#CADENCE COME HOME

[murderofsomeone]

I miss my wife tails. I miss her a lot

[ostwitchsheart]

Why did my brain randomly dump story lore on me. Do you really want me to make a sad one piece ripoff

[fallloverfic]

"Scarlet Morning" by ND Stevenson - new prose novel to release September 23, 2025

ND Stevenson is releasing a new prose novel! You can order here.

Summary: "From the powerhouse creator of Nimona comes a breathtaking illustrated novel following two orphans who leave the only home they’ve ever known to sail with an eccentric crew of pirates.

Viola and Wilmur have been waiting for their parents for fifteen boring years in the colorless town of Caveat. Their lives are a drudge of salt, trash, pirate stories, and what-ifs . . . until one very stormy night, when Captain Cadence Chase breaks down their door. They cut a deal with the captain: Chase can take their most prized possession, a mysterious book, but only if she takes them, too. After all, if their parents aren’t coming, Viola and Wilmur might as well have a grand adventure to find them.

Setting sail into the treacherous and beautiful world beyond Caveat, the two inseparable friends must uncover the facts behind legend—and the key to saving all of Dickerson’s Sea from obliteration—before the truth tears them apart.

Wickedly funny, deeply emotional, and sharply incisive, Scarlet Morning is a tale of love, betrayal, and the extraordinary lengths we’d go to save a world broken beyond repair."

Nate promos: Blue Sky, Twitter, Instagram

International orders

Nate's blog, Nate's tumblr

[ohcaptains]

knuckle velvet

synopsis. he walks you home, then lets himself in.

pairing. logan howlett x f!reader. tags. [18+] dubious consent, vaginal penetration, female receiving oral sex, spitting. honey don't feed it, it'll come back type beat.

Some deep part of Canada, where everything was white. Snowstorms that swarmed through the sky, and the only warmth you could find came from the bottom of a bottle.

The wood floor of the sticky bar you worked in was soaked from frost covered boots – haphazardly scraped across the welcome mat, owners preoccupied with getting their first drink than keeping the place tidy.

You existed there, behind the bar that patrons lent against, like a metal cage with leering onlookers. They paid in drinks, but you took the money home as tips, your warmth stoked in a fireplace.

How you’d ended up there in that forgotten part of the world, you didn’t know.

Perhaps you’d followed a narrow path, one strung out with thorns and rubbish, but the money was okay.

When it got slow, and there wasn’t much else to do, your boss let you read a bit, too, while you sipped on your endless supply of Coca-Cola.

At the end of your shift, your teeth were fuzzy from all the sugar. 

An easy existence, but some nights, the patrons got too friendly.

They were fresh off their trucks, looking for some place warm to bury for the night, but you weren’t offering.

So, you’d peer at them, watch them make a fool of themselves as they spewed putrid words in your general direction – alcohol and lack of sleep causing the floor to sway from beneath their feet.

It was always the new boys who would try it.

Risk it all for a chance between your thighs, unaware of the hound sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a whiskey and a vendetta.

The first time he fought for you, the air had changed. Gone cloudy with the chance of a brawl – that sixth sense that all bartenders have switching on.

“Lady said no, ain’t she?” he bellowed from across the bar.

The voice thick with smoke and alcohol, you recognised him as the guy who’d been drinking whiskey all night, but he was as sober as a nun. No stumble to his step, or slur to his cadence, either.

He was built like an oak tree. You noticed when you served him. Slid him his drink and gazed at the sheer bulk of him. At the weathered, handsome age to his face, to the spray of grey in his brown hair.

His thick arms were snugly buried under a button up shirt, and you didn’t see, but rather imagined, the way his muscular legs were stuffed into jeans, and the way his size 12’s rested against the hardwood.

His eyes though, were hiding something. Milky brown concealing his curiosity – easily done with the hard panes of his face.

You imagined letting him take you home, and you thought about being friendly, before a whisper in the back of your cranium told you to back off.

Perhaps safer.

You didn’t know where this man had come from, let alone where he’d been. So, you continued to serve him drinks, and tried to ignore the quiet hum of his presence, until the hum turned to a crash.

The patron was scorned. He paused, and turned to the end of the bar, where the brown eyed stranger was waiting. “What’s it to you?” he slurred.

But the man with the whiskey wasn’t looking to him. He sipped his drink, and said, “she said no. You don’t remember your manners?”

The bar adorned an eerie quiet. Nerves sat low in your belly, heart picking up speed.   “This guy serious?” he asked you.

You went to say something, but he was already throwing words at the stranger.

“She yours or something?” “It matter?” “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” The stranger scoffed, and brought his drink to his lips, “whatever bub.”

“We got a problem?” the man uttered, stalking towards him, but his friend took him by the arm and whispered something in his ear, forcing him to deflate.

You wondered what he’d uttered. Whether there were rumours about the guy – a reputation you didn’t know about.

Brown eyes didn’t bat an eye when the man and his buddy slid out the door, cold filling the room before the door slammed shut.

The bar exhaled.

People went back to their business, and you thought about it, you really did. Thought about leaving him alone. Going back to your measly existence. Your home – the pit for all of your things.

But it didn’t win over in the end.

You topped up his drink. He took it, and glanced at you, brown eyes ringed with mystery.

“That happen often?” he uttered, voice a gruff grunt.

You put the bottle down, and looked away, thinking back to last week when you nearly fought a guy for staring for too long. You glanced back to him. “Sometimes.” “Your boss is an asshole for letting you work here alone.” “That so?” you laughed, shocked at his candour. He nodded and downed his drink, eyeing you from over the rim.

Finished, he put the glass down on the bar, and shrugged his jacket on. He got up to leave, and you felt a chasm begin to open up in your chest.

You went to say something. Anything, to make him stay. But he paused and looked over his shoulder.

His jaw was clenched when he tentatively offered, “be safe.”

When you locked up, he was waiting for you. 

It didn’t scare you. Really, it should, but when you left the bar and saw him standing there, toking on a cigar in the cold, all it did was make you pause. He stood there, gazing at you, eyes clouded by smoke. 

“You waiting for me?” you uttered, making it real, even if the light drift of snow was giving the world a dream like quality. 

He shrugged. “Just waiting.” 

You nodded, and put the bar keys in your bag, ignoring the chasm get wider. If he was going to rob the place, he’d have to get through layers of receipts and tissues to get in. But you knew the bar wasn’t what he was after. Something about his posture, the luring look in his brown eyes — curious, like he was trying to figure something out. 

You began to walk past him, but when he didn’t follow, you paused. You peered over your shoulder, and he was still looking at you. 

Taking you in. “Well,” you started, hitching your bag up your arm, “you gonna walk me home, or what?” 

He followed you in comfortable silence.

Just you, the night, and the crunch of dirt under his boots. His cigar smoke drifted by, and it wafted through your subconscious, followed by pine, and crisp scent of the snow.

He sounded like the noise of the woods — ever present in these parts. A comfort, if one had adapted to its unpredictability. When you got to your familiar walkway, you opened the gate, but he didn’t follow you through.

Instead, he stood by the entrance, watching you unlock your door like he’d just dropped you off from a date. it was when you were halfway through that he spoke up. “You work every night?”

“Yeah,” you started quickly, looking to him. “Apart from Wednesday and Sunday.” He considered you, then gave you a sharp nod, and turned to leave.

That’s how you ended up with a wolf at your door.

Every night, he was the last one left, then he silently walked you home.

Some nights, you’d find him leaning against the entrance, and he’d quietly peel away from the door and follow you. At first, he simply walked closely behind, a looming shadow, until he began walking beside you.

Then one night, you let him in.

Made him a cup of coffee to fight off all the liquor he consumed, and he sat at your kitchen table, and drank every drop.

Watched you in the low, fluorescent lighting, and you did the same. Curiously studied him. He looked different in your home. In your kitchen. Looked a little softer around the edges, even if he couldn’t relax completely.

It went like that for a while. It was on one of these nights that he gave you his name, followed by a shitty cup of coffee. Sometimes two. Maybe a biscuit, or a piece of cake. Leftovers turned into home cooked meals. Sat at the kitchen table and watched him eat. Roast beef. Mashed potatoes. Lasagna. Sipped at your cup of tea as he slopped up his pasta, using the back of his hand to wipe the sauce off his mouth.

You left him finishing off his plate to get ready for bed, and it was when you were sorting your hair out, that he came into your bedroom and began taking his boots off.

You stood at your mirror and watched him place them near your door.

Then he reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

One by one, you watched his thick fingers reach the bottom. He took it off, revealing a white tank off and broad chest, and hung the shirt up on your door frame.

Jeans next.

Popped the button and shucked them to his feet -- threw them with his boots and dragged himself towards your bed.  

You went to say something. Anything.

But he looked so exhausted as he crashed onto your frilly bed, that all you could manage was, “You lock the door?”

Logan nodded. His eyes were already closed, and he was hugging the pillow when he uttered, “you coming to bed, or what?”

You let him stay the night.

Maybe it was raining, maybe he was too tired – it didn’t matter. All that mattered, was that he was warm, and sometimes, when you woke and felt the terrifying ache of being alive, he’d be there to quiet the pain.

Hush you with the soft swell of his lips and wandering hands.

You’d come with a hushed whisper, hot and sticky over his calloused fingers -- drowsy from how high he took you. Then he’d kiss you, fix your clothes, and go back to sleep.

Always the middle of the night. When it was dark and quiet out, and it felt as if you were the last people alive.

His skilled hands bringing you to the brink, a soft kiss, then back to bed.

You would wait for it. Watch him nurse his whiskey at the end of the bar, the night dragging with every drink you poured. Then, he watched you lock up.

Waited at the door for you, so you could walk home together, wordlessly taking the familiar trail.

He’d eat, you’d watch, then leave for your room.

Once, you woke to his head between your thighs. The night was quiet, room dark – slither of moonlight from your window cutting a line through your bodies.

You were slick with sweat, and as you flexed your taunt muscles, they fizzled and singed. Hot heat pushed low in your belly, rooted between your thighs.

Logan hummed, and you reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, whimpering his name to grab his attention.

He had palm fulls of you. Fists of your thighs, soft of your belly, leaving marks with his desire – desperation. The first thing he did was apologise. Muttered a hoarse, m’sorry, into your soaking cunt, but continued tasting you.

You used his hair as leverage, and hitched your hips up an inch, causing his nose to bump into your sensitive clit, and you hissed, as if in pain, but the sound trailed off into something similar to his name, and Logan grunted, moving your hips further up so he could twist a thick finger inside.

You took all he gave.

Moaned into the pillow beside you as you rocked your hips against his face, soaking his nose and mouth. Said shit you didn’t mean, but meant all the same, and Logan got off on it.

This mysterious man who had taken over your life, grunted your name like it belonged to him. Made you come on his thick beard and puffy lips, then made you taste yourself as he kissed you.

You hugged his sweat slick frame to you, fingers scratching his scalp, mindlessly grinding against his clothed cock. You were content to just kiss him, until he dragged his fingers between your thighs again.

You startled, gasping into his hot mouth, but Logan hummed, near smiling against your lips.

“’think there’s another in there for me,” he drawled.

When he fucked you, there was so much of him that you went blind with it. Eyes half lidded, delirious as he pushed inside, making himself fit. Stuffing you full, then pulling out, just to feel it all over again.

Again and again. You moaned his name into his soaked, scarred chest. Felt yourself leave your body, so hot, so wet, that it was all sensation. Just the slap of his hips against yours, the feel of his hands on your tits, in your mouth, telling you to open wide.

He spat, and when he missed, he smeared the mess off of your chin and rubbed it into your cunt.

Made you come, then filled you with his own. Leant back, and watched it drip out of you. You were so consumed by him, that you didn’t have enough energy to feel self-conscious.

No, when he had his wild eyes on you, you reached between your thighs and stuffed it back inside.

The next evening, and he was back at the bar, waiting for you to bring him his whiskey. When you placed it in front of him, those wild eyes were on you again.

Waiting. Always waiting.

Waiting to play out your usual routine.

masterlist | ask | reblogs appreciated endlessly

[mrsfancyferrari]

Can you do an imagine about the reader going out with an F1 driver (I imagine Charles or Carlos), where the reader speaks their language, but doesn’t tell them. One day they walk in on the reader talking to someone on the phone in French/ Italian or Spanish respectively, and have a talk about it. Reader was hiding their abilities due to an insecurity about their ability. Alternatively they could be at a restaurant, where the reader is forced to use that language to order something.

Speak Baby

Summary: you are going out with Charles, you can speak his language, but don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.

Song: Heaven and Back · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! Also please follow for more! 🫶

Word count: 3.7k

MASTERLIST - F1

The soft glow of the lamp painted the room in hues of amber and gold, the late afternoon sun already having dipped below the horizon.

You were curled up on the plush armchair, a worn copy of “Les Misérables” resting open in your lap, though your attention was entirely focused on the phone pressed to your ear. The French words flowed effortlessly, a melodic stream of conversation with your cousin, Élise, back in Paris.

Laughter bubbled in your chest as Élise recounted a particularly disastrous attempt to bake macarons, the familiar cadence of your mother tongue a soothing balm to your soul.

"…and then, the oven, mon Dieu, it was like a volcanic eruption of powdered sugar!" Élise’s voice, tinged with dramatic exasperation, crackled through the speaker.

You chuckled, a genuine, unrestrained sound, “You know you should just stick to painting, ma chérie. Baking is not for you.”

"Oh, very funny," she retorted good-naturedly, “But you should have seen it! The cat even had a dusting. Anyway, how is le charmant Charles?"

You paused, a smile playing on your lips. "He's…fine," you said, a soft giggle escaping your throat. "He's been working late again, as usual."

“And still no clue about your… little secret?" Élise teased, the question a whisper of anticipation.

"No," you replied, your voice dropping slightly, a hint of nervousness creeping in. "Absolutely not. It's…it's better this way, Élise. I’m not ready."

You knew that you were holding out on Charles, but the thought of him judging you for your French was an insecurity that had been haunting you for years.

You had always felt like you were not good enough, that your accent was too strong and that your grasp on the language was not as good as it should be, even though you grew up with it.

You always felt the need to hide, to not draw attention to yourself, and so this was how it was with Charles.

It was easier to communicate in English with him, to be safe, even if your heart yearned to speak in the language that made you, you.

"You're being silly, ma belle. He'd be enchanted, I'm sure of it," Élise said, her tone gentle, trying to reassure you.

Just as you were about to respond, a distinct sound reached your ears - the click of the front door. Your heart leaped into your throat. Charles was home.

Panic seized you, and you quickly pressed the “end call” button, the dial tone a sharp, jarring contrast to the lilting French you had been immersed in moments before. You closed the “Les Miserables” book with an audible thud, feigning a casual air.

You straightened yourself in the armchair and tried to look as though you were simply relaxing, a wave of frustration beginning to wash over you for not being able to share this part of yourself with Charles, but also relief because you almost got caught.

"Hey," Charles said, his voice laced with that endearing weariness you had come to adore, as he walked into the room, tossing his keys onto the side table.

He hadn't noticed the phone in your hands and he pulled off his suit jacket and hung it up on the hanger behind the door. He looked exhausted. "Long day."

"Hi," you replied, your voice a little too high-pitched, betraying the sudden jolt of adrenaline still coursing through you.

You tried to act as nonchalant as possible, hoping he wouldn't notice the flush creeping up your neck, or the way your fingers were still tensed against the phone.

He glanced at you, his blue eyes, usually so bright, clouded with fatigue. "Everything alright? You seem…tense." He took a seat on the sofa opposite you, his gaze intense as he looked at you.

You had been with Charles for a year now, and he was always able to suss something out.

You forced a smile, "Just had a long chapter to read, that's all.” You showed him the book, hoping it would be enough distraction. “It’s quite intense, actually." You pointed to the book, gesturing with your hand. "This guy Valjean, he's been through it."

He seemed to accept your explanation, dropping back against the sofa cushions with a sigh. "Well, whatever it is, you should relax. Maybe we could order some food? I'm starving."

You nodded, relieved. The moment had passed, but the unspoken secret hung heavy in the air between you. The rest of the evening unfolded in its usual way, a comfortable rhythm you both had established.

