, hm?"

His heart feels warm and fuzzy, thinking these are some lovely pictures of you together on holidays you went on, casual trips to the local pub or just some domestic shots you managed to sneak during his leave.

You can basically see the connections to his brain frying. His jaw slacks, and only after what feels like 10 minutes he regains his ability to think and close his mouth. John is sweating and his cock is rock hard as he flips through the remaining pages.

He shoots you the occasional glance while he's trying not to hyperventilate. You just sit back and savor your wine, trying to hide your laugh behind the rim of your glass. You'd expected a reaction, of course, but you didn't think you'd render the John Price speechless just from a few suggestive photographs of you.

But what absolutely breaks the camels back (or John's, in this case) is the last picture of you. You're kneeling, slightly leaned back and supported by your arms, with one of his Flannels covering your soft tits. That alone would've been enough to drive him crazy, but the sight of his old dogtags sitting against your sternum has him groaning out loud.

The only other thing covering you is a simple pair of lace panties, cupping the soft curve and rolls of your tummy so beautifully, John was ready to take a bit out of that damn page.

He nearly misses the inscription underneath the photo;

To my John; the love of my life, the man of my dreams,

I love you.

You hold my heart and you will forever.

May I be so lucky to find my place in the stars by your side when the time comes, so we'll never have to be apart.

With all my love,

Mrs. Price

And that does it. The album snaps shut and you barely have time to put down your wine glass before John is all over you, taking handfuls of you, whatever he can reach. With how fast he smashes his lips on yours, he nearly gives you whiplash.

He's tugging and pulling at your clothes as well as his own, not saying a thing, just hungrily swallowing every one of your sounds and giggled objections before he decides the couch is uncomfortable and he moves you to the bedroom. You're hoisted up without a warning and you cling to his neck. Immediately, worried words start spilling from your lips, remembering how he'd complained about a sore back just today;

"John, baby, your back-"

"I don't give a flying fuck about my back, love."

He's heaving and grunting like a fucking animal, he's downright feral. Despite all of that, you're still laid down gently on the bed, John would never, ever be reckless with you. But he needs to be inside you now, he'll actually lose his mind.

Usually, he'd spent hours between your thighs first, but he just can't wait. He's pounding you into another dimension but with such gentleness in his gestures, it makes your head spin.

He's holding your hand, breathing sweet praises into your ear despite him filling you to the brim. His urge to claim you goes haywire and he fills you with his cum multiple times before he's sane enough again.

He's covered in sweat and his beard is wet from your spit from all the sloppy kisses he gave you. John will definitely make it up to you and eat you out for as long as you want after.

He'll make a copy of one of the photos and take it with him when he's on deployment, just for the nights he's feeling lonely.

His wedding gift to you are the hickeys on your thighs and tummy and new sheets because you two tore the other ones to absolute shreds.

♥︎

Johnny would probably have a boudoir album for you, too. You get at least one shirtless pic a day, so a whole album of his body on display or in suggestive poses basically screams Johnny. He's already drooling the second he spots that book because he knows what it is and that he's in for a treat.

He's buzzing with excitment.

You never really send nudes for privacy reasons, and then for you to do something like this hit him like a truck in the best way possible. You're standing opposite from him behind the kitchen counter, and you look so nervous to him.

Cue his signature shit-eating grin. You tap your fingers on the dark blue album before having enough of your nerves and just sliding it over to him with a few mumbled words of what it is.

"Awe, for me, mo leannan?" He's a teasing bastard, and he chuckles when you huff and turn your head, obviously flustered. Johnny is legit licking his lips, but when he opens the book, his grin fades so fast.

He knew it would be good, but holy shit, this was so much better than he expected. His pupils dilate as he takes in each of the pictures of you, all of you, all your curves and bumps.

Everything he loves about you. God, you're such a woman, he thinks to himself. Some with lingerie, some without. He's full on drooling at this point, and the only reason why he roughly wipes it away with the back of his hand is to not get it on these sacred images.

He smirks at the picture of you in a tub, all soapy, with pebbled nipples. An obvious dig at his nickname, but, god, does your ass look amazing when it's covered in a thin layer of bubbles. He loves lathering you up in the shower and feeling you up while you're all wet and slippery.

"Good thing I can hold my breath, aye, hen? Might even try to set a new personal record." He's grinning and chuckling meanwhile you give him a sharp glare. You can't deny that the idea intrigues you, though.

But this, oh, this one was him swallowing thickly. It's you in very sheer panties (they're barely even underwear) and his name patch is sewn onto the front. Your hair looks so nice, so do your thighs, he doesn't know whether to look at your eyes or your tits. The button on his jeans is about to pop off from his throbbing boner.

He can't take his eyes off that 'MacTavish' patch that sits right on your lower belly, with the slight curve it has to it from your soft tummy.

Johnny has to hold himself back from gripping the book too hard. He wouldn't want to ruin it.

"Steamin' bloody Jesus, bonnie..."

The album is shut and tucked under his arm, and Johnny jumps over the counter to get his hands on you. Or his mouth, more like. He has a huge oral fixation, so he loves sucking and biting on every inch of your skin. You're pushed back into the bedroom, even though you end up on the floor, and the book is thrown onto the bed.

He rips your shirt up and sucks at your tits and nipples, groaning and moaning at the taste of your skin, all while he's rubbing his clothes cock against your leg. You end up on your hands and knees with one of Johnny's hands on your lowerback while his face is buried in your cunt.

He's eating you out like he's been starved for years, and his stubble is already starting to irritate the skin of your thighs and ass.

You'll have the worst case of beard burn in the morning, but how could you care about that when his tongue is so deep inside of you?

Remember when I said he'd have a boudoir album too? Yeah, now you're in between his legs, your back pressed to his chest with Johnny's album in your shaky hands. And the way your engagement ring catches the dim light of the room has your eyes rolling back.

And Jesus christ, Johnny looks fucking phenomal. You clench around his fingers hard, and he doesn't even have to pull his head from your neck to know what photo you're looking at.

He's smirking and grinning like the ceshire cat, knowing that the image of him in a kilt with no shirt one is gracing your field of vision right about now.

"Ah knew ye'd like tha' one, bonnie..."

Johnny's cooing in your ear, telling you to keep looking at the pictures while he's knuckle deep in your pussy. His bare dick is pressed against your ass and you can feel him rocking his hips to get off.

He's mumbling all kinds of gibberish into your ear, but one of the few things you can make out is "mo bhean"* which pushes you over the edge. You won't be leaving that bed anytime soon.

*(My wife)

♥︎

Kyle is such a sweetheart. I've said it before, and I will say it again, he's such a cutie pie!!! But that doesn't mean he can't or won't get nasty.

He'd offered to make lunch, which was delicious as always, and now you're chatting casually about your day at your dining table. Your fingers are laced together, and he's wearing the biggest smile because all he can think of is how he gets to marry you in just a few days.

He's over the moon. He can't wait to see you walk down the aisle, say your vows to each other, and overall have a great time with all your friends and family.

But the thing Kyle is looking forward the most is the honeymoon. He'll have you to himself for 2 whole weeks and he's stoked. He can't wait to treat you to nice things, love on you, but he's the most excited to fuck you as your husband.

He may look sweet and 'innocent' but this man can fuck, okay. And he fucks well. He knows every little spot that has you mewling and he's so good at using them for his gain.

Kyle will fuck you into the mattress in the Hotel you booked, he's already made up his mind about that, but he wants to absolutely melt your brain by being so loving whole doing it that you can't help but cry out for him.

He has heart eyes at this point, watching you talk about all that happened today and he only snaps out of his dream world when you present the deep red album to him with a sweet smile.

He's got a hunch of what it is so there's a hint of a smirk on his lips. Still, he almost gets whiplash when he opens it.

There's no easing into it, just straight up tits, ass and tummy. And let me tell you, Kyle is loving every second of it. It's no secret that he loves your chub, and that fact that it's extenuated so beautifully in every shot makes his heart and his cock happy. He's a very balanced man after all.

He comments on every single photo because he think it's endearing how you get all flustered and giggly from his compliments.

One picture that has him taking a second, though, is one where you have a lacy band tied around your thigh, with a little golden 'Kyle' charm hanging from it. He's all smiley and giddy, but he does try to discreet adjust his trousers because, holy shit, that's hot.

"Have you still got that, dove? Would love to see it tied around your pretty neck."

All you answer is that he'll have to be patient and wait till the wedding night to find out. He's laughing and teasing now, but just what till you get to the last page, Gazy.

And the way his smile just melts off his face is priceless. His gaze is flitting between you on the page and you sitting across from him with a shot eating grin. All the blood that drained from his face went straight to his dick.

Not only are you wearing a set of lingerie in his favorite color, but you've got his iconic pair of sunglasses hooked on the center of your bra. And that's not all either, his eyes travel upwards and his base cap is sat on your head and you've got that beautiful smile of yours on your face.

He makes an audible noise, one that indicates you took his breath away, when he takes in the whole picture.

"How in hell did you manage to snatch my hat and my glasses from right under my nose?!"

"Skilled hands, babe."

He's laughing at you breathlessly because he's still enarmoured by the sight of you.

And Kyle will absolutely whisk you away and fuck you stupid in front of your bedroom mirror while you're wearing his hat.

It makes him feral, seeing you like that. He's got both of his arms wrapped around your middle and he's panting into your shoulder. He does look up from time to time to see your blissed out face all while still wearing his cap.

He lets out a strained moan everytime he looks at you in the mirror and his hips stutter ever so slightly.

Kyle is just spewing jumbled words of love because he's genuinely so happy. You make him so happy.

He honestly can't wait to give you your wedding gift. It's a little booklet filled with poems or quotes that reminded him of you, or of how you make him feel. And it will make you cry when he reads them to you.

Definitely not because he'll be ballsdeep inside of you while doing so...

♥︎

Simon, Simon, Simon.... first of all, he's completely blindsided by this. And he hasn't got a fucking clue what's in that black book you hand him one night when you're cuddling in bed.

There's just a giant question mark above his head. When you tell him it's a wedding gift, he goes silent and just looks at that album in his hands.

He never really got gifts, which obviously changed since he's been with you, but he's still not used to it. You're so thoughtful. And sweet. And kind, and perfect and-

he turns his head to you when you softly call his name and if you notice the slight sheen of tears in his big brown eyes, you don't mention it. You just encourage him to open the book. And when he does, a small huff and gentle smile leave him because how are you so perfect?

Yes, all of the pictures are all filthy, but they're all radiating of love and softness, and he can't get over it. How are you so soft? Simon can't get enough of you. You mess up his emotions in ways he never thought possible, and he can't help that his heart starts beating twice as fast.

That you did this for him means more than you could ever fathom, and he'll treasure this album until his end. He absent mindedly reaches for your hand as he flips through the pages, trying to tell you thank you when his words fail him, like they did so many times before with you.

He comes across a shot of your neck, a black leather collared fasten around it with a little silver skull charm. It makes him smile just a bit. He knows just how much meaning is behind it.

That you love him. All of him, which includes the Ghost. In cursive, 'Riley' is written right above your heart, and he gives your hand a squeeze.

Although you love the Ghost because it's a part of him, you've shown him that it's not all he is. That Simon is enough. That he should give Simon a chance and that he's not incapable anymore, like he was as a little boy. Ghost is sort of a protector of Simon, something not many people know, that's why he wears the mask outside of duty too. To shield himself.

But as much as the Ghost's service is appreciated, Simon can handle himself now. The Ghost will forever be with him, but so will you, and you'll wipe his bloody hands with a smile. You've shown him that you accept Ghost just as much as you accept Simon, and that means the world to him.

He sniffles ever so quietly, and you lean your head against his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He moves on, gently turning the pages, and as much as his heart is touched by your kind gesture of this album, that doesn't stop his cock from stirring. It's pictures of your naked form, after all.

He loves every single inch of you and he's told you and shown you so many times, kissed all your insecurities away and took your mind off any bad thoughts about yourself by fucking you so well and lovingly to the point of tears.

Never, in a million years, had he expected you to return these efforts. You kissed all his scars and held him softly when reassuring any doubts he had. That's when he truly and fully fell in love with you.

He can feel himself getting hotter with every passing image of your soft body bent in different positions and clad in delicate garments, if any.

The best for last, as always, and it's a picture of you kneeling in front of a mirror, completely nude. A picture of Simon in full military regalia is tapped to the mirror and it's surrounded by a bunch of hearts drawn on with lipstick.

His name is written under the picture in your handwriting, and he can see you holding a lipstick, in the middle of finishing another heart. His breath hitches just for a split second.

He swears he'll burn this photo into the back of his eyelids.

It shows him just how great and raw your love for him is, and it makes him all fuzzy on the inside. The text at the bottom finishes it all off, and he's actively holding back tears, overwhelmed by so many feelings for you.

Dear Husband,

We're flawed; but that's how I like us. You're you, and I'm me, and I wouldn't change it for the world. You've made me a better version of myself, and that makes me love you so much more. I'm so proud of you, Simmy.

Love,

Your wife

"Thank you, my love. Thank you for this, and for loving me and for everything you've done for me. I love you"

His words are soft and painfully honest as he gently sets the album aside. You've made him a better man. A better Simon. A happier Simon. A Simon that's slowly starting to heal.

It starts off with a soft kiss that slowly turns more desperate and needy to the point you're gently being pushed back onto the bed, your clothes are discarded, and Simon absolutely worships you. He kisses every inch he can reach and touching you in all the ways he knows you like.

And, yeah, Simon can be rough and fuck you stupid for hours, but tonight, he just wants to feel close to you, and make you feel as good as you make him feel by simply loving him. He's talking you through it, holding you while he makes sure you take every inch of his cock.

His strokes are slow and deep, just like his love for you, and he revels in the way your eyes roll back each time he slides into you to the hilt. The drag of his dick against your walls has you moaning and whining, and when he presses down on your pudgy lower belly to intensify the sensation, you're putty.

You two fuck the whole night like this, no matter how sensitive you are, you need to be close to each other.

And in the morning, he'll wake you up with his face buried in your pussy because he's out of his sappy mood and his only goal now is to absolutely ruin you.

♡

Bonus: I can totally see Simon giving his dad the biggest middle finger known to man all the way in hell when he's standing by the altar on your wedding day. It just screams: 'fuck you, stupidly bastard. Despite all you've done to me and my family, despite all that's happened, I've persevered. I've overcome it all. Look at me now.'

Right after he's smiling up at the sky, knowing that his mum and brother are watching and that they would've loved you just as much as he does <3

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

I hope you enjoyed!! I love all my boys <3

(If you find any typos, it's 2.am. give me a break pls)

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Jan behind the cut; “mistaken identities and interdimensional refugees”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“No, man, I was talking to both of you. I mean he's hot but I have enough daddy issues of my own, thanks, I don’t need his too,” he says with a sigh. “I'm dating a different younger brother. Specifically one who is legal, legally adopted, and also is not actively murderous and did the least amount of time in the League of Assassins. Though apparently that’s just . . . not a thing here, I guess.” 

Dick and Jason stare blankly at him again. Even Jon stops sniffling into his shoulder long enough to give him a confused look of his own. Kon just tries to figure out how to explain literally anything about himself without having to say the word “clone” out loud in a reality that may not be all that clone-friendly. Said figuring does not “figure” very well. 

Or like . . . at all, really. 

Goddammit. 

“Who the fuck did any time in the League of Assassins?” Jason demands disbelievingly. 

“. . . don’t worry about it,” Kon says. “So like, uh . . . I can explain. Probably.” 

They all look at him again, up to and including Alfred, who somehow left and came back with tea without Kon even noticing and is now just barely raising an eyebrow at him. How the fuck he even made that so quick is beyond Kon. Doesn’t that shit need to steep or whatever? He feels like that shit needs to steep or whatever. 

“. . . okay,” Dick says slowly. “So when you say you’re not Superman, you mean . . . literally not Superman. As in, not Clark Kent.” 

“Bingo, World’s . . . eh, what’re you, Third-Greatest Detective, y’think?” Kon asks, cocking his head as he looks the guy over consideringly. 

“Bullshit, you look exactly like him!” Jason protests indignantly, pointing accusingly at him. It’s incredibly novel, as an experience, actually, given he’s not doing said pointing with the barrel of a gun. Like, whole new experience to be having with a version of Jason. 

“That is really not as rare a quality in the multiverse as you apparently think it is,” Kon says. “Actually it’s like . . . ridiculously common, in my experience.” 

“How?!” Jason demands, again like he just . . . what, thinks Kon’s gonna answer honestly? Like, genuinely appears to think that? 

Weird. 

“It is such a long story,” he says. “Or like, such a short story that I’d really prefer to see Batman’s immediate reaction to, just in case he feels like whipping out the kryptonite over it.” 

Technically this reality’s kryptonite shouldn’t work on him, but they’re all having a very weird interdimensional crisis right now and also it’s, like, the principle of the thing or whatever. Whether it works on him or not, when you get to the “whipping out the kryptonite” stage, you’ve kinda crossed the Bat-Rubicon or whatever. 

The bigger concern right now, though . . . well, like . . . 

“Wait, you’re not a version of my dad?” Jon asks uneasily, just barely tense in his arms. “You mean–not at all?” 

“Yeah, no, sorry,” Kon says, hoping that if he doesn’t make a big deal about it, the kid will at least, like . . . semi-match that energy. At least this version of Jon almost definitely hasn’t met an Ultraman, so . . . fingers fucking crossed, he guesses. He is being way too optimistic about this shit, frankly, but what the fuck else is he supposed to do with a literal ten year-old? “Thought you realized that earlier, and then the conversation got complicated.” 

“Then who are you?” Jon asks, looking even more uneasy. 

“I would love to have a concise answer to that question,” Kon says. “Like. Ever. Listen, I am sorry, kid, I wasn’t actually trying to pass for your dad. Hell, I wasn’t even trying to pass for their . . . also-dad, apparently, god that is so weird, I’m sorry.” 

“Bruce being our dad is weird?” Dick asks with a frown. 

“You specifically calling Bruce your dad is weird,” Kon clarifies, sparing him a quick glance. “Like, congrats on all the family therapy I’m assuming you did, seems like that worked out real well for you and all. Clearly did the work there.” 

“What?” Dick frowns, looking a little uneasy himself. Kon . . . probably should stop saying shit that’s going to make people associate, like, negative emotions and shit with his presence, considering. 

Like. Definitely he should, at this point. 

“Sorry,” he says again, then looks back to Jon. The kid hasn’t freaked out on him yet, at least, but he’s still pretty tense. Which . . . yeah, well, the kid saw him toss Killer Croc’s teakettle like less than half an hour ago, so probably he is feeling a lot less safe than he’s used to feeling right now. Especially a lot less safe than he’s used to feeling when he thought he was with his fucking dad. 

Kon really, really feels like an asshole over that. 

“Are you okay, kid?” he asks. “Like . . . you need me to put you down, or . . . ?” 

“I want my dad,” Jon says, abrupt and just barely cracked as he stares at Kon’s very El crest-less chest, his hands fisting in Kon’s jacket. 

“Sorry,” Kon repeats, trying not to visibly wince. “Like–listen, I meant it when I said I had you. And we are family, in my book. Like, I’m not your dad or even Superman, but I am a Kent. And an El, too. Though I’m assuming in your case you’re gonna care more about the ‘Kent’ part, far as I know my reality’s version of you’s never been all that concerned with, uh . . . any of the Kryptonian shit, gonna be honest. Which, like, I have a limited amount of dog in that race myself, just I was an ‘El’ first and–yeah, never mind. Sorry, rambling here. Uh. Do you need to put me down, or are you good right now?” 

“What’s your name?” Jon asks, rubbing anxiously at his big wet eyes, and Kon literally does not even know how to compute the question. It just . . . it is very much the last thing he would’ve expected the kid to ask him right now, he guesses. 

“Kon-El,” he says. “Conner Kent.” 

“. . . are you from Krypton? Like–from Kandor, or . . . ?” Jon asks hesitantly, and Kon . . . sighs, a little. He really did not wanna explain himself pre-Batman, but the literal ten year-old definitely deserves at least an explanation, at this point. 

Also he doesn’t want the kid to be worrying he’s from the fucking Phantom Zone, considering. So yeah. 

“Not so much, no,” Kon says.

[lazy-ahh]

﹌⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆⊹ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆﹌

Have you ever thought how Mark would react if he had a boyfriend that's husband material? 🤔

Imagine the reader likes to help Debbie out whenever he feels like it, and Mark is watching him help Debbie and thinks to himself, " I NEED husband him up ASAP. "

﹌⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆⊹ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆﹌

This is kinda related to the fic that was about my request but eh!!