You talked about your day, laughed at a silly movie, and shared a meal under the soft lamplight. Yet, beneath the surface of normalcy, the secret you harboured continued to prick at you.

He kept stealing glances at you, making you wonder if he might suspect something, but he never said anything.

“So you’re telling me he still hasn’t found out yet?” She asked with a teasing lilt in her voice.

“No, and I’ll keep it that way,” you replied, your smile fading. “It’s too risky, Élise. What if he thinks I’m a fraud? What if he thinks I’ve been lying?”

“Oh, come on,” Élise scoffed, “He’s clearly smitten with you, mon amie. I can hear it in your voice!”

You sighed, staring out the window at the grey sky. “You don’t know him, Élise. His native language is French, he knows it like the back of his hand. He’d notice if my French isn’t perfect.”

“And what if it is?” Élise countered.

You were about to reply, when you heard his voice from the kitchen. You jerked, your heart leaping into your throat. “I have to go, Élise. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay, bisous,” Élise said, and the line went dead.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The roar of the Ferrari engines was a constant hum, a background score to the chaotic elegance of the Formula One paddock. You watched Charles, a whirlwind of charm and practiced ease, navigate the PR games with Carlos Sainz.

They were a study in contrasts – Charles, all focused energy and effortless smiles, and Carlos, a more grounded, almost playful foil. You knew this dance well, the mandatory media obligations that came with the territory of being a Ferrari driver.

You were happy to be a spectator today. You knew, with a familiar twist of warmth in your chest, that Charles would find you later.

You had a few hours of freedom, a rare commodity in this world of tight schedules and constant movement. You decided to explore. The paddock was a labyrinth of team trucks, hospitality suites, and workshops, a microcosm of the competitive energy that fueled the sport.

You wandered, absorbing the sights and sounds, the clatter of tools, the clipped conversations in a dozen different languages. You’d always been drawn to the undercurrents of these places, the human stories unfolding beneath the glossy veneer of glamour and speed.

That's when you heard it – a voice, high-pitched with panic, cutting through the general noise.

"Est-ce que quelqu'un parle français?" it called out, the words sharp and rushed. " S'il vous plaît, quelqu'un ?" Does anyone speak French? Please, someone?

The man, standing near a catering area, was clearly distressed. He was middle-aged, his face flushed, hands trembling slightly as he gestured erratically. A small crowd of staff had gathered around him, their faces a mixture of concern and helplessness.

They spoke encouragingly in English, but it was clear that they didn’t understand a word he was saying, which was why he was getting more frantic.

You hesitated. You knew French, fluently after all. It really was an insecurity you'd carried since childhood, a fear that your accent wasn't good enough, that you wouldn't be considered “truly” French.

Charles, in his easy, casual fluency, only amplified that feeling. It was easier to let him be the French one, to navigate that world without your input.

But looking at the man, his distress growing with each passing second, your resolve crumbled. You couldn't stand by and watch him suffer.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed past the people, your voice hesitant but clear, "Excusez-moi, monsieur. Je parle français. Qu'est-ce qui se passe?" Excuse me, sir. I speak French. What's going on?

The man's eyes widened, his face flooded with relief. "Ah, merci mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, his hands coming to clasp yours. "C'est terrible! J'ai perdu mon sac, avec tous mes documents et mes clés. Je dois partir cet après-midi, et je suis complètement coincé."

His words tumbled out in a rush, a torrent of worries and anxieties. This is terrible! I lost my bag, with all my documents and my keys. I have to leave this afternoon, and I'm completely stuck

You listened patiently, your own French flowing effortlessly as you reassured him. You asked him for details about the bag, about where he’d last seen it.

You found out that he was here for a family visit, and he had to catch a train in the next couple of hours. With a mixture of calm questioning and reassuring words, you helped him retrace his steps.

You spoke softly, your voice a calming balm to his panic. The staff around you, previously frustrated, looked on with a mixture of curiosity and gratitude.

You felt a small spark of pride, a quiet satisfaction in using the skill that you have always kept hidden.

After what felt like an eternity, you spotted it – a small black bag tucked behind a stack of boxes in a corner. The man let out a cry of delight, his face cracking into a wide, genuine smile. "Merci, merci mille fois!" he cried, taking the bag and beaming at you. "Vous êtes un ange!" Thank you, thank you a thousand times! You are an angel!

You helped him check through the contents, making sure nothing was missing. You even offered him some water and a seat to calm him. He thanked you profusely again and again. He finally started to relax and calm down.

"Thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done without you." he said again, this time speaking English clearly, even though he had not, before. He smiled warmly at you.

"It's no problem," you replied, smiling back. A small voice interrupted.

"Hey babe, what's going on here? I saw this crowd?" Charles asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. He placed a hand on the small of your back.

"This gentleman lost his bag, and couldn't communicate with anyone here. I was just helping him," you explained.

"Ah, but you were speaking French? I didn't know that you spoke French. Good job ma chérie," Charles said a little surprised.

"Oh, I... I learned some in school," you mumbled, avoiding his eyes. You felt a flush creep onto your cheeks.

You could feel the lie hanging in the air, heavy and uncomfortable.

Charles tilted his head, his eyes searching your face, "That’s really cool." He turned his attention to the man, addressing him in perfect French.

You watched Charles smoothly reassure the man that everything was fine and offer him any help that he needed. The man seemed mesmerized by Charles, thanking him profusely.

You watched them briefly, the ease with which Charles switched between two languages, how comfortable he was in the role of translator. It was a stark contrast to your feelings of self-consciousness.

“So, should we get going?” Charles said to you, turning to you, his hand finding yours.

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. You’d helped someone out, and it felt good. But the lie, that little secret you still held, bothered you. More so than usual now that he knew.

As Charles led you away, you could feel his gaze on you, a silent question in his eyes. You knew you couldn't keep this hidden much longer.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, dancing shadows across the Ferrari base. The air, still warm from the day’s heat, hummed with a quiet energy. You lay nestled in the hammock chair, Charles’s strong back providing a solid anchor as you sat comfortably on his lap.

The gentle rocking motion lulled you both, a peaceful rhythm that seemed to synchronize with the quiet whispers of the wind. You’d been dating Charles for a year now, and these quiet moments were your favorite.

Being alone, intertwined, was bliss.

He nuzzled his face into your shoulder, his breath warm on your skin. You closed your eyes, your own breathing slowing, the world fading away.

You’d almost drifted off, the line between sleep and wakefulness blurring, when a voice sliced through the tranquil silence.

“Monsieur Leclerc, le débriefing commence bientôt!” a young voice called out, the French words sharp and clear. Mr. Leclerc, the debriefing begins soon!

You blinked your eyes open, startled, and looked around for the source of the sound.

A young woman, her face etched with a mixture of frustration and relief, stood a short distance away. She was clearly a member of the Ferrari staff, her uniform a stark contrast to the relaxed atmosphere you and Charles had created.

“Mademoiselle, je vais bientôt réveiller Charles, alors ne vous inquiétez pas,” you said, the words flowing easily, a comfortingly familiar cadence in your mind. Miss, I'll wake Charles up soon, so don't worry.

You watched her face register surprise, then a wave of relief.

“Merci beaucoup mademoiselle Y/N, je vous laisse faire,” she replied, her voice softening. Thank you very much Miss Y/N, I'll leave you to it.

“De rien, je suis désolé de t'avoir fait le chercher,” you said, a slight blush creeping up your neck. You felt a pang of guilt for making her search for Charles. You're welcome, I'm sorry I made you look for it.

She gave you a small, thankful nod before turning and heading back towards the base.

You were about to nudge Charles awake when you felt a movement in your lap. His eyes, a startling shade of blue, were already fixed on you, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"That didn't sound like 'school French' ma chérie," he muttered, a playful yet probing tone to his voice. Your heart lurched, and a cold dread settled in your stomach.

You could feel your cheeks flush, the blood rushing to your head. This was it. Your little secret, the one you'd guarded for so long, was about to unravel.

"What are you talking about?" you asked, your voice coming out a little higher and breathier than you intended. You tried to play it off, hoping your denial would be convincing enough. "I learned some French phrases, that's all."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow, his gaze unwavering. "Some phrases? You just held an entire conversation with Nathalie, in perfect, effortless French. Where did you learn that?"

You fidgeted, your fingers toying with the drawstring of his sweatpants. "Uh...well...you know, it's just...I've always been a good language learner." The explanation sounded weak even to your own ears.

Charles gently tilted your chin up so that your eyes meet. His touch was soft, but his gaze was intense. “Y/N,” he said, his voice lower now. “You’re fluent. Why have you been hiding this from me?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of your unspoken secret. And you knew you couldn’t lie to him any longer. “It’s stupid, really,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I was always just…insecure about it. My native language is English, and I'm fairly average. When I started learning French, which was young, it just came naturally to me. I didn't think I was actually... good. I thought if I spoke it around you, you'd think I sound awful, like those tourists that always try and speak French to you.” You looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

He took your hands in his, his thumbs stroking your knuckles. “Ma chérie, that’s ridiculous. I’m fascinated by languages. I spent so much time learning other languages for the sport, plus how could I ever think you sound awful. You could never sound bad.”

His words were soothing, a balm to your wounded pride. You looked up, your eyes searching his face. “Really?” you whispered, still a little unsure.

He chuckled, a warm, comforting sound. “Bien sûr, Y/N. You’re amazing, in every language. And I am so incredibly curious. When did you learn it? How good are you even?” He had a teasing glint in his eyes now, and the tension that had been plaguing you started to dissipate.

“Since I was a kid. My grandmother was half-French and she taught me, always using French. She wanted me to have another language to use. She wanted me to have something special, so I never told anyone in school or anything.” you admitted.

“And you kept this hidden from me? For all this time?” Charles asked, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

You nodded sheepishly. “I thought you would think I was trying to show off, I guess, and I was honestly just scared I’d be awful.”

He squeezed your hands, his thumb drawing small circles on your skin. “You are far from awful, Y/N, and I promise I never would have thought that, ever. But,” he added, a mischievous smile playing on his lips, “I do have a few questions. And you're going to have to answer them… in French.”

“bébé, il faut que tu fasses le point avec l'équipe!” you said, the words slipping out naturally in French. Baby, you need to check in on the team!

Charles only grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this from me, ma chérie,” he said, his tone warm and affectionate and full of love.

“I know I’m so sorry.” you said, putting your head in your hands, feeling a flush of embarrassment wash over you. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I was just so scared.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. “Don’t be sorry, mon amour,” he murmured, his voice husky. “It’s incredibly endearing, and it's one more thing I love about you. You have to tell me everything though from now on okay?”

You nodded, leaning into his touch. “I promise.”

He smiled, then his eyes glinted with a new mischievousness. “So, you’ve been keeping secrets from me, have you?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Only this one, I swear.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, leaning in closer. “I think that deserves a punishment.”

“Oh yeah?” you said, raising an eyebrow, excitement coursing through you.

His lips found yours and he deepened the kiss, pushing you gently back on the hammock. The language barrier was forgotten as his hands moved to the hem of your shirt.

You could feel the passion in him, the soft moaning as he kissed your neck. You could feel yourself falling further and further into him, completely and utterly in love.

It was a long time before you pulled away for air, your cheeks flushed and your heart racing.

“What was I saying about meetings?” you breathlessly said, putting a hand on your chest, hoping your heart would slow down.

Charles chuckled, running his hand through his slightly dishevelled hair. “They can wait,” he murmured, his eyes locking with yours, “There’s something much more urgent that we need to deal with, my petite française.”

You laughed then, and pulled him in for another kiss, knowing that your hidden language was now just another way to connect with the man you loved.

The rain outside continued to fall, a soft and gentle melody to the start of another chapter in your love story.

And you knew, with absolute certainty, that this new language you had shared with each other would only bring you closer, in ways you could never have imagined. . . .

[boneblushed]

Ignorance by infatuation

synopsis A detective behaves lewdly with you. Aaron Hotchner gets uncharacteristically jealous.

wc 1.7k

a/n omg my first Hotch fic ever hehe 🤭 feedback and love always appreciated, still trying to find my Crim Minds voice!

It’s 8 o’clock in the morning, the air sultry and verdant, rain soaked leaves underfoot. 

Aaron Hotchner frowns. Petrichor and dew mean evidence awash. He pauses to squint up at the sky, muddy grey with isolated streaks of yellow dawn.

You’re acutely aware of Spencer’s eyes on you as you walk past Hotch, and give yourself a mild headache by focussing too hard on the commotion ahead. The rest of the team don’t seem to notice the tension between you and SSA Hotchner. Or perhaps they do, and the pair of you are just too stubborn to admit it.

It’s been lurking under the surface for a while now, this perplexing pull between you. Lingering glances, raised eyebrows, irises spooled with tendrils of static. A hand pressed against your back every time he scoots behind you, like an excuse. He doesn’t do that with Emily. None of the other agents. A frown that tends to yield when your gaze catches his.

Or hardens when someone acts a little lewder than is appropriate.

Like the other day, for example, when he’d overheard you on the phone with some deadbeat cop in the Dallas area. (He’s probably being unfair. He probably isn’t even a deadbeat. It’s just that anyone that flirts with the idea of your favour is going to be unworthy in comparison, even Agent Hotchner.)

The phone had rung in the middle of your exchange, and you’d answered it immediately, mouthing apologies in its place. Aaron Hotchner remembers the shine of gloss on your lips, the ways your fingers clasped the phone to your ear, gentle but firm. Remnants of peach coloured polish on your nails.

“Yes, this is she,” you’d answered, mouthing another apology to him. “How can I help you?”

You’d come into his office a few minutes prior to discuss something media strategy; Hotch didn’t have a mind for it, he much preferred giving you all the reins. He recognised how strange this was for a control freak as prolific as him. You were different though, he’d attest. It was a sentiment as dangerous, as non-platonic, as the feelings making home in his ribcage.

“Right,” you’d said, pulling your spiral-bound notebook out of your pocket. You’d wedged your phone between your ear and shoulder, slipping your pen out of your breast pocket and clicking it against it. Hotch felt unseasonably hot at such attention to your chest. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively, trying to catch your gaze.

“Ah, I see, yes that does sound like our area of expertise,” you’d continued, and then a pause, an awkward, unwieldy laugh. Still beautiful. “No, yes, our is correct — I am in fact part of the team.” Another pause; this time, you’d rolled your eyes when your laugh spooled out of your pretty mouth. He didn’t recognise it. “I don’t know about that. Should we get back to the case at hand? Great.”

Hotchner’s eyebrows had lowered then, furrowing into an expression of concern, flailing interest. Not jealousy. He was pretty certain he knew all your laughs, the cadence of them, the syrupy timbre. This one was new. You sounded uncomfortable, as though something said over the phone had abraded you somehow. As his eyebrows had, his heart had sunk into his stomach. He remembers the strain of his forearm muscles against his clenched knuckles.

“Sure. Yes. As soon as I have all the details I’ll be able to distribute them. Great, yes, we’ll see you soon, I’m sure. Thank you. Goodbye.”

And that had been that. Hotch hadn’t had the stomach to ask after the details, especially not when you’d seemed so eager to put it behind you.

After ending the call, you’d shaken your head and proclaimed, “Don’t ask,” launching back into your spiel about media strategy like it hadn’t happened. Hotch wasn’t in the business of disagreeing with you; pressing things. Saying no. It wasn’t lost on him that he used the word liberally with everyone else he knew.

Back at the scene, Hotch stays a few steps behind the team. He knows that Spencer’s assessing eyes will see right through his faux contemplation; Hotchner knows, from the many frowns Spencer’s eidetic memory has learned, that the expression on his face will be recognised as distraction.

He needs to focus. He needs you near. He needs to keep his eye on the ball. He needs deadbeat detective far away from here.

As you and the BAU team near the crime scene, a rugged looking cop pulls away from his colleagues. He has eyes like treacle tart and a grin that borders on a smirk. A toothpick hangs from his mouth like something out of a Western.

“Detective Landon?” You say, extending a hand in acknowledgement. “Hello, we spoke on the phone yesterday morning.”

Detective Landon spits the toothpick out of his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he does so. But it isn’t the depth of his gaze that drops yours. You can feel someone else’s eyes searing holes through your skull.