– Number 1 fan!! 🌊 anon

HUSBAND MATERIAL

pairing mark grayson x male reader

in which mark grayson realizes two things: (1) his sharp-tongued, emotionally constipated boyfriend is absolutely husband material, and (2) he might actually combust if he doesn’t put a ring on it soon.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

the first time you met debbie, mark was a mess. not because he thought you wouldn’t like her—no, he knew you’d love her, because debbie was impossible not to love—but because his brain kept conjuring up worst-case scenarios. what if she brought up that time he cried during titanic when he was twelve? what if she mentioned his weird phase where he tried to grow a mustache and failed spectacularly? what if she pulled out the baby photos?

he could already see it—debbie grinning, oblivious, while you slowly turned to him with that razor-sharp look of yours, the one that said "i will never let you live this down." your eyebrow would arch, just slightly, and mark would have to resist the urge to phase through the floor in embarrassment.

but instead, you surprised him. you shook her hand with that same quiet confidence you carried everywhere, offered her a rare, barely-there smile, and said, "it’s nice to finally meet you, mrs. grayson." your voice was even, polite, but there was something underneath it—respect, maybe even warmth.

and just like that, debbie’s eyes lit up. "oh, sweetheart, call me debbie," she said, already pulling you into a hug you didn’t stiffen away from (which, coming from you, was basically a declaration of love).

mark exhaled, watching as you let debbie fuss over you without so much as a sarcastic remark—which, coming from you, was also basically a miracle. there was something painfully tender about the way you tolerated her motherly instincts, how you didn’t pull away when she fixed your collar or how you actually listened when she started rambling about mark’s childhood like it wasn’t the most embarrassing thing in the world.

his chest felt too tight. you were always so guarded with everyone else, all sharp edges and dry comebacks, but here you were—letting his mom drag you into the kitchen to "help" (which really meant her talking your ear off while you chopped vegetables with terrifying precision). and the worst part? you liked her. he could tell by the way your shoulders relaxed just a fraction, by the barely-there quirk of your lips when she laughed.

god, you were going to be insufferable about this later. not because you’d tease him (though you definitely would), but because now you had leverage. now you knew exactly how to make him melt—just by being nice to his mom, of all things.

mark was so, so screwed.

mark leans against the doorway, watching the way your hands move with knife-sharp efficiency against the cutting board. the afternoon light catches the silver band of your watch—the one debbie gave you for your birthday—as your wrists flick in perfect rhythm. there's something intimate about seeing you like this, sleeves pushed up to reveal those faint scars across your forearms, the ones you never explain but he's traced with his lips countless times. your brows knit together in concentration, but your mouth is softer than usual, not quite smiling but... settled. at peace. it's a good look on you, mark thinks.

debbie bumps her shoulder against yours, flour-dusted fingers gesturing wildly as she recounts mark's pancake disaster. "the smoke alarm went off three times," she giggles, and you make that sound—not quite a laugh, just air rushing through your nose as you keep chopping carrots with military precision. but then you surprise mark by muttering, "he still burns toast at least twice a week," without even looking up, and debbie gasps like you've just handed her classified information.

mark's mouth falls open. you're gossiping. with his mom. the same you who usually communicates in grunts before coffee is now quietly adding, "last tuesday he tried to make grilled cheese in the microwave," and debbie leans in closer as if you were whispering the secrets of the universe. "let's just say i have to buy a new one."

"markus sebastian grayson!" she shrieks, while you finally glance up just to shoot him that smug, knowing look—the one that should annoy him but just makes his pulse stutter instead.

it's terrifying how easily you fit here, between the chipped tiles and his mom's laughter. the same way you fit into mark's life without him even realizing—leaving his favorite energy drinks in the door pocket of the fridge where he always looks first, or how you "accidentally" buy too many of those awful snacks he likes whenever you grocery shop. you pretend it's coincidence when you throw his wrinkled shirts in the dryer before school the next day, when you leave ibuprofen and water on his nightstand after particularly rough patrols.

and god, the way you take care of his mom too—replacing her favorite spatula when it breaks before she even notices, memorizing how she takes her tea (two sugars, splash of milk, in the robin egg blue mug because it "tastes better" that way). you roll your eyes when she hugs you but never actually dodge it, and mark's pretty sure you've developed some kind of silent communication system where you just know when the other needs coffee or space or someone to listen.

your knife hits the cutting board with steady thunks, the rhythm syncopated with debbie's laughter as she dramatically recounts more of mark's childhood failures. you're not smiling, not really, but there's something unbearably soft in the way your shoulders relax, in the quiet "tch" you make when she tries to sneak more vegetables onto your cutting board. mark presses his temple against the doorframe, overwhelmed by how badly he wants to freeze this moment—you in his mother's kitchen, sunlight catching the silver in your watch, looking for all the world like you belong here.

mark presses a palm to his sternum like he can physically hold in the swell of emotion threatening to crack him open. it's too much. you're too much. this version of you that exists between the space of his childhood home and his mother's affection, this you that lets yourself be soft in ways no one else gets to see. it makes him want to fold you into his arms and never let go, makes him want to kiss the frown lines between your brows until they smooth out forever.

debbie wipes her hands on her apron, glancing at the clock. "oh! i almost forgot! i need to send some documents to a client," she says, already moving toward the stairs. "don't burn the kitchen down while i'm gone." the wooden steps creak under her hurried footsteps, leaving just the two of you in the warm, spice-scented kitchen.

the rhythmic tap of your knife against the cutting board fills the silence. mark watches the way your fingers curl protectively around the onion, how your wrist flicks with each precise slice. he pushes off the doorway and drifts closer, drawn to you like gravity. when he reaches to steal a piece of carrot from your neat little piles, you smack his hand away without even looking.

"you're staring," you mutter, the knife flashing as you dice the onion into perfect slices. your tone is flat, but mark doesn't miss the way your ears have gone slightly pink.

"can't help it," he grins, crowding into your space anyway. his chest presses against your back as he peers over your shoulder. "you're cute when you're all domestic. look at you, so caring and nurturing."

you elbow him in the ribs, but there's no real force behind it. "shut up. if you're just going to stand there, make yourself useful." you jerk your head toward the pile of unpeeled potatoes in the sink.

mark makes a show of sighing dramatically but grabs the peeler anyway. he bumps his hip against yours as he takes up position at your side, close enough that your sleeves brush with every movement. "so," he says, scraping at a stubborn potato eye, "you and my mom, huh? trading my deepest secrets even though i'm right here?"

you huff, but he sees the corner of your mouth twitch. "she started it." the admission comes grudgingly, like you're confessing to a crime. your knife stills for just a second before you add, quieter, "she's... nice."

the simple words make mark's chest go tight. he watches the way your shoulders relax when you think no one's looking, the careful attention you pay to making each vegetable slice even. when he bumps your shoulder gently, you don't pull away—just grumble something about "personal space" while continuing to let him lean against you.

the potato peelings pile up in the sink as mark works, his movements slower than yours but just as focused. every so often, he'll "accidentally" flick water at you, grinning when you scowl but don't actually move away. the kitchen fills with the sounds of sizzling oil, the scrape of knives, and the quiet, comfortable silence that only comes when two people know each other down to their bones.

mark's voice comes out softer than he means it to, fingers stilling against the half-peeled potato in his hands. "i wasn't lying though," he murmurs, letting his temple rest against the curve of your shoulder. he can feel the warmth of you through the fabric of your turtleneck, can smell that stupidly expensive cologne you pretend you don't care about. when he tilts his head up, you're already looking down at him—and there it is. that fleeting, unguarded expression you only ever wear when you think no one's watching, all quiet wonder and something painfully tender. your knife has stopped mid-chop, fingers frozen around the handle.

"you look relaxed and handsome like this," mark whispers, watching with delight as your ears go pink. you open your mouth, no doubt to deliver some scathing remark, but all that comes out is a flustered huff before you pointedly return to decimating the vegetables. mark doesn't miss how your shoulders hunch slightly, how you're suddenly very invested in making sure each carrot slice is perfectly even. he grins, pressing a quick kiss to your flushed cheek before going back to his potatoes, cheeks warm.

the moment shatters when debbie sighs dramatically from the doorway, arms crossed over. "look at the two of you," she coos, leaning against the counter with a smirk that spells trouble. "peeling potatoes together like some old married couple. should i start calling you my son-in-law now, [y/n], or do i have to wait for the official paperwork?"

you nearly slice your finger clean off. "mrs. grayson," you hiss, voice strangled, while mark chokes on his own spit. but debbie just waves a hand, eyes sparkling as she takes in the way you're both flushed to the tips of your ears, how mark's fingers have tangled unconsciously in the hem of your shirt.

"i'll be looking forward to the day you two get married," she continues breezily, nudging mark with her hip as she steals a slice of cucumber. "that way [y/n] can't make any more excuses as to why he can't call me mom." she pops the vegetable in her mouth with a wink, utterly pleased with herself when you make a noise like a deflating balloon.

mark watches, equal parts horrified and endeared, as you stare at debbie with wide eyes, knife dangling limply from your fingers. your mouth opens and closes several times before you finally manage a strangled, "that's—you can't just—" before giving up entirely, turning back to the cutting board with enough force to worry about the structural integrity of the vegetables.