“Well I’ll be,” he drawls, taking your hand and pressing it to his mouth. “Your voice doesn’t do you justice, darling.”

You resist the urge to make a face. It’s awful, unfortunate, but you’re far too used to this. Behind you, Derek raises his eyebrows, sharing an amused look with Emily beside him. Rossi looks exasperated. Spencer’s expression remains unchanged, though he does steal a glance at Hotchner. You smile, the way you always do, refusing to be thrown off by his candour.

“That’s a shame,” you reply breezily, turning to introduce your team. “Detective, this is SSA Morgan, SSA Prentiss, Dr Spencer Reid, and —”

“I’m the unit chief, Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner,” Hotch interrupts, a menacing gravel to his timbre. He doesn’t shake the hand Detective Landon extends to him. The detective draws it back with a gauche bark of laughter, turning his attention to the rest of the BAU.

“My my,” he says, his drawl returning as his eyes meet Emily’s. “What do I gotta do to get in on this team of yours?”

“A formal education would be helpful,” Spencer supplies, squinting at him through his glasses.

Detective Landon turns to him then, raising his eyebrows. “Doctor Reid, was it?”

“It is, but no need to aim that high, buddy,” Morgan says then, stepping forward and patting him on the shoulder. Landon winces. “Now. You going to talk us through what you guys got so far or what?”

“Damn, y’all are a feisty bunch, huh?” He replies, pulling another toothpick out of his breast-pocket. He sends you a wink that makes Hotch’s insides turn, adding, “Don’t mind it on you, sweetheart, but maybe the rest of the BAU ‘oughta play nice.”

Aaron Hotchner would normally agree with his sentiment. He’s been a long time advocate of working alongside the local police in investigations; he recognises that collaboration is far more productive than condescension.

Unfortunately for him, this isn’t quite a normal situation.

Things to do with you and other men rarely are. An ugly green emotion eases his heart right into his throat.

“Or maybe,” Hotchner says crisply, his steely gaze pinning Landon to the spot, “I should have a chat with your Captain and take you off this case.”

Landon balks. “Sir —”

“You’re dismissed,” Hotchner interrupts, not wanting to hear it. He’s unaware of the amused look Emily and Morgan share behind him.

“You…” Landon trails off exasperatedly, shaking his head, “…you can’t dismiss me. This is my case.”

“Actually, it’s the BAU’s case now.” He turns to you expectantly. You think you catch his gaze soften as it falls over your face in paces. Trick of the light, you suppose. “Right?”

“Sure,” you say weakly.

“Right then. Rossi?” Hotch says then, turning to David Rossi autocratically. “Why don’t you and the team go ahead and assess the scene while I head to base and sort out a reassignment.”

“Not you, Reid,” he adds, keeping Spencer in place. “You can come to the station with me, get our replacement up to speed. Sound good?”

Morgan’s trying hard to hide his knowing grin, one side of his mouth upturned with mirth. Emily isn’t bothering to pretend she doesn’t know what’s going on, her pretty features lit up with amusement. Detective Landon looks mortified. Your cheeks feel on fire.

“Alright,” Rossi says after pause, glancing between you and Hotchner. He’s been in the FBI for long enough now that he’s learnt to pick his battles.

He turns around and begins walking toward the crime scene, the three of you trailing behind him with less purposeful strides.

“Huh,” Derek says, faux-thoughtful. You’re wedged between him and Emily, much to your chagrin. “Wonder what that was about. Any ideas, SSA Prentiss?”

“Well, SSA Morgan,” Emily replies, her smile audible. “I’m afraid that our dear old unit chief has a bit of a soft spot.”

“A soft spot?” Derek echoes, letting out a dramatic gasp. “That’s dangerous in our line of work, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would say,” Emily responds sagely.

“Oh shut up, you two,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “That wasn’t just about me. He made a pass on Emily too.”

Emily snorts, shaking her head exasperatedly. “Hey Rossi, you got a name for this phenomenon?”

“Oh yeah,” Rossi replies without hesitation, his gaze trained ahead of him. “Ignorance by infatuation.”

Out of earshot, Spencer and Hotchner are having a similarly painful conversation.

“Strange,” Spencer decides, breaking the silence with his candour.

Aaron knows what he’s insinuating. He resists the urge to turn around and steal another glance at your pretty silhouette. “He was behaving inappropriately. There’s nothing strange about it, Spencer. I was protecting my team.”

“The whole team?”

“Yes.”

“Including me?”

“Yes.”

“But I liked him.”

Hotchner sends him an incredulous look. “And what exactly was there to like?”

“He was entertaining, I think,” Spencer replies casually, shrugging. “In a cop way, you know? Plus, I love listening to Y/N reject men. It’s fascinating.”

Hotchner swallows. “Fascinating?”

“She always does it in this way where they don’t even realise what exactly’s happening,” Spencer explains matter-of-factly. He turns to Aaron Hotchner then. “Don’t worry, though, she’d never do that to you.”

Hotchner’s traitorous heart leaps, his mouth pulling into a paradoxical frown. “Spencer,” he warns.

“Just saying,” Spencer replies, raising his arms in surrender.

“Well,” Hotch says grumpily, “don’t.”

“Alright. Noted.”

[januaryembrs]

YOU'RE TOO SWEET FOR ME | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

Request: @avis-writeshq says -

HELLO HELLO jumping on your 2k celebration reqs because 2K OMG SO DESERVED ‼️🫶

may i perhaps request a spencer reid x fem!reader fic please 🥹 maybe him post prison w new reader and she follows him around everywhere because she’s just instantly enamoured to him 🤭

thank you so so much lovely and congrats again !!!

Description: thirteen years in the fbi and ten weeks in prison does a number on Spencer, only when he arrives back in the office he meets the sunshine rookie that seems rather taken with him.

word length: 2.6k (this really ran away from me)

warnings: post-prison Reid, slightest age gap, Spencer dealing with coming home from prison, gun shooting?

authors note: hozier’s new song 'Too Sweet' + post-prison reid is a need, not a want.

He smelled her french vanilla perfume before he even knew she was there. But then again, it was all he could smell the minute she waltzed into the office with a tray of coffee, like someone had stuck a sweet dessert in the oven and baked it on full. 

“Good morning!” She chirped, winding an arm over his shoulder and setting down a take out cup and a little chocolate donut on his desk, “Pen said you like chocolate, and I mean who doesn’t like chocolate, right?” 

She was potent when she was so close to him, and in one single breath he caught a whiff of her shampoo, before she had flitted over to her side of the desk that sat opposite his, where Morgan once sat. Noticing his hesitance, mistaking it for discontent she paused, almost spilling her own beverage over the potted plant she kept by her keyboard, scrambling to set it on the surface.

“Y-you do like chocolate right? I mean they had strawberry too, I can switch yours with JJ’s, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind-” She splurged, and her face was much too worried considering it was a matter of a donut, particularly considering he was already eying up the way the thick chocolate was melting in the pastry bag.

“Chocolate is great, I love…” He held up the bag to read the label with squinting hazel hues, “Cocoa Caramel delight,”

He had never heard of it.

He had never even seen this brand, but he wanted to quell her nerves even in the slightest. The BAU didn’t have the funds for a new keyboard, let alone time to send her to the ER if she ended up spilling her coffee over her hand. 

She seemed convinced, and he offered her a small smile, not exactly his most enthusiastic, but then again he hadn’t been much of a morning person since he’d come out of prison. He liked quiet, he liked a moment to himself before Penelope called them into the round table for briefing. But she was sweet, too sweet perhaps for the dark nature of their job. 

He could already see it chewing up her perky disposition and spitting her right back out within a year. It happened to the best of them.

But she smiled back at him, a million watt grin that made him think maybe he was being a little cruel. She was still brand new, still trying to make friends and he remembered how hard he tried when it had been his first few weeks on the team. He turned his gaze away from her in shame, reading the way she’d written his name on the cup in a pink sharpie, framing it with two doodle hearts. 

She all but skipped away, sensing he didn’t feel like talking much anymore, and he heard Emily exclaiming she was ‘A caffeine angel sent from the heavens,’ as she handed her the drink. He watched her braided hair disappear down the hall as she bounced over to Penelope’s lair. 

He picked at the cocoa caramel delight with a kind of self loathing he was familiar with, the french vanilla still a saccharine sugar in his nose. 

-

She caught him again; though this time he felt her bristle past his arm, watching the bullets pierce the target paper with an accuracy that only came from fourteen years of practice. 

“Do you reckon you could teach me how to do that?” Her cadence was light and airy, and he had to stop himself from jumping, from slamming the butt of the gun into her nose on reaction, because he knew she meant well, even though she had no idea how damaged he was.

He was still out of sorts from having to look over his shoulder at every second of the day, and he was surprised he was holding it together so far. He supposed shooting the shit out of a target helped.

Because it was just her, looking at him with soft eyes and a smile that could start wars, and he knew she had no idea the effect she had on the walls he’d tried so hard to build in prison. 

She must have mistook his look for annoyance, because she was quick to fumble with her own loaded gun, taking a step back in retreat, worried that she crossed some line she didn’t know he’d drawn.

“Or I could get Luke to show me, I didn’t mean to bother you, I just am really a shit shot and I know that’s pretty useless in the field-” It wasn’t until he flicked the safety on and took a step to follow her did she look at him again hopefully. 

“No, I’d be more than happy to show you,” He cleared his throat, setting his pistol in its holster and stepping behind her as she lined herself up for the fake body meant to resemble an unsub, “We all have to start somewhere. Show me your form,” 

She raised her arms up in front of her, aiming for a few seconds for the spot in the centre of the chest cavity, her finger reaching up for the trigger. 

She shot once, her face hardened for the first time he’d ever seen, and they both watched the paper rip about half a foot down the unsub’s leg. 

“See, in my head it’s hitting dead centre and then by the time I shoot it’s wiggling all over the place,” She explained, scratching her neck and frowning at the paper body, “I don’t suppose unsubs are willing to stand still and wait while the rookie figures out her shot,”

“Your hips are perfect, wide stance means you get more stability against the ricochet,” She tried not to simper at his words, or the way he sidled up behind her, his hands coming up to her shoulders as if he’d known her for years, as if JJ hadn’t told her how much he hated other people’s germs, “It’s in your shoulders you’re losing balance, try relaxing a little,”

But she couldn’t not when he was breathing down her neck, rubbing those long fingers over her shoulder blades trying to get her to straighten out her posture, hoping he couldn’t feel the way her chest rattled with nerves. 

“Relax,” He reminded, trying not to chuckle when he felt her shake her arms out as a means of hiding the way her skin had warmed under his rough touch, “You know, my unit chief taught me how to shoot. I wasn’t at all good at it when I first started,”

“Oh really?” She asked, her breaths feather light as he reached around her and adjusted her grip on the gun, “H-he must have been a good teacher,”

“He was the best,” Spencer agreed, brushing off the fact she was all but putty beneath his hands, “Three steps for the perfect shot; front sight, trigger press, follow through. Always keep your head forward, always keep your dominant finger ready, and wait until you’ve shot to drop your stance,” 

She looked up at him in admiration, and her soft smile was back as his own musk of laundry detergent and chamomile soap encompassed her as his arms did. 

He brought one of those big hands to the back of her head, moving her with gentle ease to look back at the target, a slight chuckle in his voice as he spoke: “Focus, what’s step number one?”

“Front sight,” She echoed him, fixing her shoulders with determination as he dropped his hands and stepped away from her. Taking a deep breath, she murmured to herself under her breath the next step as her forefinger rested over the trigger. She pulled it after a moment of courage, and froze in spot as she watched it hit where the stomach would sit. 

Not a perfect shot, but certainly a lot better than she had been doing. 

Her eyes widened behind the thick protective glasses, and her hands became fists above her head as she squealed in delight. 

“Did you see that- did you see!” She yelled over the sound proof ear muffs they both wore, and he was quick to grab the gun out of her swinging arms, clicking the safety on for her before she could end up blowing a hole in the ceiling. 

“Very good, give it a few months you’ll be a natural,” He complimented with a smile as she clapped her hands in glee, buzzing on the spot as if she’d chugged five energy drinks or doubled up on her coffee for the day. 

He tried ignoring the way his chest warmed seeing her so happy because of him, especially when she looked at him like that. 

--

“You said you needed those files, Dr Reid,” She’d appeared again, like she always did, and he had barely enough time to glance up from the paper he was already inspecting before he was hit by the perfume again, and he looked up to see two bright eyes watching him hopefully. Her arms were piled high with easily a box full of folders he had asked Anderson to find for him, and he saw the way she strained slightly to keep them held tight. 

“Jesus! Let me help you,” She prayed he couldn’t feel the way her heart thumping against the manilla folders as he leaned over to take them out of her grasp, the way her eyes fell to his light smattering of facial hair as his lips were little more than a few inches from hers. Even when his hands brushed hers, and he seemed to realise she was staring, watching her scramble to look somewhere else other than his amused eyes, embarrassed he’d caught her, “Thankyou. And just call me Spencer,” 

“Thankyou,” She echoed, shaking her head with a girlish smile on her face, her cheeks warm with humiliation, “I mean you’re welcome, any time,” 

For the sake of her self preservation he waited until she turned around to smile to himself, pretending he didn’t see the way she muttered under her breath, or that she almost walked straight into the filing cabinet on her hasty exit out of the office. 

“Seems like you have a shadow,” Emily’s voice met him as he heard her heeled footsteps approach, and they both watched their newest team mate almost bump right into JJ as she kept her head down, stroking her hair nervously, “She was super excited to meet you when you were away, said she went to one of your guest lectures you did with Hotch a couple years ago,”

His brows shot into his hairline, something warm flourishing in his chest when he saw her peek back to see the two of them watching her, and she immediately darted for her seat for an excuse to turn her back to them. 

Spencer smiled again, running a hand through his curled locks as if he was trying to think of something else other than the joy that had over come his features. 

She certainly was charming, in an incredibly girlish way, and he wasn’t the only one who thought it. He hadn’t heard Penelope giggling so much since Morgan had left, nor did he miss the way Rossi and Emily watched her darting around in the field, chasing after her as if she needed one of those leashes people had for toddlers.

Or the way Luke had had to talk her out of bringing a stray cat back to the BAU just two days ago because ‘it looked sad and lonely’. 

She was only eight years his junior, and yet he felt like the job had made him too hard, too mature, too tough against a softness like hers.

Girls had never really been interested in him, at least not for him as Spencer Reid, not as SSA Dr Reid. He had the occasional fling, even Maeve in the grand scheme of things had been a budding romance at best, and just the thought of Cat Adams viper-like eyes had him shuddering. 

He barely wanted anything to do with women at the moment, at least that was what he’d told himself every night he’d been fighting for his damn life in prison. 

But it was almost too easy to feel this way about her, like he couldn’t drink in her sweet smell or even sweeter voice fast enough, or bathe in her gaze that melted like rich chocolate when he took a glance her way. 

He didn’t bring it up with her until they were the last few people filing out of the office. 

“I can drive you,” She chirped, almost dropping the contents of her bag everywhere as she rooted for her car keys, and before he could protest, because it was like all he could see now was how eager to be around him she was and he wasn’t too sure he could keep himself from opening pandora’s box, she jingled her keys, that of course had crochet bluebells hanging from them and all but danced past him into the elevator. “Come on, you can have shotgun,” 

“I’ll be the only passenger, doesn’t that mean I automatically have shotgun?” He asked, following behind her as she stood in the elevator with a beaming smile, her finger clicking the ground floor button a bunch of times even though it made no difference how fast the doors closed. 

“Well, yeah, but it’s going to be the best shotgun you’ve ever had. I’m talking you can be Miss Daisy and I’ll be your Morgan Freeman,” And as if her spirit was infectious, he shook his head with a hidden chuckle.

There was a minute of silence between the two as she played with a loose thread on her cardigan, and it was then he took the chance to ask her the question that had been burning on his lips all day. 

“You didn’t by any chance go to University of Pennsylvania, did you?” Spencer asked, noting the way her eyes fell to the floor and how she licked her lips nervously.