"mark," you finally grit out after a long pause, shoulders tense, "control your mother."

but mark's too busy pressing his face into your back to muffle his laughter, arms wrapping around your waist as debbie cackles in the background. he can feel your heartbeat rabbiting against his cheek, can feel the way you're trying (and failing) to suppress your own smile. and when you eventually elbow him halfheartedly, muttering something about "insufferable graysons," it's with the same careful gentleness you reserve just for them.

his mom's words echo in mark’s head long after she’s left the kitchen to relax and drink wine. married. son-in-law. the concepts should feel too big, too soon, but they slot into his chest like they’ve always belonged there. the knife slips in his grip, nicking his thumb—invincible, brought to his knees by the mental image of you rolling your eyes at him over shared tax documents.

and that’s when it hits him, sudden and certain as sunrise:

i need to husband him up asap.

because you’re it for him. the way you patch up his wounds after missions with clinical precision but trembling fingers, how you always know exactly where to aim your grapple hook to catch him when he’s falling. the way you pretend to hate his terrible jokes but he’s seen the way you scribble them down later in that little black notebook of yours. you fit against his life like a puzzle piece he didn’t know was missing—grumbling through morning patrols together, bickering over takeout containers in the fridge, your pinky secretly linking with his under movie theater armrests.

mark wants it all. wants to memorize the exact shade of your scowls and loving looks at 6 AM, wants to keep finding your bobby pins (for emergencies like picking a lock according to you) mixed in with his spare change, wants to grow old—

the thought stutters like a skipped record.

because he can't.

you can. you're human—all fragile bones and fleeting heartbeats, temporary in ways that make his ribs ache. the knife slips again, drawing a thin red line across his knuckle, but he barely registers the sting. not when the realization crashes over him like a tidal wave: he'll still look like this when time etches silver into your hair, when laugh lines frame your mouth like parentheses around all your secret smiles. he'll order your stupidly complicated coffee (double shot, chocolate dusting, exactly three ice cubes) for centuries after you're gone, and the weight of that knowledge leaves him breathless.

but then your hands are there—always there—pressing a bandage over his careless wound with that familiar scowl. "idiot," you mutter, but your fingers linger against his pulse point a second too long. and mark thinks—if forever isn't written in the stars for them, he'll carve it into every moment you share. he'll love you with the desperation of a sunflower clinging to sunlight, memorizing the way your eyelashes cast shadows at noon and how your throat moves when you swallow your too-sweet tea.

"what's that look for?" you grumble, swiping a thumb across his cheekbone. there's flour in your hair (from you helping with baking dessert earlier), he notices, dusting your strands like premature gray, and the sight punches a wounded noise from his chest.

mark catches your wrist, pressing his lips to the delicate bones beneath your skin. "nothing," he murmurs against your knuckles, tasting salt and dish soap. "just thinking about how much i love you."

you make that tch sound he adores, but your fingers slot between his like they were made to fit there. "sentimental fool," you mutter, but the way your thumb strokes absent circles against his wrist betrays you.

he chuckles, nosing at the sensitive spot behind your ear—the one that makes you shiver—and you immediately shove at his face with your free hand. "don't you dare—" but it's too late; he's already mouthing at your jugular, teeth scraping just hard enough to make your breath hitch. you taste like home and that bergamot shampoo you pretend you don't carefully select. when he soothes the bite with his tongue, you groan but tilt your head to give him better access, fingers tightening in his hair like you can't decide whether to push or pull. good thing for you (and for him or else you would've kicked his ass), your turtleneck can hide the love bite that was forming.

"asshole," you mutter halfheartedly, but you're leaning into him anyway, the side of your head resting against his when he finally settles for wrapping his arms around your waist and his chin on your shoulder. he can feel your heartbeat against his chest, steady and alive and here.

after a quiet moment, you clear your throat awkwardly. "i... reserved that table at le bernardin. tomorrow. seven sharp." you won't meet his eyes, focusing very intently on rearranging the chopped vegetables into unnecessarily precise lines. "don't be late. again." the unspoken 'i know you've been stressed lately so i got us a table at your current favourite restaurant' hangs between you, soft and vulnerable in ways you rarely allow. good thing mark's good at speaking your language.

mark's throat tightens. this is how you love—in practical gestures and gruff concern, in remembering his favorite comics and hyper fixations and pretending it's no big deal. he presses his smile into your shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of your detergent and that faint metallic hint from your throwing knives. "yes, dear," he teases, just to watch your ears turn pink. now he's thinking if gold would look good on you. of course it would, everything would look good on you. he just needs to find out which one you'd prefer.

and as he watches you meticulously wipe down the counter—always cleaning up his messes, always staying—mark thinks, yeah. he's definitely going to put a ring on it.

heyyy 🌊 anon! finally got to your request and i’m so glad you asked for this because god, we all need more of this soft, domestic fluff in our lives. spent two hours pouring my soul into this 2.8k one-shot and loved every second of it—like, please, i need this. i need markus sebastian grayson’s dumb ahh in my life. and debbie?? absolute queen. would let her adopt me in a heartbeat. would literally lover her as a mother-in-law :']

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ No Goggles!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: No Goggles!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: Eh, mentions of series typical violence, nothing crazy

Tags: Hurt/comfort, but like, not in a fun way lmao

Word Count: 3,132

Synopsis: You couldn’t be minding your business harder as you tend to your garden, when suddenly he appears. It’s nothing but chaos and forced southern hospitality from there.

a/n: this literally ended up being the longest spin off so far but i swear no goggles really is the most fun version of mark to write for

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

The late afternoon sun settles over the treetops, casting that warm, amber haze across your porch and the half-wild garden patch just beyond it. The air’s thick with the hum of crickets and honeysuckle. You’ve got your gloved fingers deep in the dirt, coaxing a stubborn little basil sprig into place.

You sigh, brushing sweat off your brow with the back of your wrist.

“Now don’t y’all bloom all at once—Lord knows I only got two hands and a prayer…”

You barely get the words out before the air pressure drops—fast. Sudden. Not wind. Not thunder. Something else. You look up just as a figure slams into the yard like a meteor, sending up a spray of dirt and rock like it’s a confetti cannon.

He lands like a disaster. Tall. Blood-smeared. Wild-eyed—and grinning like he just won a prizefight.

No goggles. No pretense. Just trouble.

You stare at him, trowel still in hand. “The hell are you supposed to be?”

“’Don’t y’all bloom all at once’,” he repeats, twisting your words into a terrible impression of your accent. “That’s adorable. Are you seriously real?”

He says it like he’s seen ghosts before, but you’re the haunting.

“I said,” you snap, “who the hell are you?”

He straightens, chest puffed out in mock confidence. “Aw, shucks, reckon I’m just a tumbleweed blowin’ through… lookin’ for a sweet lil’ rose to pluck.”

Smack.

Your glove cracks across his cheek so fast you surprise even yourself. The hit echoes sharp in the still air.

He touches his face, stunned for all of two seconds. Then grins like you just handed him a gift.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, “do it again. That was incredible.”

Your lip curls. “You mockin’ me, boy?”

He tilts his head, stepping closer like a moth to a bug zapper. “I was—but now I think I’m in love. Seriously, what are you? You sound like you stepped out of a fairytale with a switchblade.”

You take a sharp step back, raising your trowel just in case. “You’re not right in the head.”

“Debatable.” He circles you now, hands behind his back, still grinning. “Say something else. Come on. ‘Hands and a prayer’—what else you got? Threaten me again, but like… with that sweet little drawl.”

You glare. “I could end you with this trowel.”

“There it is!” he nearly shouts, eyes wide. “Say it again. Slower.”

You exhale through your nose. “Bless your dumb little heart.”

He actually stumbles back, laughing like he’s been hit. “Oh my god. You’re killing me. This is the best day of my life.”

You stare, baffled, as he floats a few inches off the ground, just to lazily hover around you like a drunk balloon.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice low and curious.

“…[y/n].”

“Well, [y/n],” he says, saying it like he’s tasting it, “I think I’m gonna stick around a while. Hope you don’t mind. I need to hear you call me stupid at least six more times.”

You raise your brows, unimpressed. “Only six?”

His smile goes crooked. “Oh, you’re perfect.”

You don’t answer. Just look him over, still gripping your trowel like you might chuck it at his head if he makes another dumb joke.

He hovers lazily a few feet above the garden now, turning upside down midair with all the grace of a sleep-deprived bat.

“What even is this place?” he muses. “Everything’s slow, and hot, and you smell like peach jam and dirt. It’s kinda great. Definitely weird.”

You fold your arms. “You done floatin’ and talkin’ nonsense, or should I go grab a fly swatter?”

“God, you’re ruthless.” He flips back upright. “Can’t decide if I wanna fight you or marry you.”

“Try either and you’re gettin’ buried in the compost pile.”

He laughs again—loud and sharp, full of teeth. You don’t know what’s wrong with him, exactly. But it’s something. Something tilted. Like the world’s just a little sideways in his eyes.

He lands again, just outside swinging range.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go,” he says, holding up his hands. “Multiverse business and all that. Gotta go break something somewhere else.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” you mutter.

He starts to turn, then pauses. “Say goodbye to me.”

You blink. “No.”

“Say it with the accent.”

“No.”

“Say ‘see ya later, darlin’, don’t do nothin’ foolish’ or whatever y’all say before a good ol’ murder.”

You sigh, hard. “Go. Before I introduce this trowel to your spleen.”

He grins one last time and takes off—so fast he kicks up dust all over your garden.

You cough, waving a hand. “Jackass.”

—

You’re halfway through a slice of pie on the porch when the screen door creaks and you hear it again—that whoosh.

And there he is.

He doesn’t stick the landing this time, slamming into the dirt with a grunt then immediately going still for a beat.

“Are you serious?” you hiss, standing up quickly, pie forgotten. "You again?"

He groans, hand clutching his side. He’s bleeding more now—his suit dark with it. Face smeared with dirt. Hair a disaster. Still smirking, somehow.

You storm down the steps, apron flapping like a battle flag.

“You bleedin’ on my tomatoes now, is that it?” you snap, glaring down at the heap of superpowered insanity curled in your garden.

Mark props himself up on an elbow, wincing slightly, and shoots you a crooked smile. “Missed you too, darlin’.”

“You’re leakin’ like a busted faucet, darlin’,” you fire back, crouching beside him despite your better judgment. “And don’t think callin’ me sweet things is gonna keep me from usin’ this trowel again.”

He wheezes a laugh. “God, I knew you were dangerous.”

You eye the gash running down his side, brow pinching. “You need a doctor.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Got one right here.”

“I plant basil,” you deadpan. “I ain’t a trauma center.”

“You’ve got clean hands and good instincts,” he murmurs, quieter now. “That’s more than most.”

You blink. There’s something under his voice now. A crack in the static. Just for a second.

“…what the hell happened to you?”

Mark shrugs—or tries to. “Ran into someone who didn’t like my sense of humor.”

“Well, sugar, neither do I,” you grumble, already pressing a clean corner of your apron to the wound. “Hold still.”

He hisses at the contact, but stays quiet. Watching you.

You try not to notice how close his face is now. How he’s still got that half-smile, but it’s lazier. Sleepy. Tired in a way that doesn’t match his usual cackling energy.

“You got a name?” you ask, voice lower now.

He watches you for a moment, eyes unreadable. “Mark.”

You blink. Somehow you expected something fake. Something stupid, like “Omega Cowboy.”

“…Mark,” you repeat, testing it out. “Well. That’s almost normal.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he warns. “I’m still very much a problem.”