“Yeah,” She replied cautiously, fingers clenched tightly around her keyring, “I know it’s not Caltech, but it was pretty good-”

“Didn't you see my lecture with Hotch?” He asked, and his smile widened tenfold when her hands slapped over her cheeks that burned with horror, moving quickly up to cover her eyes, “Little birdy told me you were quite excited to meet me-”

“Oh, Emily,” She groaned, burying her face in her palms, avoiding his teasing expression like the plague, “I knew, I knew she was going to tell you, I’m surprised she didn’t tell JJ first, unless she did and our whole team know I was some crazy girl who liked the FBI agents so much she switched her major,” 

“You switched your major for me?” He asked incredulously and he only laughed harder, one of the first times since he’d come home, when she groaned louder, turning away from him entirely. 

“Shut up, I did not swap my major for you,” She bit back, and she finally met his gaze, her expression an embarrassed wince, “I just… liked the material. You were very compelling,”

“Did you have a poster of us?” Spencer wanted to stop teasing, knew he was being a little cruel, but how could he resist when she shrieked in between laughter, shoving his shoulder with mortification.

“No,”

“Did you kiss Hotch’s picture before bed like an obsessive fangirl?” 

She gestured to him vulgarly as they left the elevator and headed for the car park, and it made a huge difference to the usual adoration she watched him with, but maybe, he thought, it made him like her even more. 

“No more shotgun for you, you’re going in the trunk like an old rug,” She snapped, though he could tell she was still horrified by the way she avoided his delighted hazelnut gaze. 

“Like an old rug?” He feigned hurt, but when they sat in her car, she finally looked over at him with something vulnerable and yet affectionate, like he’d seen her for all she was worth. He reached over the console to squeeze her hand gently, not missing the way her palm clammed beneath his and she struggled for words, so he continued for her, “That’s really no way to talk to your idol, you know,” 

Spencer swore his chest felt lighter than it had in months watching her laugh like that.

[rafesplaymate]

Little backstory as to WHY — Ward and Stepsis!reader’s mom allow this little relationship to go on under their roof …

ᡣ𐭩. ݁˖ . navigation. ᡣ𐭩. ݁˖ . masterlist.

warnings: stepcest. smut. immoral familial behavior.

. ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

Ward and your mother are exhausted.

The gala they had been at was extravagant, Ward charming potential clientele and your mother his perfect, docile wife.

They finally step into the large depth of Tannyhill, mumbling to each other with mindless conversation as they look around to see almost all the lights off except for soft little lights that keep the house dimly lit.

They know the girls are out, Wheezie at a friends, Sarah — again doing God knows what — and it’s when they near the living room that their soft chatter halts and Ward’s ears perk up as his eyes harden. Your mother looking at him in confusion till she heard exactly what made him pause…

Whines and moans come from the living room. Familiar whines. The ones Ward hears when you’re moping about after not getting your way or bugging your mom about something. Except this time they’re more depraved, more consistent. And then they hear Rafe’s nasally cadence… unable to make out exactly what he’s saying. But something in their chest twists, as Ward shuffles quietly to the living room with your mom who had taken off her heels… her chest thumping as her intuition tells her exactly what’s happening under their roof..

She’d known that Rafe was pining after you from the very first moment you two met. His lustful leer constantly darting over your body when your walked around in minimal or skimpy clothing — despite your mother’s disapproval. His borderline incestual touches that he disguises as familial affection — though she’s never seen him be so attentive to the other girls. And she knows her daughter. She knows that you love it just as much without a care to how it makes her feel.

And that’s when they see it. Ward’s mouth pressing into a hard line and eyes darkening with a swirl of emotions as your mom’s brows furrow and she feels the nausea rise in her stomach to her chest…

There you are. Both of you.

Except this time those lingering touches can’t be passed off as overt-affection — no. This time their suspicions are confirmed and it leaves both of them spiraling mentally as they see you spread out on the couch… Rafe’s head bobbing inbetween your legs as your manicured fingers tug at his stringy hair and nails scratch at his scalp.

He’s got both hands pushing your thighs back to your bare chest, your pedicured-toes pointed in the air as your back arches sensually. His head moving rapidly side to side with harsh groans falling from his lips against your dripping pussy that is messy with spit, your slick and his cum that he’d pounded into you earlier that day.

Your whines grow louder and Rafe’s movements become harsher, his eyes shut tightly as he revels in you, your eyes fluttering and half shut from mind-numbing pleasure — one hand bent over and gripping into the pillow behind you as the other maintains your grip on his messy hair.

But it’s when Rafe’s head picks up as he catches onto movement in the house and he sees exactly who’s home — hovering right behind you, that his wet face falls into a devious smirk. Gathering the spit in his mouth and letting it fall from his mouth in a string right into your already messy pussy as he holds eye contact with your mother.

Pride swelling in his chest at the fact that all her warnings and scoldings to you about staying away from him went completely disregarded. One hand dropping from your thigh making it fall over his shoulder and smearing his spit all over you while holding eye contact — slicked up mouth twisting into a boyish smile with craze in his eyes.

The family signet ring glistening along with your slick against his finger almost mocking.

And that’s when Ward snaps out of it. And your mom finally turns away and shuts her eyes tightly. Desperate to rid the image of the devil tainting her precious girl. Though she knows deep in her mind that you’re just as fucked as he is. Something she’s always refused to accept.

“What the hell is going on?! Fuck Rafe, seriously?!” Ward booms, his eyebrows furrowing in anger and watching as your body jolts in shock. Breast bouncing as your turn your head back and make eye contact with your stepdad. His eyes softening slightly as he takes in his sweet stepdaughter — chest filling with a swirl of emotions he doesn’t know how to explain. Her gorgeous eyes staring up at her dad as her pretty lashes make her look all that more enticing.

Lush lips swollen and slicked up from Rafe’s desperate kisses and the way he fucked your mouth right before.

Oh sweet girl.

The devil’s got my son and now the devil’s got you too.

“Hey dad, how was the gala?” Rafe says casually, his hand pressing into your stomach to hold your back down after your try to get up and cover yourself. Falling back into the cushions with a mewl when he spits again on your pussy, watching as it drips from your swollen clit down to your fluttering hole.

Not a care in the damn world.

“Rafe.” Ward says with grit in his voice. His mind reeling at what to do while your mother sobs into her hand with her back turned to the debauched scene.

“What’s up?” Rafe says too casually, too nonchalant as if what he’s doing isn’t sick. Looking at Ward with fire in his eyes and wet face twisting into a sly grin. “We thought you two were going to come back a little later.” He says as if it’s nothing. As if he’s not defiling his stepsister in front of their eyes.

Rafe moves his body up. Standing up and making Ward grip the bridge of nose and shut his eyes in frustration as he catches sight of his son’s bare body. Hardened cock still slick from your mess. Grabbing his shorts from the floor and sliding them over himself as he tossed your negligee to you and watches you put it on in a daze.

Still needy and ready to cum. And really not that worried about getting caught.

Mind empty and only thoughts of your big brother filling them. The casualty in both your movements makes it seem like you both wanted them to know.

Is this what two got up too? All those moments of “hanging out” alone? Leaving the house at different hours with your hands intertwined in each other’s? Stumbling in from parties with giggles? How long?

“Son.” Ward says with a crack in his voice. Eyes turning back onto you both as your now covered body comes to stand behind Rafe. Legs shaky as you wrap your arms around his stomach and cower behind him. Soft eyes locking onto Ward that makes him want to wrap you up in his arms and take you away from the darkness that his son is.

Ward doesn’t know what to say. His mind going a thousand miles a minute as your mom turns back after regrouping herself. Eyes teary and and full of fury as she points an angry finger at Rafe.

“This ends now!” She roars, walking with conviction in her steps toward both of you and reaching out to grip your arm when you hide your body behind Rafe’s. Her anger bubbling over when Rafe shields you even more and blocks her movements. His towering frame looming over her and his eyes looking down at her with condescending victory.

Her own staring up at him with a nasty, hateful sneer — twisted across her face and fight in her eyes. But it’s when Rafe’s tongue licks his lips with a satisfied hum vibrating from his chest. Teeth showing sharply with a sinful smile after as he lets out a …

“Mhhmm … sweet. Always is, from the very first time.”

That’s when your mother snaps. Her hand reeling back and ready to smack across his smug face. Ward coming up quickly behind and gripping her wrist before her strike can land. Arm wrapping around her stomach as he pulls her into him while her legs buckle. Tears falling angrily from her eyes and she sobs out curses at him.

“You sick son of a bitch! I knew it!” She cries, eyes darting to the way her daughter clings onto the boy that’s suppose to be her protector.

Her brother.

But all he is — is the demon that rips her apart every night with his dick and puts her back together with his tongue.

Ward shushes her gently, moving to sit her on the couch as her face falls into her hands. Sobs ripping from her chest as her perfect little family falls apart right in front of her eyes.

Thank god the girls aren’t home.

Though they don’t know that even they have been catching onto your’s and Rafe’s weird, little relationship.

Ward comes to stand in front of Rafe. His arm still shielding you behind him and your soft eyes looking at Ward around his arm. His eyes dropping to the way your nails grip into his abdomen for comfort. Before flitting back up to Rafe with a new determination in his eyes.

“If you think I’m going to allow this in my home, under my roof,” he emphasizes and lets out a non-humored laugh — head shaking as he finished with a, “you got another thing coming, son.”

Rafe just rolls his eyes with a mocking smirk, head turning to look to the side before swiftly moving back to his father’s gaze. Ward’s shoulders full of tension as both men fight for dominance.

“Yeah?” Drips from Rafe’s wet mouth as a soft chuckle follows right after — before a determined, “you’re not going to do jack-shit. ‘Wanna know, why?” He says with pure confidence. Head tilting mockingly as he stares his father down. Your nails digging into him with a whimper falling from your mouth as you press your damp forehead to his back.

Your mom’s pained cries hitting you in your heart. But Rafe’s love matter’s more.

“That so?” Ward says with furrowed brows and an equally mocking smirk sliding across his face as he takes in his son’s audacity. “Enlighten me, son. Humor me. Why is that?”

Rafe just looks at him with a patronizing confidence. Lips in a nasty grin as he sizes his father up. Determined to come out on top right along with his prize. You.

“You’re not ‘gonna do shit. Because if you do,” he steps forward slightly, chest knocking into his father’s while you shuffle right along with him. Rafe looking down at Ward over his nose. “I’ll make this all public. Show the island exactly who she belongs to and exactly what we’ve been getting up to.”

And that makes Ward’s equally mocking smile drop immediately. His hands falling into a tight fist along his sides, as he takes in Rafe’s statement. The idea of their perfect reputation being marked with a sickening stain bouncing around his brain. Who would respect him if even his own son and stepdaughter don’t?

It immediately makes your mother’s head snap up. Eyes burning into the scene as the same realization settles in her chest. The idea that the other socialites on the island, all their friends, extended family even — would come to see that their children are walking all over the perfect family-image they’ve created with not a care in the world …

Well that makes her chest clench even tighter.

“Yeah, got it now?” Rafe says with triumph laced in his voice. A huff falling from his nose as soft laugh leaves him. That’s what he thought.

“The perfect little family you love to flaunt around and that perfect little reputation would come crumbling down, wouldn’t it?” He rubbed in, his chest swelling with pride as his father stepped back in a daze. His mind going a thousand miles a minute at the type of damage control that would need to be done if this came out to the entirety of the island.

He sits down gently next to your mother. His palms laying flat across his knees and back stiff as his eyes lock into the carpet below. Ignoring the worried stare of his wife as his mind races, before his hands clench into fist once more and he shuts his eyes tightly. A frustrated sigh falling from his nose.

Checkmate bitch.

Rafe is flying on a cloud of victory. Stepping forward and making your arms drop from around him as you look at your parents anxiously. Bringing your manicured nail to your swollen lips as you anxiously chew on the long edge of it. Eyes shuffling between your mother and Ward who’s eyes are now locked onto him with viciousness, Rafe’s strong back facing you.

He turns to look at you over his shoulder, his face displaying power as his eyes lock onto yours.

“Wait for me upstairs, baby. Alright? I’ll be up there in a second.” He says softly, though his voice is still full of command. And when you hesitate for a second, eyes darting between his and your mother’s heartbroken gaze.

Well that just won’t do.

“Now!” He grits out, fingers snapping at you and pointing to the exit where you need to go. His face hardened with dominance as he holds your gaze in his. Your feet shuffling before your mind can catch up as you listen to him.

You always would.

As you shuffle past them to follow the path leading to the staircase; his hand comes out to smack your ass with a loud clap as you pass him. Giving out a vicious smirk as he watches you leave the tension filled living room and listen to his command.

Looking over your shoulder — you look at him once more and he can see the tension leave your body as he gave you a reassuring nod.

And when you’re out of his line of sight, that’s when he turns to look back at his father and your mother. Strong arms crossing over his chest as he gazes down at them as if they were nothing.

“Don’t think I won’t. You know me better than that, don’t you dad?” He mocks, eyes battling for dominance with Ward’s as he ignores the burning stare of your mother till he doesn’t. Looking directly at her after and saying…

“And don’t even think about doing anything, either. Got a few videos of your little girl getting fucked and filled that I’m sure the island would love to see.”

His face still slightly damp from his mouth fucking you as his teeth show in a sharp smile once more. Making a show of bringing his fingers to wipe away at it and lick it off his fingers tips — before he finally steps away from them.

Walking around the couch as he heads for the same direction he sent you in. Heavy footsteps filling the otherwise silent house as he leaves them there with loathing at his upper hand on their family.

Rafe calling over his shoulder with a shout of…

“Glad we could have this talk!”

They can just hear the permanent smirk of satisfaction displayed on his face.

And while your mother is trying to rid her mind of you being defiled in front of her very eyes…

Ward’s mind keeps falling back to his gorgeous, little stepdaughter spread out bare in front of him. Wondering what she might taste like …

-

a/n: hell yeah.

[societyfolklore]

Oka soo I dare to send in a Bucky imagine <3 Maybe one where you're dating but you're not an avenger, so you sometimes feel not good enough for him even though he always makes you feel special and he loves you more than anything. One time while he's at a mission, you're back at the compound waiting for him, but then also Sharon comes up to you being a bitch again and makes you feel even more unwanted and leave before Bucky returns. Later then he's happily waiting to see you, but frowns when he finds out you're not there. So he calls you, asking you to come over and you reluctantly agree. As you finally confront him with your doubts he immediately tries getting this thought out of you and gives you also his dog tags to prove he's yours forever and it's all cute then and also some soft smut where he tells you how much he loves you ? ♥️

Here we go! Here's our boy making everything better when the doubts creep in and we can shut it down on your own. Title: Yours to Keep

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x SHIELD Analyst!Female Reader

Summary: You feel like your not enough, and when Sharon gets in your head it makes it so much worse. But to Bucky you’re the reason to make it home.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Insecurity, emotional manipulation (from Sharon because she's a mean girl), soft possessiveness, smut, unprotected sex, established relationship, oral (f- receviving), praise, dog tag kink, Angst with Fluff, Romance.

A/N: Something softer for everyone this weekend. Thank you for the ask @wintersoldierchronicles

The compound was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that seeped into your skin and clung to you like static. You sat curled into one of the deep leather chairs in the lounge, knees tucked beneath you, a tablet in your lap. The screen glowed softly, lines of mission data scrolling as you half-heartedly skimmed them, reading intel you’d collected yourself over the past few days. Every enemy movement tracked. Every building layout mapped. Every communication protocol updated and tested.

All to help keep the Avengers safe. To keep him safe.

You should’ve felt accomplished. Proud. Instead, you felt like a ghost in your own home.

No one had said anything, not directly. But they didn’t have to. The looks, the nods you didn’t get in the hallway, the way everyone seemed to talk around you instead of to you. It all added up. They were Avengers. Legends. Gods. And you were… what? Just the analyst who happened to be dating one of them. An ordinary woman in love with an extraordinary man.

And somehow, no matter how often Bucky looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky, the thought kept crawling back up your throat like bile: You’re not good enough for him.

You bit the inside of your cheek and tried to focus, tried to chase away the fog settling over your mind. But it was no use. The feeling had been a quiet whisper in the dark for months now, and lately… it was starting to scream.

You had seen the way people looked at Bucky- like he was a living monument to strength and survival. A relic of history wrapped in modern muscle and trauma, wearing his past like armour. People admired him. Revered him. And yet, he came home to you. You, who shuffled files and ran analyses. Who flinched when the training team sparred too close to your desk. Who once got winded jogging down the corridor when your badge lanyard snagged on a doorknob.

What could he possibly see in you that someone like Sharon, like Natasha, couldn’t offer in a more fitting package?

Footsteps echoed lightly down the corridor, the sharp click of designer boots hitting the polished floor like a countdown. You didn’t even need to lift your eyes. That cadence was familiar, the kind that always made your stomach twist with a mixture of dread and forced politeness.

Then came the voice. Smooth. Sweet. Laced with superiority.

“Still here?” Sharon Carter stepped into view, her tone dipped in passive-aggressive honey. She was perfectly made-up, of course, with not a single hair out of place, her sleek suit hugging her figure in all the ways that made people notice when she walked into a room.

She looked you up and down like you were something out of place, something small, insignificant. “Thought they kept the admin staff in the basement.”

It was a joke, probably. One of those faux-friendly jabs that everyone was supposed to laugh at. Except she wasn’t smiling. Not really.

You fought to keep your expression neutral, fingers tightening slightly around the tablet in your lap. You weren’t going to let her see how deep that cut went, not when she was already poised to twist the knife.

You gave her a polite nod, trying not to let your discomfort show. “Just going over the post-mission data. They’re due back in an hour.”

"Must be hard. Being with someone like Bucky." Sharon's smile was the kind that never quite reached her eyes.

“What do you mean?” You stiffened, your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the tablet.

She stepped closer, arms folded casually like this was just idle chatter.

"I mean- he’s one of us. Field-ready. Weapon-trained. A living legend. And you… well, you make great coffee."

You swallowed hard. "I do more than-"

"I know," she said quickly, with that same dismissive tilt of her head. "You’re smart. Very behind-the-scenes. Essential in your own way, I suppose. But let’s be honest…Bucky’s built for war. He needs someone who understands that. Who can keep up. Who can be more than just a comfort waiting at home."

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest, each word driving in like a nail. It was everything you'd feared, laid out in someone else’s voice. Someone who was supposed to be on your side.

"He probably misses someone who can actually stand beside him out there," Sharon added with a shrug. "You know… someone who belongs."

The tablet in your hands blurred as tears threatened. You blinked hard and forced yourself to breathe through your nose.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure whether you’d scream or sob.

So you just stood, quickly and quietly, and walked away- shoulders stiff, throat tight, eyes stinging. You had to get out of there before someone saw you fall apart.

You left the compound entirely, slipping out the back entrance and taking the long way home. Your mind ran in circles the whole walk. What if Sharon was right? What if everyone had just been too polite to say it out loud? What if the only reason Bucky was with you was because you were safe? Easy? A soft landing after years of running and pain?

~#~#~#~#~#~

Bucky came back two hours later, bruised and sweaty but grinning. The mission had been long, much longer than expected. But successful at least. He was covered in dirt and grime, dried blood flecked across one temple, the strap of his weapons bag cutting into his shoulder. His muscles ached, and the adrenaline had long since worn off, but one thing kept him upright, kept him moving: you. The thought of you waiting at the compound, probably curled up with your tablet and a warm drink, maybe looking up every time the door slid open- yeah, that thought had gotten him through worse days than this.

He slung his weapons bag over one shoulder, still covered in dirt and dust from the mission, and scanned the lounge immediately.

“Hey, Sam,” he called. “She around?”

Sam looked up from his protein bar, brow furrowing slightly. “She left a while ago. Didn’t say much. Looked kinda off, though.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “Off how?”

Sam stood, tossing the wrapper aside. “I dunno, man. Quiet. Real quiet. Didn’t even look me in the eye. Thought maybe she was just tired, but now…” He trailed off, reading the worry blooming on Bucky’s face.

“You think something happened?” Bucky asked.

Sam gave a slow nod. “Could be nothing. But you know her better than anyone. If it’s not nothing- you’ll fix it.”

Bucky’s heart dropped. Something was wrong. You always met him after missions. Always.

Without another word, he turned and pulled his phone out of his pocket, hand still a little bloodied. ~#~#~#~#~#~

You pulled your car over to the side of the road, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound breaking through your spiralling thoughts. You hadn’t made it home. It felt too far. Too final. The space inside your car was tight, suffocating, but it was still safer than walking through the front door like nothing was wrong.

The phone vibrated in your hand again, lighting up with his name.

You stared down at the caller ID like it was a bomb about to go off. You didn’t answer right away. How could you? How could you speak to him when all you wanted to do was disappear?

You were a coward. That much was clear. Running off like that, not even saying goodbye. You should’ve stayed. Faced it. Faced her. But the words Sharon had said... they hadn’t been new. They were just the same cruel thoughts you’d had about yourself, dressed up in someone else’s voice.

You weren’t right for someone like Bucky.

You were just an analyst. A desk jockey. A tagalong to the world of gods and heroes.

And he was... everything.

He was strength and legend and pain and hope, all wrapped up in that scarred, steady way he looked at you like you were worth the whole damn universe. And you? You couldn’t even look yourself in the mirror right now.

The phone buzzed again.

Guilt stabbed through your chest.

He’d just come off a mission. He was probably still aching, tired, maybe even hurt—and here you were, making it all about you. Selfish. So unlike him. He always made you feel like the only girl in the room. One look from him and the world melted away.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in your eyes, and finally picked up.

“Hey,” you said, voice too quiet.

“Doll, where are you?” he asked, voice already softening. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just… needed some air.”

There was a pause.

“You lying to me, sweetheart?” he said gently.

You closed your eyes. He knew you.

“No.”

Another pause. “Come back to the compound. Please. I need to see you. You're scaring me.”

Your chest cracked open. He sounded so… real. So Bucky. You found yourself nodding, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

~#~#~#~#~#~

He was already waiting by the elevator when you arrived, walking slow, tense loops with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, the lines around his eyes carved deeper than usual. Every few seconds, his gaze darted toward the entrance, like he couldn’t help but check again, hoping- needing- you to appear.

The moment his eyes landed on you, he stopped dead. Everything in him just stilled. Relief hit him like a wave, shoulders dropping, hands unclenching—but his expression didn’t ease completely. No, his eyes stayed cautious, flickering across your face like he was afraid one wrong move might send you running. Like you were something breakable he didn’t dare press too hard.

He didn’t speak. Just opened his arms.

You tried to fake a smile, to smooth the cracks in your mask. But it was shaky, barely there, and he saw right through it. You saw the flicker of sadness in his eyes at the attempt.

You stepped into his embrace slowly, almost shyly, as if uncertain you still deserved it. The moment your body met his, the dam inside you cracked.

You buried your face in his chest, exhaling like you’d been holding your breath since you left the compound.

“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough with emotion. “There’s my girl.”

You clung to him, fingers twisting in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish, afraid this was all a dream that would dissolve when you let go.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked eventually, drawing back just enough to look into your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, like he wanted to catch the remnants of that broken smile.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy and aching. “You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re an Avenger. A war hero. And I… I sit at a desk.”

“Stop,” he said instantly, thumb now tracing your cheekbone like he could wipe the pain away.

“I don’t fight aliens. I don’t have powers. I’m just… support staff.” Your voice wavered, trembling like your heart might break in two right there in front of him. “Sharon said you’d get bored of me. That you’ll want someone who can stand beside you in the field.”

His jaw tensed like he’d been struck. A flicker of something dark and cold passed through his expression, steel sharp and silent. His entire body went still.

“She said what?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, but even as the fury gathered behind his eyes, he didn’t let it take hold. He inhaled slowly, grounding himself. Because right now, you were what mattered.

You looked down, ashamed. “Doesn’t matter. She’s not wrong.”

There was a pause. Not long. Just the space of a heartbeat and then the weight of metal settled into your palm with a soft metallic clink.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but unwavering.

You looked up, surprised by the intensity in his gaze.

“You see these?”

You nodded.

“These?” he said again, his voice thick with meaning as the tags clinked quietly between you. “These don’t just mean soldier. They mean survivor. They mean second chances. They mean you, okay? I don’t give these to anyone. I want you to have them.”

You stared at them, too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed to breathe. They were warm from his skin. Heavy with meaning.

He cupped your face gently, both hands trembling slightly now.

“You’re not support staff. You’re the person I come home to. My person. You keep me grounded. You’re the one thing that’s real.”

Your lips trembled, voice caught in your throat. “Bucky…”

He leaned down, voice husky and sure. “Put them on. Right now.”

You slipped the dog tags around your neck, hands shaking, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears.

“There,” he said, eyes gleaming- not with pride, but with something softer. Fierce, unyielding love. “Now everyone knows. You’re mine. Forever.”

~#~#~#~#~#~

In the hallway, without a word, he scooped you up into his arms. Not rushed. Just worshipful, like you were something sacred he’d been aching to hold all day. You wrapped your arms around his neck, face tucked into the crook of his shoulder as he carried you, his footsteps steady and full of purpose, all the way to his room. Every step was careful, intentional, his hold firm but gentle, like he wanted to shield you from everything that had hurt you today.

He kissed your forehead as he laid you back on the bed, then your cheeks, your jaw, each press of his lips like a vow.

“So beautiful… so smart…” he murmured with each kiss. “Couldn’t do any of this without you.”

His soft kisses pressing into your cheeks, the corners of your mouth. 

“You’re everything to me,” he said, pulling your shirt over your head. “Every breath, every second.”

His mouth moved to your collarbone, your chest, trailing down your stomach , while his hand eased you out of your pants. 

“You think I don’t need you?” he said between kisses, each one a soft promise against your skin. “Baby, I fall apart without you.”

His mouth moved lower, worshipful and unhurried, kissing every inch of you like he was reacquainting himself with something sacred. By the time his tongue slid between your thighs, you were already trembling.

He groaned when you gasped, the sound low and reverent. Not just desire but devotion. His tongue moved with slow, deliberate precision, savouring every soft, slick response he pulled from you. He licked a long, teasing stripe up your centre, then circled your clit with a maddening tenderness, his hands gripping your thighs just firm enough to keep you open and trembling beneath him.

He moaned into you, like the taste of you was salvation, like he’d starved for this and finally had permission to feast. One hand slid up your stomach, grounding you as your hips bucked gently, chasing every press of his mouth.

“So sweet,” he murmured against you, voice thick with love, his lips brushing your most sensitive skin. “Taste like heaven. My heaven.”

He didn’t stop. Not yet. Not when you were trembling so perfectly for him. His tongue moved in slow circles, each pass deliberate and precise, coaxing you higher with gentle persistence. His grip on your thighs tightened slightly as your breath caught, his mouth parting you with reverence.

He flicked his tongue softly, then flattened it, letting the heat of him soak into every nerve ending, every gasp. He alternated pressure and pace, reading every twitch of your body like scripture. When he sucked your clit into his mouth and moaned, the vibration made your entire body arch into him.

“You’re not allowed to think you’re not wanted,” he rasped between strokes, his voice wrecked with affection and need. “Not when I love you.”

You cupped his face as he kissed up your body again, pausing to nuzzle the dog tags now lying warm between your breasts. “You feel like home,” you whispered, eyes glassy, voice raw with truth.

When he finally pressed inside you, it wasn’t fast or greedy. It was achingly slow, like he was trying to carve a place for himself inside you, not just in body but deeper. He let out a low, unsteady breath as he sank in, his forehead dropping to yours, his hand tightening around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go.

He didn’t thrust. Not right away. He stayed there for a beat, deep and still, forehead resting against yours as his breath caught in his throat. His hand stayed tangled in yours, his vibranium one anchored at your hip, grounding you both. “I need this,” he whispered. “Need you. Like this. Just us. You make everything quiet.” Bucky needed you to feel every inch, every part of him that belonged to you.

And then he moved like a tide rolling in to soothe what had been broken, to wash away everything that hurt. His hips rolled back with unhurried grace, then pressed forward again in a smooth, reverent stroke, making sure to drag himself along your velvet walls with each motion, slow and devastatingly deep. The way he filled you, the way he moved inside you. Like he was writing his name into your soul with every breathless thrust, imprinting himself where no one else had ever reached. Every motion was a promise: that he was here, that he was yours, that you were loved in the most complete, carnal, and emotional sense of the word.

Every slow push and pull was deliberate, reverent, the kind of lovemaking that felt like a conversation without words. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple, murmuring softly between each breath.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking as you trembled beneath him. “So damn much it hurts. You make me feel like a man. You see me.”

You cupped his cheek, tears sliding down your temples. “You see me.”

He let out a soft, shaky breath and kissed you again, Bucky pouring everything he had into it.

His rhythm stayed slow but insistent, hips pressing into yours with aching tenderness, like he wanted to be memorized, like he never wanted to be forgotten. The friction, the closeness, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel whole—it all built into something consuming, something soft and sacred.

When you came, your soft cries muffled into the curve of his neck, he held you tighter, like anchoring himself to you, like if he let go, the whole world would tilt. He whispered your name over and over again like a prayer, like a lifeline, like a vow, following close behind you with a quiet, broken groan into your skin.

And you knew, in that moment, that this wasn’t just sex.

It was coming home.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Afterward, he wrapped the blanket around you both, tucking you into his chest like he was trying to shield you from the rest of the world. His metal fingers traced soft, soothing circles against your spine, grounding you in the silence that settled warmly between you.

“You ever doubt your place again,” he murmured, lips pressed to your hair, voice rough with sleep and sincerity, “I want you to remember tonight. Remember how I touched you. How I looked at you. Remember this.”

You nodded against his chest, overwhelmed, your cheek pressed to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Your fingers curled around the dog tags still resting over your heart, the weight of them a quiet promise.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, the words small but certain.

He smiled, eyes closed as his arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

“You always were,” he said, so softly it was nearly a breath, but you felt it more than heard it, like a vow etched beneath your skin.

[mariasont]

i have a fic request what about like bimbo assistant reader x hotch and they go for like a team night out or something and ofc reader wears something cute and probably a tad bit too short and maybe she sees one of her friends or just dances with one of the bau girls and hotch just watches from the booth and his jaw is literally on the floor and the guys are trying to have a conversation with him and he’s just completely unaware of what’s happening around him

Red Flags & Pink-Colored Glasses - A.H

summary: hotch shouldn't be at this bar, shouldn't be watching you while you dance in that too-short dress and he definitely shouldn't be the one trying to teach you a lesson about bad men, not when he's fighting every instinct to be one. pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warning tags: alcohol consumption (reader is tipsy, hotch is suffering), pre-relationship pining, mentions of past toxic relationships, protective!hotch, jealously/protectiveness, accidental touching, repressed feelings, hotch contemplating murder wc: 2.2k

Hotch could lie to himself and pretend he had no idea how he ended up here, but that would be exactly that, a lie.

He knew.

It was because you had asked him, bright-eyed, voice melting like white chocolate on his tongue, and something long disciplined into obedience had caved. At some point along the path of your employment, he had come to realize he had developed this inexplicable inability to deny you.

He had agreed to one drink. Technically, he was keeping his word. Said first drink was sitting half-full on the table, a thin line of amber liquid sloshing against the sides every time he gripped it too hard. Two hours had passed and he was still here, still planted in this booth, still convincing himself he wasn't waiting for something he shouldn't want.

He knew he should leave. He could leave. He had every capability. His legs worked just fine and his willpower had seen him through worse (I mean, for gods sake, he worked with you everyday). But he also knew there wasn't a chance in hell he was walking out that door when you were still on that dance floor.

Not because he didn't trust you. Of course, he trusted you. He trusted JJ and Emily and Garcia, too, though that didn’t stop his jaw from locking up every time one of them spun you, making your dress rise higher on your thighs. And being a profiler came with its downfalls, one of them the acute, inescapable awareness of how every single man in this bar had their eyes on you.

On your legs. Your thighs. Your hips. Your breasts. Your ass.

He knew how they thought and how they operated and worse than that, he knew he was acting no different. Because his own gaze had been glued to you all night.

And he hated that. Hated that his pulse kicked up whenever you laughed, that his fingers itched to tug that dress a little lower, that he had half a mind to send every single one of those men home in body bags.

Hotch exhaled before tipping his glass against his lips, the drink was barely cold anymore, the bite of alcohol dulled from where the ice had long since melted, not that it mattered, not that he noticed.