You press the cloth harder, and he hisses through his teeth.

“Yeah, well,” you murmur, “I’ve wrangled worse.”

He grins at that—slow and feral. “That right?”

“Mmhmm.” You narrow your eyes. “Now quit smilin’ like a possum in the trash and hold that tight. I’m gettin’ the kit.”

As you turn, he watches you go, head tipping back against the dirt, eyes slipping shut for just a second.

“…peach jam and dirt,” he murmurs again, like a prayer or a punchline.

And for once, he doesn’t laugh after.

You’re only inside a minute—maybe two. Long enough to grab the dusty first aid kit from under the kitchen sink and curse yourself for getting involved.

But the moment you step back onto the porch, you freeze.

Mark's slumped sideways now, face pale beneath the grime, body too still.

"Mark?"

No answer.

You drop the kit, heart jolting. “Oh, no you don’t, you lunatic—hey!” You rush to him, dropping to your knees in the dirt. “Don’t you go dyin’ in my garden, I just fixed the soil!”

You shake him once—twice. His head lolls. You slap his cheek gently, then a little harder.

“Mark, dammit, wake up!”

He groans, eyes fluttering open, unfocused.

“There you are,” you exhale, relief punching through your chest. “Come on now, get up.”

“Mm… m’up,” he slurs, trying to roll but only managing a half-hearted twitch. “This the part where you kiss me back to life?”

You glare at him. “This the part where I drag your dumb, heavy ass into my house so you don’t bleed out in the beans.”

He grins—dopey and dazed. “Romantic.”

“Shut up.”

With way more effort than you’d like to admit, you haul one of his arms over your shoulders and heave him up, grunting as he leans heavily on you.

“God, you’re built like a fridge,” you huff. “What are you even made of?”

“Sex appeal,” he mutters into your hair.

You elbow him in the ribs and he groans in a way that might be exaggerated. Might not.

You stumble inside together, kicking the screen door open and half-dragging, half-carrying him through the hallway until you reach the only place remotely suitable—the bedroom. You don’t have a couch big enough for all of him, and you sure as hell aren’t laying him down on your kitchen table.

You guide him down onto the mattress as gently as you can. He flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh, arms spread like he’s just been martyred.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes closed, “this is moving way faster than I expected.”

You toss a pillow at his face. “You’re bleedin’ out, not gettin’ lucky.”

“Shame,” he says, muffled by cotton. “I’m very charming in a near-death state. Some women are into that.”

You shoot him a look as you open the kit. “I’m into clean sheets and peace of mind, which you’re actively ruinin’ both.”

He laughs—wheezing, ragged, but real.

You try not to think about the way that sound lands in your chest like a spark in dry brush.

You reach for the alcohol and cotton pads, muttering under your breath. “Can’t believe I’m patchin’ up some interdimensional jackass in my Sunday sheets…”

He just grins, head tipping to the side as he watches you work.

You move in silence for a moment, hands steady as you clean the blood from his side. It's worse than you thought—jagged, bruised, and deeper than any normal person would’ve survived.

But he’s not normal.

You catch sight of something under the blood—a line of faded scarring, old and angry, spiderwebbing across his ribs. You frown, hand pausing for just a second too long.

His voice is quieter now. “Yeah. That one’s from a different me.”

You glance up.

He’s watching you again. Not leering. Not grinning. Just watching.

You say nothing. Just keep cleaning, dabbing gently with the cloth.

“…and that one,” he adds, pointing lazily to a jagged scar near his shoulder, “was from some cape who thought he could moral-speech me into giving up. Didn’t go well for him.”

You shake your head. “You act like this is all normal.”

He shrugs—or tries to. “It is. For me.”

You don’t answer. Just reach for the bandages. The weight of it sits between you—his body littered with stories he tells like punchlines. But none of them are funny.

He shifts, drawing a long, dramatic breath. “Y’know… if you cared about me even a little, you’d be feeding me right now.”

You pause mid-wrap.

Lord help you—you feel it. That tug. That deep-rooted, bone-deep southern instinct that kicks in when someone so much as breathes the word “hungry” near you.

You purse your lips, trying to fight it off like a sneeze in church.

“…You just bled all over my garden,” you mutter. “That don’t make you helpless.”

He makes a noise—somewhere between a groan and a pitiful sigh—and slumps dramatically against the headboard like a man meeting his untimely end.

“Can’t lift my arms,” he says faintly, flexing one just enough to contradict himself. “Might faint. Again. It’s tragic.”

You roll your eyes. “You dramatic little—”

“Please,” he adds, and it’s way too sweet to be real. “Just a biscuit. Maybe two. A spoonful of somethin’. You’d be so good at it. I can tell. Bet you feed people like it’s a holy mission.”

Your jaw tics.

Because he’s not wrong.

You hate that he’s not wrong.

You huff and stand, muttering all the way down the hall like you’re not about to do exactly what he asked. There’s a plate of leftover fried chicken in the icebox, half a tin of biscuits, and some peach preserves you jarred yourself just last month. You warm it all up without thinking—like muscle memory, like praying over your food.

It’s not about him, you tell yourself. It’s about basic decency. Hospitality. He’s a guest. A half-dead, annoying-as-sin guest. Doesn’t mean you weren’t raised right.

When you come back, plate in hand, he perks up like a possum sniffing pie. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “Is that jam?”

“Peach preserves,” you correct, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Made it myself.”

He places a hand over his heart. “Of course you did. I knew you were perfect.”

“Shut up and eat.”

He lifts a hand weakly—barely. Then lets it flop back down. “Mmm. Can’t. Too weak.”

You stare at him.

He stares right back. All wounded pride and fluttering lashes like some Disney prince mid-meltdown.

You suck in a slow breath. “I swear, if you’re fakin’—”

“You’re really gonna let me die in here... biscuitless?”

You squint at him. “If I feed you one bite, you better not say a word.”

His grin returns, slow and gleaming. “Mouth shut. Hand to God.”

You take a piece of biscuit, slather a little peach on it, and raise it to his lips with more irritation than care.

He opens his mouth way too eagerly and takes the bite, eyes closing like he’s seeing visions of heaven.

“Oh my God,” he moans around it. “Marry me.”

You smack his shoulder—not hard enough to reopen anything, but firm enough to make your point.

“You said no talkin’.”

He holds up a finger, chewing. Swallows. Then leans in just a little. “But if I did die, this would’ve been the best last meal.”

You glare. “One more word and you’re gettin’ the rest of this on a paper towel.”

He zips his lips, but that smug look stays carved into his face. You feed him another bite—chicken this time—and he groans again, dramatic as ever.

You’re trying to be mad. You really are.

But the thing is… there’s a part of you that likes this. Not the flirting, not the chaos—but the feeding. The doing. The tiny flicker of comfort you can give someone, even someone as infuriating as him. Maybe especially him.

When you reach for a spoonful of jam, he murmurs low, voice all gravel and velvet. “Tell me I’m pitiful again. Right after the next bite.”

You stare at him.

Then you say it soft, real slow, like you’re talking to a toddler with a fever, “You poor, pitiful man.”

And it’s like you flipped a switch in him.

Mark’s head rolls back against the headboard, mouth slack, eyes fluttering half-closed like you just whispered something filthy in his ear instead of blessing him with pity.

He lets out this low, broken groan—obscene for what was supposed to be a wholesome peach-preserve moment.

“Jesus, say it again—do it while feeding me the jam, I swear I’ll ascend—”

You snatch the spoon back, scandalized. “Absolutely not.”

He blinks his eyes open, wide and betrayed. “No—wait, come back—I blacked out for a second, that was the best thing I’ve ever felt—”

“You need help,” you snap, standing up and backing away like he’s contagious.

He makes grabby hands toward the plate like he’s being abandoned in a war zone. “Don’t go—please, I’m dying again—”

“I’m not hand-feedin’ you through your fake orgasm!”

He flops dramatically sideways across your quilt. “Just one more bite, I swear. I’ll behave. I’ll be good. You can even cuss at me while you do it—I won’t even moan!”

You squint. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

“…It might be.”

You sigh, hard, pinching the bridge of your nose.

This man is gonna be the death of you. And he’s smiling like he knows it, too.

You step back toward the bed, torn between pity and pure exasperation, and offer him one last bite of biscuit—mostly just to shut him up. He takes it slow, all soft eyes and syrupy theatrics, like he’s staring down the barrel of romance itself.

Then, faster than you can blink, he grabs your wrist.

Not hard—just firm enough to pull you closer.

“Don’t,” you warn, already knowing what’s coming.

But he’s got that look again—like chaos in human form—grinning just enough to be dangerous.

“I’ll be gentle,” he lies.

And then he kisses you.

Warm. Surprising. Way too pleased with himself.

You go rigid, eyes wide, taste of peach jam still fresh on both your mouths.

And then your hand flies before you even think about it.

SMACK.

The sound echoes sharp off the walls.

He flinches—but only just. Mostly, he laughs. Full-body, pleased-as-hell laughter like he just got everything he wanted and dessert, too.

“You kiss like you slap,” he says, dazed and delighted. “God, you’re a dream—where’re you goin’? No, no, don’t walk away—come back!”

But you are done.

You storm out of the room with a muttered, “Pervert,” and the sound of your bare feet on hardwood.

He calls after you, pitiful as a stray dog in the rain.

“Sugar! C’mon! Don’t go cold on me now—we were havin’ a moment! I’m injured! I’m biscuitless!”

Silence.

Then—

Click.

That distinct, unmistakable sound.

He stiffens.

You step back into the doorway holding Meemaw’s double-barrel shotgun like it’s part of your Sunday best. Hair mussed. Cheeks flushed. Voice calm as a lullaby soaked in arsenic.

“You put your mouth on me again without askin’, I’ll be scrapin’ you off the porch with a shovel.”

Mark goes perfectly still.

Then his smile spreads again, wide and wicked. “Oh my god. You are my dream girl.”

You raise the barrel a fraction. “Test me.”

He lifts both hands, still grinning like this is a honeymoon, not a warning. “Alright, alright—I’m behavin’. I swear. Just—leave the shotgun. For ambiance.”

You slam the door on your way out.

His grin doesn’t falter. Not even a little.

“... God I love this place.”

[usagii-bun]

𝐝𝐫.𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ‧₊˚ (fluff)

╰┈➤ fem reader. reader is haitham’s patient (this may be a bit self indulgent hehe). mild flirting. fluff. attempt at comedy, just a drabble ig, i love alhaitham fr— just wanted to write something small before disappearing again ehe. masterlist

The first time you met Dr. Alhaitham, he walked in like a problem you weren’t ready to solve.