You were swaying your hips now, and he shouldn't be watching you, especially not like this. Not with this lump that was screwing up tightly in his throat, with some part of him wanting to abandon reason entirely and just pull you back down into the booth beside him where he could keep you sedentary.

Physics had a rule for this, right? An object in motion stays in motion. Sounds about right.

It took him a second to process a voice piercing through his thoughts. Morgan. Talking. Right. He should probably be listening.

He blinked, refocusing. He could see Morgan’s mouth moving. Could hear the general cadence of a conversation happening, but not a single word was registering.

And then Morgan laughed. "Man, you're not even pretending to listen."

Hotch blinked, forcing himself to look away from you long enough to level them with a stare. "What?"

Rossi gave him a look before leaning back, like he wasn't going to push the subject. "I still don't know how we managed to get you out tonight."

Mogan nodded. "Yeah, I was expecting the usual, grumbling about paperwork, maybe a half-hearted have fun before you disappeared like a ghost."

"I don't disappear," Hotch said flatly.

Rossi scoffed. "You do if we turn out heads for five seconds."

"Batman-style," Morgan agreed, grinning. "One minute you're there, and the next, gone. Poof."

"That's an exaggeration," Reid cut in. "Batman's disappearances rely on strategic misdirection, which, while impressive, aren't—"

"Not the point, kid."

Morgan turned back to Hotch, still grinning. "Point is, you're still here, and that's weird."

Rossi nodded, swirling his drink. "So what's the angle? Trying to prove us wrong? Or just waiting for us to stop paying attention so you can slip out the back?"

"That does seem like the more likely scenario," Reid mused.

Hotch signed, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. "Do you all spend this much time keeping tabs on each other's whereabouts, or am I just the lucky one tonight?"

"Oh, this is just for you, old man."

The conversation dissolved into static the second he caught the faintest whiff of your perfume. Some part of him recognized it immediately, sugar and flowers, something that had clung to his suit in phantom traces after too many hours spent near you. His pulse stalled. A fraction of a second where his body froze like it had learned, through painful repetition, to prepare for the inevitable distraction.

And then he saw you. All smiles, all tipsy giggles, flushed and glowing skin moving toward the table like some ridiculous vision, wrapped in pink and glitter with the careless beauty of someone who had never one second-guessed how easily they could command attention.

Hotch swore the rest of the room dimmed, reduced to shadows in his periphery and he had to forcibly remind himself to breathe because Christ, that dress was really that short, wasn't it?

You had a drink in your hand. And you looked happy. And warm. And a little unsteady on your heels.

The second your eyes found him, your whole face transformed, lit up like fireworks. Never mind that he had been here all night. Never mind that you had already waved at him enough times to make it clear you knew he existed. This time, apparently, counted more than the rest.

You waved. The motion sent your drink lurching dangerously in your hand, the liquid kissing the rim in protest, and before you could overcorrect, your heel tipped just enough that you stumbled, swaying too far to the right.

It wasn't much, just a little misstep, but it was enough to make Hotch move on instinct, his hand closing around your elbow guiding you into the booth beside him before either of you could think twice.

And then, because his life could never be easy, your dress slid up.

Just an inch, maybe two, of more thigh than should be visible. Nothing scandalous, just the kind of softness that could undo a man if he let it.

Hotch noticed. But then, so did someone else.

Some nameless stranger's eyes dragged, slow, audacious, a miscalculation he wouldn't be making again because Hotch's stare landed like a blade against his throat. Sharp and completely final. It was immediate that the same man was now finding the ceiling, the wall, the floor, anywhere but you, exceedingly fascinating.

Smart.

The second you're fully seated in the booth, you tip into him, like a magnet pulled to its inevitable counterpart. Your arm burns against his, the warmth of your skin creeping through fabric like a slow, smoldering fuse. He shouldn't let you, but he doesn't move, doesn't stop it, doesn't do anything but let it happen. 

Then as if you had any right to be this careless with him, you smile.

"Hi."

He should say something, should probably acknowledge the absurdity of how close you are, the way your perfume is now thick in his lungs, the way every fleck of light caught on your lashes, the shimmer scattered across your cheekbones like you'd been dipped in gold. He should ask why you wear it, how you do it, this thing where you make the prettiest parts of yourself even prettier.

He wants to do all these things but instead, because he's a coward, he just watches you. And when he finally forces a response, it comes out quieter than he intends.

"...Hi."

You hold your drink up between you. "You should try this. It's so good."

Hotch glanced down at it. It's the kind of drink that shouldn't exist outside of a beach vacation. Something red or pink or maybe orange, hard to tell under the low lights, undeniably fruity, he was sure. The kind that would probably leave him regretting his choices within minutes.

"No, thanks."

"Your loss," you mumble, as if you genuinely feel bad for him, then take a long sip, eyes fluttering shut like you're savoring the best thing you've ever tasted. "S'okay, more for me."

You glance at him, eyes still sparkling from whatever's buzzing in your bloodstream. "Are you having fun? 'Cause I'm having fun."

"I can tell."

You barely noticed how your drink wobbled under the careless placement of your elbow, or how your blinks stretched just a fraction too long, like your thoughts were floating somewhere just beyond your reach.

Hotch, however, did. "Do you want some water?"

Your pout deepened, your voice dipping into something vaguely petulant. "No, Hotch. I don't want water. Why would I want water?"

Before he could counter you, you moved, too loose-limbed, too uncoordinated, and suddenly your hand was on his thigh, gripping just a little too fight, fingers digging in for balance.

Hotch hissed under his breath, hands snapping to your waist before you could push this any further, intentionally or not.

"Okay, honey," he muttered, vocal chords strained. "C'mon."

Hotch kept you steady as he led you to the bar, your weight pressing into his side like you'd entirely abandoned the idea of walking on your own. By the time he handed you a water from the bartender, you squinted at it like it required advanced problem-solving.

"You're too nice to me."

Hotch sighed, rubbing a slow hand down his face. "If this is your definition of too nice, you've been dealing with the wrong men."

"Well, yeah." You took a sip of water then grinned like he had said something funny. "But I thought we'd already covered that."

Hotch's jaw locked. His grip on the bar tightened. Had he blacked out? Had there been a conversation where you casually admitted to dating the worst men alive?

"No." His eye twitched. "We didn't."

You pursed your lips, thinking. "Huh. Maybe I just thought you knew."

"That’s not really something I should just… know."

"I mean, I don't think it's that surprising."

"Why," he asked, each syllable carefully controlled, "would that not be surprising?"

"I don't know, Hotch. I mean, look at me."

He was. That was the problem.

"I'm not, like... super great at spotting red flags. I mostly think oh he's kinda mean but maybe he just had a bad day," you admitted, swirling your water with a little too much focus."You know, things like that."

Hotch inhaled sharply. Things like that. The thought of you sitting across from some guy, smiling, excusing his bullshit, convincing yourself he didn't mean to be cruel, made his stomach churn.

He wanted names. He wanted to know if any man had ever made you feel less than the goddamn sun, and if so, he wanted to make sure they never breathed the same air as you again. He wanted to show you. Show you how a man should look at you, should treat you.

But he wasn't that man.

Instead, he forced out an even voice. "You know that excusing bad behavior only teaches someone they can keep doing it right?" You titled your head, smiling up at him. "Mmm, yeah, that makes sense."

Hotch sighed, rubbing his temples. "Okay. Noted."

You blinked up at him. "Noted?"

"Yes. As in, we're going to talk about this again when you're sober enough to realize why what you just said was deeply concerning."

"But that doesn't sound fun."

Hotch's lips pressed into a straight line. "Neither does finding out you ignored a red flag because you liked a guy's smile."

Without warning, you reached up and placed a hand on his face, your fingertips pressing against his jaw as you studied him, way too close.

Hotch went completely still. "What are you—,"

"But you have a really great smile," you mumbled, squinting at him like this was some shocking new discovery, despite the fact, that he hadn't done anything remotely resembling a smile in the last ten minutes.

His jaw tensed beneath your touch, but he didn't pull away. His voice sounded different when he finally muttered your name.

You huffed, dragging your fingers down his cheek like he was some sort of sculpture you were admiring.

"You'd be worth it," you sighed dreamily. "I’d ignore so many red flags for you. So many."

Hotch felt like a man standing on a ledge, heart in his throat, knowing the drop was inevitable.

Your fingers were soft against his skin, moving far too slow, too easy, like you knew you could get away with it. All he wanted was to catch your wrist, drag you in, kiss you until you couldn't say things like that anymore. Until you have something real to ignore.

But that would be a mistake. A selfish, unforgivable mistake.

You needed to learn that some men didn't deserve saving, weren't worth the risk. That just because someone looked at you the way he did, ached for you the way he did, didn't mean they were good for you.

His voice came low and rough. "That's not the conclusion you should be coming to."

You pouted up at him, then practically threw yourself against him, arms wrapped tight around his waist. "Hotch, I was joking."

His entire body locked up, his hands hovering, unsurely. "You shouldn't joke about things like that."

You hummed, completely unconcerned, pressing your cheek to his chest. "Mmm, but you know, you don't have any of those."

"Those?"

You sighed and your breath was warm against his shirt.

"Those... bad things I always miss in people." Before he could correct you, you sighed again, breath warm against his shirt, voice nothing but soft, drunken honesty. "You're the best man I've ever known."

Hotch's hands betrayed him, settling against your back, pulling you in, holding you like he had a right to. Like he could protect you from the exact kind of man he was trying to tell you to avoid.

It was a lie. A beautiful, easy one, but a lie nonetheless. And it was dangerous, how easily you fit against him, how naturally your body responded to being his for just a second.

And most of all, it was cruel, how much he wanted to believe you.

His fingers curled against the small of your back before he forced himself to let go.

"Alright," he murmured. "Let's get you home."

Hotch had barely taken two steps past the table when Morgan let out a slow whistle, shaking his head like he’d seen something interesting.

"Man," he drawled, "and here I assumed you were just deep in thought earlier."

Hotch exhaled through his nose. "Goodnight, Morgan."

Morgan grinned, lifting his drink. "Oh, it already is."

💌 masterlist

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[witherby]

If the last fic takes place before the Batfam knew about Conners existence, I just wanna see Mouse explain to them that a Superman cosplayer saved them lol

I love that. "Yeah some cosplayer saved my life. 10/10 would let him do it again."

Littlest Wayne: Information Gathering

Masterlist is Here!

"You and Superman need to come straight to the Cave when you return to Earth."

"I miss you, too, babe," Hal smirks, gliding just above the ground on a planet he and Clark are guarding for a major diplomatic conference. "Tryna get the debrief out of the way so we can get me out of by boxer briefs right after?"

"Mouse was in a hostage situation in Metropolis today that was too overcast for them to get out of."

Hal's good mood plummets. He almost shouts for Clark to get his ass over to him so they can immediately head back.

"Are they —"

"Alive, and relatively unharmed considering the severity of the event."

"What does relatively mean in this context, B?" Hal snaps. "Relatively unharmed by vigilante standards or by civilian standards? Are they in the hospital?"

"Some bad bruising to the temple and a low-grade burn on the right arm. They're safe."

Bruce's calm tone and steady cadence helps relax Hal. His shoulders un-tense and he lets out a sigh.

"Alright. But there's more to it, otherwise you wouldn't have contacted me."

Bruce hums in that quiet way he does when he's pleased by Hal's deductive reasoning. It makes him smile and miss him that much more, and he's only been gone two days.

"They were rescued by a new Meta. Called himself Superman."

"Look at you, crackin' jokes on an official League line. Never thought I'd see the day!"

"..."

"You're not joking. There's a second Superman flying around?"

"A Superboy, by the looks of it. He's the real deal — the flight, the strength, and the suit all points to another Kryptonian. This will make three, after Supergirl."

Hal furrows his brow. He lets his feet hit the ground and starts to pace, kicking up little bits of purple dirt. This planet is ridiculously fragile. It's part of the reason he and Clark are protecting it during these peace talks.

"Is it a baby? Don't remember either Kara or Lois looking pregnant."

"A teenager. Around Mouse's age, by the looks of him, and very inexperienced from what scattered footage I can find of the event."

"Which makes no sense. There's something up if he's a teen but still can't use his powers right. Supes told us he could hone his almost perfectly before he was old enough to drive a car. A new scheme by Luthor or Waller, maybe?"

"I knew I married you for a reason."

"Keep praising me like that and there won't be time for a debrief when I get home."

Bruce hums again. His considering sound. The Green Lantern suit feels very constricting, all of a sudden.

"You don't need to rush your mission to get back. There is one more thing you need to know prior to return, however."

"I'm all ears."

"Mouse described the Superboy as... handsome."

Hal falls to his hands and knees, kicking up a small cloud of purple dust.

"No, no, nooo! They're just a baby!"

"Well. They're seventeen."

"Well I say they're too young for romance! Yesterday they were afraid of Cooties!!"

"Time flies. It's inevitable."

"We're gonna wrap these peace talks up tonight."

Bruce sounds amused on the other end of the line, like he hasn't just crushed Hal's entire world three sentences ago.

"You aren't due back for another week."

"We're wrapping it up tonight!"

"Okay. Agent A will know to set your plate tomorrow."

"Can he make some of those mini quiches? I'm gonna need comfort food to get over this."

"I'll pass the request along."

"And can you wear the see-through robe you were given after you shot that Dior commercial?"

"...if you slick back your hair, yes."

Hal grins. He's still not happy about his youngest kid growing up so fast, but this is a nice consolation prize.

--

True to his word, Hal and Clark get the peace talks concluded by nightfall and head back to Earth. Clark is given the general run-down of what happened on the way, and his curiosity and insistence on getting answers lets Hal know it'll be a long night. He's gonna slick his hair back anyway. He misses his husband, dammit.

You sit at the meeting table in the Bat Cave, feet propped on top exactly like Jason does it, with your hands stuffed in the pockets of your hoodie. You stare groggily at Hal and Clark as they fly in from their trip, shuffling to your feet to give them both sleepy hugs.

"Welcome back," you yawn. "Dad said you have questions?"

"Hey, Mousey," Hal grins, ruffling your hair. You grumble and wave his hand away, then grumble louder when Clark does the exact same thing. "Just got some follow-up questions about the field trip, then we'll let you get back to bed."

You go back to your seat and slump into it, rubbing your eyes. "Kay."

"Did the boy you met tell you his name?" Clark asks, sitting to your right. There's a dossier sitting on the table that he flips open, glancing over the information Bruce collected with Tim's help. He frowns at a still image pulled from his interview on TV.

"Just called himself Superman," you explain. "He had a version of your suit on. It looked legit. I'm guessing he's not your son, based on the way you're looking at the file."

"He is not. Did he seem to be acting maliciously or under someone's control? Was he flesh and blood or robotic?" Clark asks. "Did he hurt anyone? Did he try to hurt you?"

"No," you say, "he was warm. He's flesh and blood and definitely saved us from that fire. In fact he seemed...uh.."

You wave your hand around vaguely and pick over the best way to phrase this.

"Okay! There's a boy at school named Rory. He transferred to Gotham Academy this year after being homeschooled."

"Mousey," Hal speaks up, "I know you're tired, but we kinda gotta stay on track —"

"I am!" You insist. "I am, I swear. Look, it was obvious Rory was homeschooled because he didn't know how to, like, socialize properly? He asked a lot of questions that feel like common-sense if you're used to going to public schools and talking to people outside your family. The Superman cosplayer kind of acted like that."

"Cosplayer?" Clark mouths at Hal, who waves him off.

"So you think he's never been out there doing any hero stuff before that day?"

You shrug and nod. "I think he's never been out at all before that day. He reminded me a lot of Rory on his first day of school."

"But he didn't hurt you?" Hal asks.

"I promise, he didn't. He spoke to me like twice and then brought me to the EMTs to get looked at. Then Jason showed up and brought me home after making sure the school knew I wouldn't be taking the bus back from Metropolis."

"Last question," Clark promises, recapturing your attention. "Can you find him right now? With your shadows?"

"Uh, I can try."

Your gaze becomes a little distant. The shadows cast from one of the overhead lights shifts and dissolves into the ground, zipping out of the cave. Hal and Clark wait silently as you work, feeling for the presence of the boy that saved you just a day before.