The door eased open with a soft click, and you barely had a second to breathe before he stepped through. And just like that, every rational thought in your head short-circuited.

He was tall—so tall—and built like the universe had carefully balanced strength and elegance just for him. His white coat hung open, effortlessly draped over broad shoulders, the fabric swaying slightly with each step like it knew how lucky it was. Underneath, his black button up shirt fit too well and his tie perfectly in place.

But it was his face that hit the hardest.

Angular jaw. Perfectly cut cheekbones. Lips set in a neutral line that looked like they’d never curve into anything as mundane as a smile. His hair—a soft grey, slightly tousled like he'd run a hand through it absentmindedly—framed his face with just enough dishevelment to be maddening.

And then his eyes met yours.

Cool, turquoise irises - pupils rimmed with amber. Focused. Sharp. Like a lens sliding into place. He looked at you—not through you, not past you, but at you—and your brain promptly melted into static.

You forgot how to sit properly.

You shifted on the exam table and winced at the ridiculously loud crinkle of the paper beneath you. Great. Smooth. Very dignified.

He glanced down at his tablet. “Name?”

You mumbled it. Or at least, you think you did. Your mouth moved, and he didn’t ask again, so that was something.

His gaze flicked up again, this time assessing. “Hm.”

Just hm.

You wanted to die. Or be swallowed whole by the earth. Or maybe just crawl under the table and never come out again.

He walked closer, writing a few things down, entirely unfazed. His presence filled the room with a kind of quiet intensity, like a thunderstorm just waiting to happen. He asked clinical questions in a deep, calm voice that was way too smooth for your current state of mind.

When he stepped beside you and reached for your wrist, you nearly levitated off the table.

His fingers were precise, cool, steady as they pressed against your skin. Meanwhile, you were vibrating at a frequency only small rodents could hear.

“Pulse is elevated,” he said absently, glancing at the numbers. “Unusual.”

You cleared your throat. “I’m—uh. Just—nervous.”

“I assumed,” he replied, flatly. “Though I haven’t done anything yet.”

Oh my god.

Was that deadpan sarcasm? Was that dry humour? From him?

Your face burned. You could feel the flush rising like a tidal wave, heat crawling up your neck and settling in your ears.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you again. Not with empathy. Not with judgment. Just that same unreadable curiosity, like you were a particularly odd research sample.

“Try to relax. You're only making it worse.”

You let out a high-pitched laugh that did not help your case.

He returned to his notes without another word, cool and methodical as he moved through the rest of the exam. Every brush of contact was maddening. He was so calm, so put-together, while you were over here trying not to pass out from sheer mortification.

Finally, he stepped back and moved to the door.

He paused there, one hand on the handle.

“You should drink more water,” he said, still not looking back. “And maybe avoid overly stimulating environments.”

Then, after a beat—so soft you almost missed it:

“Charismatic doctors included.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

You sat there, frozen, heart racing like you'd just run a marathon on zero sleep and five cups of coffee.

You buried your burning face in your hands.

You were so, so doomed.

The second time you met Dr. Alhaitham, you told yourself it was just a check-up. Just routine. Just to confirm you’re healthy. That’s all.

You definitely didn’t fix your hair twice in the waiting room. Or rehearse what you’d say if he asked anything personal. Or almost chicken out at the front desk.

And then… there he is again.

Same white coat. Same unreadable face. Clipboard in hand. He doesn’t smile. He nods. That’s it. Like you’re a piece of data.

“Still having the same symptoms?” he asks, setting his pen against paper, eyes flicking up for half a second.

“No,” you say too quickly. “I mean—yes. I mean—sort of?” You feel the shame rise like steam in your face. Be normal, you beg yourself silently. Be a normal human.

His brow furrows. “That’s… not very clear.” He’s not being rude. He’s just direct. His voice is so flat, so serious, it makes you squirm.

You try to say something coherent while he approaches with the stethoscope. And then it happens again—he touches your wrist to take your pulse.

Immediate panic.

He blinks. “Still elevated.”

“It’s warm in here,” you blurt.

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s… twenty-two degrees Celsius.”

You die. Right there. He probably thinks you’re about to pass out. Or lying. Or both. Meanwhile, he’s moving through the appointment like you’re not experiencing a romantic crisis every time he breathes near you.

“You’re giggling,” he says, suddenly.

You freeze. “I’m—not!”

He looks up. That same unreadable stare. “You are. It’s fine. Some patients get nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you say way too fast, your voice a squeak now.

He just nods again. “Hmm.”

Hmm.

That’s it. You’re never recovering from this.

Then, as he’s about to leave, he pauses. Flips through his notes.

“You drink enough water now?” he asks without looking at you.

Your stomach flips. He remembered.

You nod.

“Good,” he says. Still serious. Still calm. Still a walking paradox of soft hands and distant eyes. “You seem better. Maybe next time, you won’t giggle.”

And then he leaves.

And you sit there.

Absolutely gone.

The third time you met Dr. Alhaitham, you weren’t supposed to be here. You just needed toothpaste. That’s all. One boring little errand.

You’re in your softest hoodie, your least presentable state, and you’re standing in the pharmacy aisle, zoning out while debating between two brands of lip balm—because clearly, your life is thrilling.

And then, you hear it. That voice. Calm, low, quiet—but unmistakable.

“Excuse me.”

You turn.

It’s him.

Your doctor. In a black button-up and fitted trousers. No white coat. No clipboard. No clinical detachment to protect you.

Just… him. Hair slightly tousled. Glasses pushed up on his nose. Holding a box of vitamins like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

You nearly drop your chapstick.

“Oh,” you say. Too loudly. Too high-pitched. “Hi.”

His eyes land on you, calm as ever, and he nods like it’s perfectly normal that the man you’ve been lowkey fantasizing about is now standing three feet away by the travel-size shampoo.

“I remember you,” he says, flatly. Not unkind. Just observant.

You nearly ascend. “Uh—yeah. I’m… still hydrated.”

A pause. The corner of his mouth twitches. Twitches.

“That’s good,” he says, and somehow it sounds like a compliment.

You just stare. Like an idiot. Because he’s wearing a real person outfit. And his sleeves are rolled up. And his forearms exist. And he’s not doing anything wrong, but you’re actively malfunctioning.

He glances down at the item in his hand, then holds it up. “Do you know if these actually help? I’ve read mixed studies on the absorption rate.”

He’s asking you. For an opinion. On vitamins. And you’re trying to remember how to form a sentence.

“I—I mean, I just… get the gummies,” you say.

He actually blinks. “Gummies?”

You nod. “They’re easier to… chew?”

Another pause. And then, a quiet, rare sound: a soft huff of amusement. You don’t even think it’s a laugh. But it’s close enough to make your chest burst like a firework.

“You’re different outside the clinic,” he says simply.

You panic. “Is that bad?”

“No,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Just… surprising.”

Your heartbeat is in your ears.

You manage a half-smile. “You’re different too.”

He tilts his head. “How so?”

“You… have forearms.”

His eyebrows go up. You want to eat the floor.

“I mean—not that I think about your forearms—I just—”

He’s watching you. Quiet. Sharp. Then he says, very calmly:

“You’re blushing again.”

You wish for lightning to strike you on the spot. He adjusts the box in his hand like this is all very standard and unremarkable.

And then, as casually as anything:

“I’ll remember the gummies next time.”

And he walks away.

Leaving you standing there like a disaster in a hoodie, holding two kinds of lip balm and a pounding heart.

The fouth time you met Dr. Alhaitham, the waiting room is cold again, or maybe you’re just more sensitive today. You clutch your jacket tighter, feeling that weird mix of dizzy and tired that’s been creeping up for days. You told yourself it was nothing—just stress, maybe. But now you’re here again.

The nurse calls your name, and your heart skips. Because you already know who’s going to be behind that door.

You step into the exam room and sit down, and sure enough—there he is. Doctor Serious. Doctor Calm. Doctor devastating.

Except this time, his eyes linger longer when he sees you.

“You don’t look well,” he says immediately.

You blink. “Gee, thanks.” why do you think I am here ? well it is also to stare at your gorgeous face but I am not going to disclose that to you.

His brow lifts. You didn’t mean to sound so sarcastic. But your voice is quieter than usual, and your usual panic feels dulled by how out-of-it you feel. He steps closer, watching you carefully.

“Dizzy spells?” he asks, sitting down across from you. “Headaches?”

You nod. “Yeah. And I feel kinda tired all the time. Like… weirdly tired.”

He watches you. Really watches you. “Have you been eating regularly?”

You hesitate. “Um. I mean. Mostly. Maybe not perfectly.”

“Have you fainted?”

“No,” you say. “I just… feel like a dying Victorian woman sometimes.”

That earns a real reaction: a soft exhale, not quite a laugh—but the closest you’ve ever gotten. He looks at you again, like he’s trying to read through your jokes.

“Victorian woman,” he echoes.

You shrug weakly. “I’d look really cute collapsing into someone’s arms.”

His lips twitch. “Let’s avoid collapsing for now.”

He runs a few tests, checking your pulse again—so gently—and this time when your heart spikes, he doesn’t even comment on it. He just looks at you, a bit more quietly than usual.

“Your iron might be low,” he says. “Have you been on your period recently?”

You blink. “Why would you—how’d you—?”

“You’ve been here before,” he says simply. “You were flushed and talkative. Now you’re pale and slow to respond.”

You stare. “So you… remember me that well?”

He doesn’t answer. Just writes something into his file.

And then, suddenly, he says:

“You were at the pharmacy the other day.”

Your stomach flips. “Yeah.”

“I bought the gummies,” he says.

You blink. “Did they change your life?”

“Not yet,” he murmurs, writing something down. Then: “I don’t usually see patients outside the clinic.”

You don’t know what to say. He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, but his voice is… softer.

“I just mean,” he says slowly, “you’re different. Less anxious today. Or maybe just tired.”

He looks up, and for the first time, there’s something like concern in his eyes.

“I want you to get a blood test,” he says. “I’ll write a referral.”

You nod, barely processing, because all you can focus on is the way he’s not looking at you like you’re a puzzle anymore. He’s looking at you like he actually… cares - well he is a doctor it is his job to treat you, his patient and to care for you as his patient.

And when you stand up to leave, a little wobbly on your feet, he places a hand gently—so gently—at your elbow.

“Careful,” he says. “You’re still a little pale.”

You look up at him.

“Will you be there when I collapse dramatically?” you ask, trying to joke through the fog in your head.

He doesn’t smile. But his voice is quieter than ever when he replies:

“Always.”

And then he lets go.

part 2

usagii's note ‧₊˚

welp, ill write another part tmr when i come back from college, ugh i love haitham, i wish he was real ssksjkjskjs

[heliosunny]

May I request yandere ranpo with a brat reader? I feel like this is brat on brat crime... Give it ur best if you do accept!!

Dueling brats

Yandere!Ranpo x Reader

Another night, another perfect crime. You had slipped through security like a ghost, leaving behind only the faintest traces of your presence. So far, no one had come close. But now, the police had called in their so-called “greatest detective.”

Edogawa Ranpo

You had heard of him, of course. Arrogant, annoying, infuriatingly skilled. But you weren’t worried. After all, no one had ever caught you before. Why should that change now?

Dressed in your best disguise, you strolled confidently onto the crime scene, an old man at your side. "Ah, what a shame" your so-called mentor sighed dramatically, squinting at the wreckage left behind. "Another case to crack. Lucky for them, we’re here!"

“Yeah, yeah, old man. Let’s hurry this up before some amateur steals the credit.” You smirked, brushing past officers.

And that’s when you saw him.

A smug-looking man, perched lazily near the evidence.

“Oh?” he drawled, tilting his head as he finally gave you his full attention. “Who let this little troublemaker in?”

“You tell me, oh great detective.”

For a moment, there was silence—a battle of wills as you both sized each other up. And then, at the same time, you both scoffed, turning away with exaggerated shrugs.

“I bet I’ll solve it first” you declared.

Ranpo grinned, “Oh, you’re on.”

And so, the game began.

From the moment the competition started, you made it your personal mission to be the biggest thorn in Ranpo’s side.

Every time he bent down to examine a clue, you’d conveniently “trip” and bump into him, knocking him off balance.

“Oops, sorry,” you hummed with zero sincerity, stepping right in front of him to inspect the same evidence he was looking at. “Guess I got here first.”

Ranpo huffed, crossing his arms. “As if you even know what you’re looking at.”

“Of course I do,” you said, squinting at a footprint on the floor. “This print belongs to someone who… has feet.”

“Oh wow, brilliant deduction. Maybe I should retire.”

“Maybe you should.” you teased.

Whenever he started explaining something—piecing together the crime with his so-called “superior intellect”—you’d interrupt with exaggerated gasps and nods.

“Ah, yes! Of course! The criminal must have—” You gasped again. “—HANDS!”

“Do you want me to throw you out with my precious hands?”

“You could, but that would mean admitting you can’t handle a little competition.”

“Fine. Stay.”

You promptly crouched beside him and tapped his shoe.

“Hey!”

“Just checking if you have feet too” you said, barely holding back a laugh.

It was so much fun getting under his skin.

The battle continued for nearly an hour—Ranpo doing his best to ignore you, you making that task impossible. If he leaned in to look at something, you leaned in closer. If he tried to talk to an officer, you cut in with a ridiculous theory just to throw him off.

Finally, just as you were about to make another snarky remark, your old mentor called your name.

“Time to go, kid.”

“Eh? Already?”

“Yeah, yeah. I let you play long enough.” The old man waved lazily. “Let’s go.”

You stretched your arms with an exaggerated groan. “Fine, fine. Looks like I’ll have to leave the case to the second best detective here.” You shot Ranpo a teasing grin.

Wait.

What did the old man say?

His gaze sharpened as he processed the realization. You weren’t a detective.

You were the thief.

He had been so caught up in bickering with you, so entertained by your antics, that he had wasted time—precious time—when he could have caught you right then and there.

By the time he shot to his feet, you were already disappearing into the distance, giving him one last playful wave before vanishing into the crowd.

Now that he knew who you were, there was no escaping him.

When Ranpo stormed into the Armed Detective Agency, he looked downright pissed.

The moment he walked in, Fukuzawa raised an eyebrow, Kunikida nearly dropped his clipboard, and Atsushi froze mid-step.

“Whoa,” Atsushi blinked. “Ranpo-san, are you okay?”

“No,” Ranpo grumbled, throwing himself onto the couch and crossing his arms. He was sulking—hard. “I was this close to catching them. This close!”

Kunikida adjusted his glasses. “Them?”

Ranpo huffed, glaring at nothing in particular. “That brat—that annoying, infuriating, sassy little thief!”

That caught Dazai’s attention. He grinned, leaning forward. “Oho~? A thief? Since when do you let criminals escape, Ranpo-kun?”

“I didn’t let them escape! They distracted me!” Ranpo snapped. “I was too busy dealing with their nonsense to realize who they really were!”

Dazai blinked, then burst out laughing. “Wait, wait, you—the great and mighty Ranpo—got tricked?”

“It’s not funny!” Ranpo whined. “Every five seconds, they had some dumb comment, or some annoying little trick to get on my nerves!” He groaned, gripping his hair. “And I fell for it!”

They had never seen Ranpo this frustrated before.

Ranpo scowled. “They’re a menace. A real brat. Kept interrupting me, getting in my way, acting like they were smarter than me—”

Dazai’s smirk only grew. “Sounds like someone I know~.”

Ranpo shot him a deadly glare.

Kunikida pinched the bridge of his nose. “So, let me get this straight. A thief you were supposed to catch managed to completely throw you off, and you’re mad because…?”

“Because I didn’t get to keep them.”

Silence.

Atsushi paled. “Uh… what?”

Ranpo realized what he just said and quickly backtracked. “I mean—I didn’t get to catch them! That’s what I meant!”

Dazai hummed. “Uh-huh. Sure~.”

Yes, you had escaped. Yes, you had annoyed the hell out of him. But that wasn’t what was bothering him the most.

No, what really pissed him off…

Was that he had actually liked it.

Ranpo was no fool. If you thought you could just slip through his fingers and disappear, you were dead wrong.

Because the moment you left that crime scene, he had already begun piecing together your next move.

You were a creature of habit—despite your playful tricks, there was a pattern hidden in your crimes. Ranpo saw it instantly. The kind of locations you picked, the escape routes, even the timing of your heists—it all led to one conclusion.

He knew exactly where you’d strike next.

So he set the perfect trap.

And when you did show up, he was already waiting.

One moment, you were mid-heist, about to swipe a particularly valuable piece, and the next—bam—everything went dark.

Now, you were here.

And “here” was… not a police station. Not an interrogation room.

Instead, you were in a strange room, sitting in a chair, hands tied—with a ridiculous amount of care, might you add.

And standing before you, looking far too smug for your liking…

Was Ranpo.

“Rise and shine” he drawled, popping a piece of candy into his mouth. “Did you sleep well?”

You tugged at your restraints, glaring. “You ass.”

Ranpo smirked, crouching to your level. “Oh, you have no idea how much trouble you’re in.”

You scoffed. “Oh nooo, am I gonna be arrested? How scary.”

“Arrested? Oh, no no no. The police aren’t coming.”

“…What?”

“I didn’t tell them.” He grinned. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“That’s—stupid.”

Ranpo tapped his chin. “Hmm… No, I think it’s brilliant. You humiliated me, got in my way, wasted my time—so now? I get my revenge.”

“You’re not the first person who’s tried to get revenge on me, detective.”

Ranpo leaned in, so close that you could see the wicked amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Yeah?” he whispered. “And how many of them were as smart as me?”

Your smirk returned. “None. But I always won.”

You snapped your wrists at just the right angle, the ropes slipped free.

Ranpo barely had time to react before you lunged.

For the second time, you had escaped.

And Ranpo?

He was obsessed.

No one had ever gotten away from him once, let alone twice. And the way you did it? With that smug little smirk, that teasing glint in your eye?

It drove him insane.

So now, he laid flat on the couch at the Armed Detective Agency, staring at the ceiling, ignoring everyone.

"Ranpo, if you’re not going to work, at least sit properly" Kunikida sighed.

"Too tired" Ranpo mumbled, taking out a lollipop.

"You're just sulking" Atsushi muttered under his breath, hoping Ranpo couldn't hear it.

Ranpo rolled onto his side, scowling. "I am not sulking."

"You are," Dazai chimed in, grinning. "Let me guess—you still can’t get over that thief?"

Ranpo clicked his tongue, glaring at nothing in particular.

Because yeah, actually, he couldn’t.

Before he could reply, the phone rang.

Kunikida picked up, nodding along before sighing. "Another theft case. Ranpo, do you—"

"Yes!" Ranpo answered instantly, sitting up.

Everyone blinked.

Atsushi raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."

"If it’s them, I have to be there."

If it’s you.

But it wasn’t.

The case was nothing special—just a standard robbery with a very predictable culprit. Ranpo solved it in mere minutes, barely paying attention as he listed out the thief’s exact actions.

It wasn’t fun when it wasn’t you.

Still, he played along, gave the police their answer, and waved off their gratitude. He was already bored again.

Out of the corner of his eye—

A familiar figure.

It was you.

There, across the street, blending effortlessly into the crowd.

His heart thrummed.

You turned slightly—just enough for your gaze to meet his.

For a split second, surprise flickered in your eyes.

And then you turned—vanishing into the crowd.

Oh, no you don’t.

Ranpo ran.

His hat nearly flew off, his coat flared behind him, but he didn’t care. He dodged between people, eyes locked onto your figure as you weaved through the streets, always just out of reach.

Ranpo was so close.

Every time he thought he lost you, there you were again—a flash of your coat, a flicker of movement, that maddeningly smug grin when you glanced back at him.

You knew he was right behind you, and you loved it.

His lips curled in amusement despite himself.

It didn’t matter. You could play your little game, but he was going to win.

He picked up speed, expertly weaving through the busy streets, dodging past distracted pedestrians. Just a little closer—just a little more—

"Ranpo!"

Someone grabbed him.

Ranpo stumbled to a stop as a hand clamped onto his shoulder. He nearly snapped at whoever it was until he looked up—

Yosano.

Ranpo barely resisted the urge to groan.

"Where have you been?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Kunikida's been yelling about you skipping reports again."

Ranpo tensed, glancing past her, scanning the crowd frantically.

You were gone.

"What are you looking—"

Without a word, he spun on his heel and stormed off, stuffing his hands in his pockets, grumbling under his breath.