"... M e t r o p o l i s..." You mutter, voice taking on that faint, echoing quality it does whenever you speak through the darkness. "...A r o o m...c o n c i o u s...k n o w s I s e e..."

"Come back, Mouse," Hal says, urgent. You take a moment to get your bearings, yawning and rubbing your face. "He knows you used your power to find him?"

You nod. "He saw my shadow move in the corner of his room. Guys, it's so bare and dark. He's got a cot, an alarm clock, and one blanket in there. It looks like some room you'd stick a sick person in to quarantine them."

"Where in Metropolis is he? That doesn't sound like the Solitary Confinement cells in the prison."

"It's not a jail. It looked like a lab, I think?"

"Lex Luthor," Hal and Clark state at the same time. Clark stands up, drawing you into another gentle hug, then heads for the exit.

"Thank you for your help, Mouse! Sleep well."

"Bye, uncle Clark. Have a good night," you call after him. When Hal stands, you rise with him, stretching. "Can I go to bed, now?"

"Yeah, hon," Hal nods, pressing his hand to your back and guiding you to the stairs. "We'll head up together. I'll tell your dad what we learned when he comes back from patrol."

"Kay," you mumble, climbing the steps with another wide yawn. "M'sleeping in tomorrow. Being up at two am sucks."

Hal chuckles. "Yeah, it does. We'll put your breakfast in some Tupperware for when you get up, then."

Once the two of you climb through the grandfather clock and reenter the manor proper, you give Hal one more goodnight hug, then excuse yourself to go to bed. Your eyes are closed as you shuffle into your room and nudge the door closed behind you, navigating the space from memory. It's not until you start climbing back into bed that you feel a dip in it that shouldn't be there.

The dip of another person's weight.

You snap your eyes open and you inhale to scream. A hand presses itself to your mouth, and you find yourself staring at those brilliant blues from yesterday.

"Waitwaitwait-" the boy gasps, whisper-shouting. "Please!!"

You push his hand off and he lifts them both up in placation, floating off the bed and several feet away from you.

"What do you want!?" You whisper-yell back. "Why are you in my room!? That's creepy!"

He grimaces, knees curling towards his chest. In the low light, you can see color painting his cheeks.

"I wanted to come see you," he murmurs.

"Why?"

"I don't know your name."

You're completely flummoxed. You shake your head and shrug.

"Do you need to?" You ask.

The boy floats a little closer, his gaze intense. He looks at you like...he looks at you like you're the most important thing in the world right now. It makes your stomach swoop.

"Yes," he says, completely sincere. "I'm...I can't...there's this..."

His brow furrows. He's exceptionally easy to read, like he's never known how to be anything except fully, authentically himself. It's a welcome change in a family of vigilante detectives with emotional intimacy issues. It'll help you know if he's trying to deceive you, too.

Quietly, you give him your name. His eyes snap to yours and he repeats it, lips shaping the vowels and consonants with an unusual reverence. You can feel your own face getting a little warm.

"I'm...Conner," the boy says. His eyes dart to your mouth. You oblige.

"Hi, Conner," you mutter. His whole body un-tenses, looking like a puppet with his strings cut as he almost dangles in the air.

"Can I —" Conner cuts himself off. He drifts closer to you. You shift back, feeling cornered from where you kneel in your bed. "Ah. I wanted... I don't know how to say..."

Exhausted and confused, you gesture at him to hurry it up a little. You know you should probably alert someone that the new Meta boy is literally floating four feet away from you right now, but you know he isn't here to cause harm.

"It's late," you speak up. "Can you try a little harder to get the point across so I can sleep?"

"Yes," Conner says quickly, obediently. "Call for me."

You blink heavily. Your mind feels like sludge. "Elaborate."

"When you need something," he specifies. "If you're in danger, or lonely, or just...or just want to. Please. Call for me and I'll come to you."

"Why?" You yawn. It's getting harder to stay conscious. You let your body fall over until you collide with the pillows, eyes slipping closed. "Why me?"

Conner floats above you, reaching down to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with more reverence than is appropriate for having barely met. His fingers brush against the bruise on your temple, featherlight.

"Because it's you," he says, as your consciousness fades. "Something in my heart is yours... I hope that's okay."

You hum, managing a barely discernible "kay," in your last seconds of awareness before sleep pulls you under.

In your subconscious mind, you register warmth wrap around you for a moment, and then you're alone with nothing but a cracked window as evidence anyone had ever been there.

[nerdygirlramblings]

They've got me in a chokehold

Elder Stigr walks off, and you watch his long, angry strides quickly close the distance between him and the rest of your village, leaving you and your gods standing with the shrines. From the corner of your eye you watch his Jon walks over to his shrine placing his hand on the curved blade of the altar. "This is beautifully rendered," he says, voice low and full of tenderness.

You know you cannot stare at the ground but it feels too dangerous to meet anyone's eyes. You flick your gaze to Jon briefly before looking out across the village. "I did my best to ensure the altars and shrines looked as they had."

A rustle of cloth and warm breath on your neck reminds you to keep better track of where each of these men are. Your people do not know who they truly are, but you cannot let yourself forget that these are gods in human form.

There's a lilt to the cadence of the voice in your ear. "Your offerings woke us, and we wanted to come thank you." Light touches on your lower back and you can't resist the shover that accompanies them. Jon is still at his altar and Si to one side. You think it's Tav behind you, hand resting possessively.

Your suspicion is confirmed moments later when Gaz steps into your line of sight and lifts one hand tenderly in his. Placing a kiss along your knuckles, he murmurs quietly, "Your daily prayers and the prayers and offerings of your people have restored our strength." It's echoes of words that chased you from dreams of them. Somehow hearing it outside your dreams is both threat and promise.

As he speaks Jon turns to you, hand still resting on his altar. "What I said at last night's feast is true. Word of your work and the miracle it brought to your people is spreading. Other villages have begun to worship us again in their own ways." He runs a hand gently over the curved blades again and looks at the other alters. "None has established shrines quite as nice as these, but that may be yet to come."

Your gaze glances between them, unsure where to look until a rough hand gently grabs your chin, tilts you to face Si. "We've come to repay what you've done and claim the life you've promised."

You inhale sharply, hand to your chest. It feels as though all the air in your lungs is gone. The sounds of chatter, of the birds, the trees, animals in the field have all ceased. The sunlight, which moments ago was causing beads of sweat to roll down your skin, feels dimmer. Cooler. As though something has pulled the life from where you stand.

Jon clears his throat and looks at Si. "Yes. But in due time. And not as you may think." He looks over at you. "There used to be 141 of us. Your ancient pantheons had deities far and wide. Because of you, we four remain, but there are others whose restoration would prove just as beneficial for your people."

John explains how your next step as seer needs to be to help revive some more of these ancient gods. Apparently the tome where you found the original ritual was only one of a larger set. Like these ancient gods, those additional tones have been lost. But Jon describes these other gods: the twinned goddesses Las and Wel, who protect women and children; Fra, who guards hearth and home; Lex, who carries messages; and paired gods Ale and Rudi, who protect travelers.

Jon explains what you need to ask the elders for, how to construct the shrines, what to offer and when. "Ask for a little at a time. Push too fast and your people will lose faith. If you can wake the others, I promise your people will flourish."

Tav's hand has stayed a heavy weight on your back this whole time. As Jon makes his proclamation, Tav's grip tightens and his voice is gruff when he says, "As you restore them, as the 141 return, we can reclaim our palace on Fjall Gothar."

"And that palace will need its queen," Gaz says warmly.

more

series masterlist | main masterlist

[abbotsanatomy]

hello!! i love ur writing you’re feeding my abbot addiction <33 could you write a fic with a depressed reader, maybe she had a hard case that hit close to home that ended badly and is really lingering for her, and jack noticed because she’s been more withdrawn and distant for the past few days and he tries to get her to talk about it and she says shes fine then blah blah fast forward shes on yhe roof crying after working a double :) sorry im a fiend for hurt comfort

⨳ PROTECTING THE HIVE

pairing: jack abbot x chief resident!reader warnings: (20-ish year) age gap, resident/attending relationship, workplace romance, depictions of depression, mentions of suicidal ideation, kinda medical malpractice (lol), panic attack, allusions to child abuse. author's note: i had no idea what to name this, so here's my attempt at being funny... (also keep the compliments coming, they're feeding my ego <33 mwah)

You used to love your bed. It used to be a huge source of comfort. And sleep. Sleep is a special commodity when you work night shifts at a trauma center.

Now, you hate it. Because whenever you aren't working, you're just lying there. Not even asleep, just staring at the ceiling. Half of the time, you want to get up and be with your hot, older boyfriend.

The other half of the time, your mind is just pulling out the most horrendous memories possible, making you relive them, and wish you were dead. There's a bottle of pills on your nightstand you know would do the trick. You won't let yourself.

People rely on you. Jack relies on you. You save lives every day; you just wish you didn't have to lose so many along the way.

The only place you can escape your own thoughts is the ER. So, you throw yourself into your work. You work twice as hard, for twice as long.

Of course, Jack notices. He can see the most imperceptible changes in your demeanor, so this major shift doesn't exactly fly under his radar.

Be that as it may, you won't tell him any of it. He's a natural worrier. He hovers and he worries. That's just who he is. You're doing him a huge favor, really.

Besides, out of all the things your coping mechanism could be, it's saving lives. Who wouldn't support that?

So, you work yourself to the bone guilt-free. You take on double shifts with a few extra hours sprinkled on top. It's more than tiring, but it also means that when you get home and you're in bed, you pass out. You don't lay there for hours thinking about the kid who died in your ER two weeks ago.

You're careful about it, too. You change your scrubs and chug a cup of that terrible break room coffee before Jack comes in for the night shift.

Tonight's another one of those long, grueling, self-inflicted shifts. You've got a Red Bull in one hand, and a patient's bloodwork in the other. You've assessed labs like this one a million times, but the numbers aren't making any sense right now. Parker passes by you with a quick tap on your shoulder to bring your attention to her.

“Hey, you want me to count you in for the rock climbing thing this Sunday?” she asks, opening up one of the ER computers, “It was fun last time, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say slowly.

You're not too sure you can come up with a viable excuse right now, so you'll just have to cancel later. It was really fun, it just sounds like too much effort right now.

She walks away with a nod, when one of the nurses calls for her. When you start feeling surrounded in the middle of the ER hallway, you make your way to the break room. It feels even more stuffy, somehow.

You grip the papers in your hands tighter. The throbbing in your head that hasn't really left for the past two weeks has become unbearable now.

Noises are too loud. Everyone's too close. You need to get out, now.

Everything in your hand gets abandoned on the break room counter. You make your way as swiftly as possible past the patient’s rooms. A hand gently grips your arm, before you can pull the emergency exit open.

“Are you alright?”

Jack's low cadence coupled with his steady touch on your arm make you want to burst out into tears right then and there.

“I'm fine. I just—” your voice cracks.

“I need a minute,” you tell him, willing your voice to be as firm as you can manage. You can't even pull your gaze up from the floor. It isn't clear if he's buying it or not.

He lets go of your arm, and you can finally run up the hospital's stairs to the rooftop. You're completely out of breath, and still wildly overstimulated by the time you get there.

You pull the roof's metal door open. The moment the cold December air hits your face, it calms your panic down. But it brings with it a wave of sadness that can't be quelled or distracted away. You let yourself feel it.

You're out of control, now. Hands shaking, limbs completely wracked by these huge, full-body sobs. You steady yourself with your arms on one of the roof's AC units, when the memories start flooding your mind.

The kid you killed, he'd come in a week before. He had bruises all over, cuts where he wasn't supposed to. You passed the information onto someone on the day shift, so they can tell the department social worker. The next day you came back, he was gone.

A week later, he was dying in your arms. His blood literally staining your hands is a memory you'll never be able to erase. You spiral, his first and last visit to the ER flashing in your mind with equal consequence.

The footsteps growing closer barely register to your ears over your wailing. The moment Jack pulls you close, a hand on your jaw to bring your eyes to his, you instinctively pull away. He's insistent, though. He was trying to give you space, but look where that's gotten you.

“Hey, hey,” he says firmly, to grab your attention.

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. He quickly realizes he can't get you to understand anything he says, not right now. So he does the next best thing.

He holds you. Really tight. So tight you can only smell his cologne and that sterile hospital scent that lingers on him for hours after a shift. It reminds you of home. You see him almost every day, but you miss him. He somehow always knows exactly what you need.

It takes a good ten minutes for you to stop crying in his arms. He's happy to be there, just glad you're slowly calming down. When your breathing evens out, and your eyes have dried out, you look up at him.

Where you think there should be disappointment, maybe even hatred, there's only admiration. If you’d actually picked up a scalpel and killed someone, he wouldn't even flinch, you think.

His gaze alone is making this a lot easier, “Better?”

You nod. Your eyes feel heavy, like you might just sleep here in his arms.

“It's the oxytocin,” he jokes.

“Yeah. I know,” you chuckle.

His scrub top looks incredibly comfortable. For the first time in weeks, you wish you were just in bed. You could lay on his chest and have the best sleep you've had in too many nights to count. The best you can get right now is resting your forehead on the black fabric. That's exactly what you do.

Jack lets a few seconds go back before speaking up.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I...” you take a deep breath.

I killed him. The words die on your tongue. You can't say them.

Jack must notice this is causing you distress, so he runs his fingers through your hair. He kisses the top of your head to calm you down.

“We don't have to, right now,” he whispers, “Not ever, even. But you do need to talk about it to someone.”

You nod in agreement, against his shirt. Your coping mechanisms are so not working.

“When was the last time you ate?”

You blank, “I don't...I don't know.”

“Sleep?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“Alright. You're done.”

He pulls your head up with a hand on each cheek, “Clock out. Go home. Have some food, and I'll be there in a few hours.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

You both walk to the emergency exit. In the stairwell, you turn to him, your eyes still glistening.

“Hey, um. I'm not fine, Jack,” you admit.

“I know that,” he tells you. “But you will be. I'll make sure of it.”

You believe him.

[2tarbell]

more trailer park!rafe drabbles i beg

maybe something with crybaby!reader too, like he comes home from a long ass day and she’s crying over the silliest thing ever.

but of course he makes her feel better.

love ur writing smm !!

he knew he was in for it when he came home and she wasn’t waiting patiently for him. if he didn’t know any better, rafe would assume the quaint trailer was empty — but the call you shared earlier on his lunch break detailed your plans around the house for the day, so there was no fuckin’ reason for it be as quiet as it was.

his confusion turned to concern when he heard little sniffles and sobs coming from the bathroom. rafe dropped his keys in the bowl and hurried off further into the trailer, in search of his girl.

pushing the bathroom door open with a rough hand, his mind went to the worst places when he saw her crumpled up on the floor. instantly he scooped her up onto the counter. his voice was a flurry of sounds she couldn’t decipher through her tears. the warm cadence she’s become so familiar with instantly providing some relief.

“hey, hey, baby — look at me, you hurt?” his hands are moving fast, holding her cheeks and checking for any injuries to that beautiful face.

she could only shake her head, hiccuping and trying to speak between sobs.

“rafe— dad— daddy—“

he hums and looks over her body. blue eyes checking off a list of what’s ‘normal’. when he finds nothing bleeding or falling off — that intense gaze finds hers, urging her to calm down.

his voice cooed, low and rumbly in a way that always soothes her, “shh, dad’s here, what happened? hm? someone — someone do somethin’ t’you or—“

“muh — my nails!” she interrupted, voice a petulant mumble.

rafe froze, mouth agape and eyes blinking in confusion. he looked down and took her smaller hands in his. turning them over and feeling the smooth skin. no cuts, no bruises—

the fact that he didn’t immediately know what she was talking about sends her into another spiral. yanking her hands from his and covering her eyes as sobs shook her shoulders.

“okay, okay, can’t help if you’re cryin’. talk t’me— what about your nails, honey?”

she sniffs and thrusts them in his face, rafe now seeing something out of the ordinary — chipped baby blue polish.