Ranpo didn’t talk about it when he got back to the agency, but everyone could tell he was sulking, again. He barely spoke, barely moved, just laid on the couch.

By the time the sun set, he had a plan.

If you wouldn’t come to him—

He’d make sure you had to.

-----

He rented an apartment, arranged precisely like those crime scenes you loved so much. Everything in its place—just subtle enough for someone as smart as you to notice.

Now all he had to do…

Was wait.

----

Ranpo sat at his desk, lazily sucking on a piece of candy, gaze flickering to the clock.

Any moment now.

The waiting was the hardest part. Knowing you would come, but not when.

There you are.

Ranpo took his time. Let you think you were in control. Let you wander, let you wonder if you were actually one step ahead.

The second you reached the center of the room—

The lights flickered on.

“Gotcha.”

You froze for only half a second before spinning on your heel—only to find Ranpo casually perched on the edge of his desk, grinning like a cat with its paw on a trapped mouse’s tail.

“Took you long enough. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Your lips curled into a smirk. “I was. Had to see if you were as clever as you think you are.”

Ranpo chuckled, slipping off the desk, taking a slow step forward. “And? What’s your verdict?”

You let your gaze flicker around the room, noting the meticulous setup. The positioning of objects, the way it perfectly mirrored previous heists—every little detail designed to lure you in.

“I’ll admit,” you said, “Not bad.”

“Only not bad? C’mon, I deserve better than that.”

You clicked your tongue. “Mmm… Maybe.”

“Well, you lost.”

“Oh nooo~,” you mocked, voice dripping with fake fear. “What ever will I do? The great Edogawa Ranpo finally caught me.”

Ranpo chuckled, reaching into his coat pocket. “Mhm. And now, I’m going to take you in.”

“To the police?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Obviously not.”

You didn’t have time to question more than that before he suddenly flicked something at you—a small, wrapped piece of candy.

“Your last meal before I lock you up”

“Oh, how kind.” You unwrapped it dramatically and popped it into your mouth, letting the sugar melt on your tongue. “Tastes like victory.”

“Does it?”

He struck like lightning, barring your path before you could even flinch. You sidestepped at the last second—nearly too late. His fingertips skimmed your sleeve as you spun away, putting the desk between you.

“Come on, don’t make this boring.”

“Oh, never,” you shot back, grinning.

You darted for the door.

Ranpo was faster.

Just as you reached for the handle, something clicked.

You yanked.

The door didn’t budge.

Ranpo chuckled, casually twirling a key around his finger.

“Oops~,” he cooed. “Did I forget to mention? The door locks from the inside.”

“Wow, you really are desperate,” you teased, masking the shift in the air. “What’s next? A cage? A collar?”

He tapped his chin, pretending to think. “Well… now that you mention it—”

You took a step back, and he took a step forward.

The playfulness in his eyes was still there, but beneath it—lurking just underneath—was something else entirely.

“Ranpo—”

“Shhh. You lost.”

You realized you might actually be in trouble.

You were trapped.

“I have to admit,” you said, carefully watching his every movement. “This is a step up. You’ve really thought this through, huh?”

Ranpo’s grin widened. “Of course.”

You clicked your tongue. Fine. You’d just have to outthink him.

Your eyes flickered around the room, looking for anything you could use.

The window—too high. The furniture—nothing you could easily break through.

Your best bet was to distract him.

“Alright, alright. I admit it—you got me. I should’ve been more careful.”

You sighed dramatically, stepping back. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to wait for my grand escape. But since I’m stuck here for now, might as well get comfortable.”

You moved to lean against the desk—casual, relaxed. But in reality? You were positioning yourself right next to a pen.

Ranpo noticed.

His gaze flickered to your hand, then back to your face. He knew what you were doing.

And yet—

He didn’t stop you.

Your fingers curled around the pen.

You spun, aiming to jab the pen at him—

Except.

Ranpo already knew.

Before you could even blink, he caught your wrist.

“You really thought that would work?”

You tried to twist free—nothing. He didn’t budge.

"Not bad for a brainiac—didn’t know you had this much muscle."

He swept your legs out from under you.

The world tilted—your back hit the desk—Ranpo pinned you before you could even think of recovering.

"Wow, thanks. I’ll add ‘surprisingly strong’ to my resume."

Your wrist was still caught in his grip, your other hand pinned under his weight. You struggled, twisting, but—

It was useless.

“…Told you,” he murmured. “You lost.”

Every escape route? Gone. Every trick up your sleeve? Anticipated.

Ranpo knew you.

And that meant he knew exactly how to break you down.

Still, you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction just yet.

“Alright, alright. I admit it—you got me.”

Ranpo hummed, clearly pleased. “Mhm~.”

You rolled your eyes. “So what now? You gonna interrogate me? Tie me to a chair? What’s your master plan?”

Without a word, he reached into his pocket—

And pulled out a lollipop.

Your brows furrowed. "Someone’s got a sugar addiction, I see."

He just grinned, unwrapping it with a lazy flick of his wrist. “What? Sugar runs in my veins.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. But, after a moment, you scoffed. “Fine. If this is some weird attempt to butter me up, I’ll take it.”

Ranpo watched you as he gave you the lollipop.

And then—

Before you could pull away, he grasped the stick of the lollipop—

And plucked it right from your mouth.

Ranpo smirked, twirling the lollipop between his fingers.

You stared at him, incredulous. “...Did you just—”

“What? You already had a taste. My turn.”

“Oh? What’s with that look?” he teased. “Did you think I was just gonna let you enjoy it?”

You clenched your jaw, irritation bubbling. “You really get on my nerves, you know that?”

Ranpo chuckled. “Mhm~ Don't care~”

“You know, if I really wanted to escape, I could just—I could just turn myself in. The police would be easier to deal with than you.”

The second the words left your mouth—

You felt it.

The air in the room shifted.

You couldn’t name the look in his eyes.

“…What?” you scoffed, forcing a chuckle. “Don’t like that idea?”

Ranpo didn’t answer immediately.

“That’s not funny”

But there was nothing lighthearted about it.

You swallowed, but kept your composure. “Who said I was joking?”

“You don’t really want to turn yourself in, do you?”

You hesitated—just for a second. But that second was enough.

“Thought so.”

You clenched your jaw. “And if I did?”

“Let’s make something very clear,” he murmured, “You’re not going anywhere. Not to the police. Not away from me.”

Ranpo flashed his trademark smile, the one that fooled people into thinking he was harmless.

“I won, remember?”

This wasn’t just a game to him.

It never was.

“And I want you to be mine!”

[sugardollcurse]

Can you do something for a reader with an odd name? :3 like something you would have never hear of it’s so odd,

(Preferably with Paulie or all the Bugs but ya don’t gotta if you have another idea for it! ^u^)

𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔 & 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒅𝒅 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆

꒰ pairings ꒱ paul mccartney x reader, john lennon x reader, george harrison x reader, ringo starr x reader

꒰ note ꒱ this is such a cute idea!!! thank yew for requesting :3

�� JOHN ꒱

"You're daft, you know that? Suits the name. You're both completely outta your tree."

The first time he heard your name, he blinked at you like you were fucking with him.

“You’re havin’ a laugh, right? That’s yer real name? Christ.”

He loved it instantly.

The oddness made it feel like you were part of some secret language.

Constantly bastardizes it into absurd nicknames; adds “-y” or “-o” or “-arse” to the end until it barely resembles the original.

Pretends he’s offended when you don’t immediately catch it if he butchers your name into new and increasingly absurd forms.

“Tch, don’t y’know yer own bloody name by now?”

If he’s feeling especially cheeky, he introduces you to strangers with your real name but says it so deadpan and serious that they think they’re the weird ones for blinking.

But over time, it turns into a thing. He actually gets protective about it. “Hey! Only I can take the piss, alright?”

Jokes about getting it tattooed on his ass

“So it’ll always be behind me, har har”

꒰ PAUL ꒱

“So... posh, innit? Sounds like some fancy film star I’d be too scared to talk to.”

Tries so hard to act casual about it the first time you introduce yourself but completely fails.

His eyebrows shoot up halfway to his hairline.

“Oh, that’s… lovely! Very… unique, yeah!”

Gets very attached to it quickly.

Like, dangerously fast.

Won’t shut up about how “it suits you.”

Starts calling you gentle, funny pet names based on your name.

Weirdly proud of being the only one to come up with a song lyric that rhymes with your name. Forces it into a verse.

Will not stop asking questions about where it comes from.

Is it a family name? Something made up? What does it mean?

(Even if it means nothing, he insists it must mean something now.)

Gets teased by the boys for how often he says it.

George: “You gonna marry the name or the person, then?”

If anyone ever pokes fun at it he’s immediately defensive.

“Oh yeah? What’s your name then? Colin? Get over yourself.”

꒰ GEORGE ꒱

“I like it. It’s like something you’d name a cloud."

Raises an eyebrow the first time he hears it.

Goes “…Is that real?” with his nose all scrunched.

Not in a rude way, he’s just genuinely puzzled. Intrigued.

Once you confirm it, he’ll give a tiny nod and just accept it without question. Doesn’t matter how weird it is.

Finds obscure, deeply spiritual meanings for it even if none exist.

Keeps a page in his journal where he’s just written it over and over again like a boy with a crush.

Has a weird pet-name spin on it that only he uses.

It makes no sense.

You ask him why and he shrugs.

One time a reporter scoffed at your name and George just deadpanned, “What, and ‘George’ is supposed to be sexy?”

He likes that your name is peculiar.

It's not flashy-peculiar. It's not “spotlight” strange. It’s quiet weird. Softly feral.

Once he writes it out in marker on the back of his hand. When you ask why,

“Looks good there.”

꒰ RINGO ꒱

“If anyone’s got a name like a star, it’s you.”

His eyebrows shoot up when he hears it. “Eh?? Say again?”

Writes it inside his drum kit case.

You find it scrawled in marker with a heart next to it.

Starts making up weird folklore about you.

Gives you about 20 different nicknames based on it. Most of them don’t even sound like your name anymore.

So.. yeah, immediate nickname guy.

But he always circles back to your real name, like a little treat.

Once bought you a bracelet with your name engraved wrong. Pretended it was intentional.

Adores that it’s odd.

Says it like it’s candy in his mouth. Sings it. Uses it in sentences where it doesn’t belong.

In bed, he says it low and warm into your neck.

He adds "my" in front of it and suddenly it sounds like the most natural name in the world.

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