“wanted— wanted to paint them f’you. ‘cuz— ‘cuz s’the same color as your eyes but forgot they weren’t dry yet so i tried to make dinner and— and i ruined them!”

everyday the universe was testing his patience.

a sharp sigh out of his nose and rafe let his head fall forward. relief and disbelief pooled in his chest. she was this worked up over nail polish?

a low grumble of her name ceased her tears until they were just little sniffles of sadness. any other person and rafe would’ve been out the door with a specific finger showing his annoyance. but this was his person, his precious girl, and if she was this worked up over nail polish — he was going to indulge her. he picked up his head, eyes tired from a long days work but soft in a way meant just for her. he spoke in that way that makes her all fuzzy for him.

“jesus christ, that’s— yeah, okay. baby, ‘m— ‘m sorry. y’just wanted t’do somethin’ sweet f’dad, yeah?”

hook, line, and sinker. reader huffed and nodded as she leaned forward into his chest. her little gasps punctuated his cooing. within minutes, she was putty in his arms, nuzzling closer and closer. rafe littered kisses over her hair, gently rocking her until her head lifted off his chest. wet cheeks and a red nose greeted him and he couldn’t stop the adoring coo from falling out as he wiped her face.

“thereee you are— my sweet girl… better now?”

she nodded at his words, almost hypnotized by the gentle tone of his voice. a little hiccup fell out when she caught sight of her messy nails, but rafe quickly shushed her.

“shh, no more cryin’. y’gotta be a big girl, a’ight? c’mon, whaddaya need?”

she wished she had a picture of this big man patiently painting and blowing on her nails — that matched his eyes.

[its3nvy]

"Wear the hat, ride the cowboy" Billy the Kid

Summary: After drawing the wrong kind of attention at the saloon, Billy comes to your rescue. Having to pretend to be his for the night, which leads to a ‘wear the hat, ride the cowboy’ situation ;) 

Tags/warnings: mdni (18+), porn with no plot, angst, size kink, riding cock, overstimulation, fingering, breeding kink, creampie, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, slight knife kink

Note : This is my first time ever writing smut and I haven't edited it a lot so this should be fun. (Tell me if it's good or not pls)

tags: f!reader, smut

word count: 3.7k

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Curiosity led you to the local saloon one evening, where Billy often engaged in poker games. The air inside was thick with the smoky residue of cigars, and the occasional clinking of glasses underscored the distant melody of a forlorn piano. As you pushed through the creaking doors, your presence hung in the air, drawing the gaze of rough patrons whose eyes bore into you with a kind of familiarity you had never known. Unaccustomed to the bold gazes and suggestive comments that swirled around you like a threatening storm, you sought refuge at the bar. A man behind it was taking someone’s order.

You looked around, your eyes finally found Billy's familiar frame, surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke, engaged in a high-stakes poker game.

“Hello, darlin’,” a drunken man stumbled toward you.

“Hello, sir,” you gave him a small smile, trying to avoid his intense stare.

He leaned against the bar to keep his balance. “Come on, darling, don’t be such a prude. Talk to me.” His hand reached up, attempting to caress your face.

From afar, you saw Billy, his eyes—usually mischievous and full of life—met yours with a fleeting recognition. Without uttering a word, he rose from his chair, his cowboy boots echoing a heavy cadence on the worn wooden floor.

The drunken man's intrusive advances persisted, his slurred words creating an uncomfortable tension. "Don’t play hard to get, honey. I can show you a good time," he insisted, his hand becoming more insistent. Ignoring the drunkard, you turned back to the bar, hoping for intervention. The man persisted, his persistence turning aggressive. As his hand encroached upon your personal space, a shadow fell over you. 

Billy's presence loomed, his gaze colder than the steel of his revolver. Without a word, he grabbed the man's hand, his grip firm and unyielding. “Leave her alone," Billy's voice cut through the clamor of the saloon, his words echoing with a subtle menace.

The tension escalated, a palpable undercurrent surging through the room. The patrons, sensing the imminent storm, shifted uneasily. Billy's eyes held yours, a silent reassurance amid the brewing chaos. The drunk man, now confronted by the notorious gunslinger, stumbled backward, a mixture of recognition and fear contorting his expression. With a final warning glare from Billy, he slinked away into the crowd.

Billy turned towards you, his eyes softening as if to assure you that the storm had passed. 

"What in the hell are ya doin’ here?", he murmured, his tone both gruff and concerned as he reached you, seizing your hand and guiding you to the quiet side of the room. "I needed to go out, Billy," you replied, your voice carrying a note of defiance and desperation.

He hissed, a trace of irritation etching lines across his rugged features. "You can’t. You gotta go home. These people here are dangerous," he warned.

"And you don’t think me leaving alone would be dangerous?" you shot back, your gaze a defiant challenge to the protective facade he wore like impenetrable armor.

"Shit," he conceded, his irritation mingling with a begrudging acceptance of your undeniable truth. "Alright, I’m finishing up my round, and then we can go," Billy relented, his tone an admission of defeat. "But you play along with me, ok? If they don’t think you're claimed, they'll see you as fair game," he said, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that cut through the smoky haze, demanding an unspoken oath.

“Ok,” you huffed out.

He pulled you towards his table with a rough yet oddly comforting grip, a silent acknowledgment that, for a fleeting moment, you were to be sheltered from the men surrounding you as long as you stayed with him. "Wait," he murmured, his hand lingering on yours. With a swift motion, he removed his hat, worn and weathered from a life on the precipice.

You extended your hand to stop him. "Billy, you can’t," you insisted, your voice barely more than a whisper, laden with the implications of his gesture. “You know what this means.”

"That’s the point," he declared, his crooked grin returning like a bittersweet promise of protection. As he placed his hat on your head, it became a proclamation, an unspoken claim made before the watchful eyes of everyone present, and a promise of a heated night that lingered in the air like an unspoken secret.

"Now, c’mere," he commanded, pulling you towards him as he settled into his chair, drawing you onto his lap. You bit on your lips, a mixture of anticipation and fear, the heat rising to your cheeks as the proximity between you tightened like a coiled spring. This was the first time Billy had been so close, and the magnetic pull of his presence ignited an unfamiliar fire within you.

He looked up at you as you bit your lips, his gaze a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken tension that hung thick in the air.

As he resumed his poker game, you felt his breath against your neck. "Pass me the whiskey, doll," he asked.

You leaned against the table, inadvertently pulling your hips tighter into his pelvis, sensing his hardness between you. His hands reached out against your hips, gripping you and keeping you still. "Careful," he warned against the shell of your ear, his breath raising goosebumps along your neck, a sensation that heightened the electrifying energy between you.

As you handed him the glass, he took a swig, and then, with a deliberate slowness, leaned down against the side of your neck, planting a lingering kiss. "Thank you, doll," his gravelly voice murmured, the aroma of whiskey lingering in the air.

Billy's fingers grazed lightly along your waist, sending a cascade of sensations through your body. His gaze met yours once more, a silent invitation lingering in his eyes. It was then that you became acutely aware of the speculative glances from the patrons, their curiosity fueled by the undeniable connection unfolding before them.

The weight of Billy's hat on your head felt like both a shield and a beacon, marking you as his amidst the prying eyes of the saloon.

The night passed on and as the final hand of poker concluded, Billy rose from his seat, still holding you close. "Wrapping it up for the night, boys. See ya tomorrow," he declared, his voice a mix of weariness and determination.

He grabbed your hand, guiding you out with a certain urgency. The saloon doors swung open, thrusting you back into the harsh glow of moonlight. As you stopped in front of his horse, he turned around and said, "What the hell were you thinking, coming here alone? You know how they treat women here."

His words cut through the night air, a mixture of concern and frustration etched on his rugged features. The distant sounds of revelry from the saloon formed a dissonant backdrop to the charged atmosphere between you.

You met his gaze, a swirl of emotions reflecting in his eyes. "I just wanted to have one free night, Billy. Just one," you replied, your voice carrying a note of desperation. Billy's jaw clenched, a silent acknowledgment of the dangers lurking in the shadows. "This ain't the place for that, especially not for someone like you," he muttered, his grip on your hand tightening as if to emphasize the point.

The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The moonlight cast shadows across his face, revealing the hardened resolve etched into his expression. "I can't have you wandering into places like this, doll," he continued, a trace of vulnerability underlying his gruff tone. "It's too damn dangerous."

Billy sighed, a heavy exhale that seemed to release the tension in the air. "Let's get you home," he said, his voice softened. With a final glance back at the saloon, you moved towards his horse. As you approached, he placed his hands on your hips, lifting you onto the horse with a gentle yet firm touch. You instinctively grabbed his forearm for support, your eyes locking in a shared moment of intimacy. 

The ride home was a silent journey through the cool night air, the rhythmic hooves of the horse creating a steady cadence. You sat in front of Billy, the warmth of his body enveloping you, his strong arms encircling your waist as you traversed the dimly lit trails. 

As the horse navigated the uneven terrain, Billy's embrace tightened slightly, offering both stability and reassurance. His chin rested on your shoulder, his warm breath tickling your neck, and in that intimate proximity, the weight of your unspoken desires lingered like an invisible thread weaving through the darkness.

Arriving at your doorstep, Billy helped you dismount, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Your eyes met, a complex tapestry of emotions woven between you. He spoke, his words a whisper carried away by the night breeze, "Be more careful, doll. This world ain't kind, especially to those with a heart as tender as yours." He placed his hand against your cheek, caressing it lovingly.

"Billy," you responded, the ache in your voice carrying a mixture of gratitude and longing. He placed a loving kiss on your forehead, his touch a hushed plea for silence. "Go to sleep, doll. I'll come by tomorrow morning," he whispered, giving you a kiss on the forehead, turning away.

"Billy, wait," an urgency surged within you, desperate to find a reason for him to stay. You took off your hat, intending to return it to him, a feeble attempt to anchor him in the moment. “Keep it. I prefer it on you,” he remarked, a bittersweet acknowledgment that stirred emotions too complex to unravel.

Locked in a gaze that spoke volumes, you inched toward him, a silent plea lingering in the air. As your fingers tightened around the hat, a palpable tension filled the space between you. His intense blue eyes held yours, revealing a tumult of unspoken struggles and desires. Your gaze shifted to his lips—slightly chapped yet irresistibly inviting. 

Closing the distance, you reached him, and, without hesitation, pressed your lips against his. The kiss was a desperate plea, an attempt to convey the emotions that words couldn't capture.

Billy's initial surprise melted into a shared passion, and for a moment, the world around you faded. His arms encircled you, pulling you close as if trying to etch the moment into his memory. As the intensity deepened, you let go of the hat, your hands finding their way to his jaw, pulling him even closer. He tasted your soft lips and felt your warm skin. He pulled away slightly, breath mingling with yours, lips lingering, an anguished pause in the silent night.

"Fuck, doll," he groaned, your foreheads leaning against one another, his hands gripping the fabric on your waist. You looked up into his eyes, witnessing the inner battle reflected in his gaze as he grappled with the decision to restrain himself or not.

You approached your lips to his cheek, giving him a slight peck, when you heard him whisper, "Fuck it." His lips crashed to yours, hungry, hot, and demanding, stealing your breath in a heated rush. His hand came up, cupping your jaw, angling your head to deepen the kiss as he slicked his tongue inside your mouth.

“Come, let’s go inside, yeah?” He asked. You nodded at him, as he gave you a quick kiss, ushering you inside, “good girl.” And in an instant, he’s moving toward you, wrapping his arms around your body and pressing you to his chest. You press your lips to his and moan at the taste of Whiskey. His tongue slides over yours in slow strokes that make your cheeks warm, but it’s when his teeth nip at your bottom lip that a whine escapes. 

His rough, calloused hands drop to the cusp of your neck, gripping your hair just tight enough to make you hiss. You arch into his touch as he starts to explore your body, mapping out every dip and curve. 

“Billy- Please… do something.” He moans a response into your neck as his lips slip down to leave love bites along the column of your throat. 

Eager to feel you, Billy tried to pull at the strings of your corset, but to no avail. It was too complicated to remove in the dark, and with the emotions aptly blinding him, Billy had no patience to try.

In the dark, you heard a flick of a knife, and you felt a cold tip of the blade against your skin before Billy’s voice comforted you, “Be a good girl and don’t move, ok?”

A rip ran through the air as Billy sliced your corset in half from the back. You stayed perfectly still, trusting him completely to cut the clothing off of you without harming you at all. The moment Billy had cut your corset, he dropped it to the floor and pulled your top off with it.

He immediately lets his hands drop to your breasts, nipples already pebbling from the cool air. He pinches and pulls at them for only a moment before he’s trailing kisses down your stomach.

Bilily stops just above your hip bones, “May I?” he asks, blue eyes peering up at you. “Yes. Billy, please.” You beg him, voice thick with desperation. He chuckles and then rubs his hand over your throbbing clit. He slides one, then two thick fingers into your dripping pussy. A whimper bubbles from your swollen lips as he pulls back to spit on your heat. His fingers curl, digits stretching and scissoring inside you. Your head feels like it’s spinning, arousal leaking from your cunt and down Billy’s fingers. 

Your hips are unable to escape his assault on your g-spot when he pins you down, and you let out a moan you hardly recognize as your own. “Shit, you’re so wet.” His teeth catch his bottom lip as he smiles down at your fucked-out form. 

Billy’s hand never slows, even as he grinds his palm into your poor clit. You cum not long after, waves of pleasure crashing over and drowning you in euphoria. Your body is trembling as you come back to Earth and Billy is there, watching you from between your thighs. He places a kiss on your sensitive clit before he stands back up, towering over you. 

“Please. Fuck me, Billy.” You say through heavy breaths. He feels his head spin at the sound of your voice. 

“Whatever you want, doll.” 

Billy lays you across the couch and crawls over you, leaning back to release his aching cock from the confines of his pants. Saliva pools in your mouth at the sight of him, pre-cum drips from his flushed, red tip.

He fists his cock at the sight of you below him, lips parted and breasts heaving. Billy leans his body over yours, trapping you between him and the cushions below you. You can feel the muscle covering his torso press against your tummy. He ruts his cock through your pussy, the head catching on your clit deliciously. You both moan at the feeling and link your fingers together. 

“Fuck, you’re so perfect. I’m gonna make you all mine”, Billy coos down at you, searching your face for any hesitance. You nod at him, earning you a keen smile and a quick kiss. “It’s gonna hurt, doll, I’m sorry.” Squeezing his hand, you hold your breath when he lines himself up with your entrance.

You gasp when his tip slips into you, already feeling like he’s split you in two. Salty tears start to well in your lash line at the burn of Billy’s cock stretching you out for the first time. He’s much bigger than you anticipated and you dig your nails into his skin. 

“I know, I know. Just breathe.” He tries his best to comfort you, gritting his teeth at the feeling of your cunt around him. His heart stings at the sight of you crying for reasons other than pleasure, but he can’t help it when his hips buck, pushing himself another inch deeper.

Billy knows he should feel guilty for liking the way you screw your eyes shut, the way your cunt flutters around him even though he’d worked you open already. He’s not even halfway inside you and your legs are trembling around his waist while he holds himself back from pushing in balls-deep. He can’t help but feel a sense of pride swell in his chest at the effect he has on your body. 

Billy’s hand leaves yours and drops to your clit, rubbing tight circles with his thumb. Your mouth opens into an “O” shape and your sloppy cunt grants him another inch.  He can feel the velvet of your walls drawing him deeper, euphoria building in your veins. With every circle drawn, Billy pushes in further and further until he’s finally buried to the hilt. He stills for a moment, letting your cock-drunk mind play catchup with your body. “I’m gonna move, is that ok, doll?”

He pulls out, making you whine at the empty sensation, then, he’s driving his hips forward again. You loop your arms around his neck as he attacks your insides. Any words you have die on your tongue as Billy sets a rough, passionate pace. His tan skin, covered in old and new scars, feels slick against yours as his cock splits your mind in half. You can feel Billy everywhere, you can taste him, touch him, smell him, see him. He’s completely overwhelmed your senses and given you nothing to think about other than him.

The air around you is humid and thick, the scent of sex swimming through it. Billy slips in and out of you with ease, the clear strings of your slick and his pre-cum coat your pussy lips like a gloss. You let your gaze fall on him, watching how his brows furrow with concentration while he molds your insides into the shape of him.

Billy lifts your hips in the air to get an angle that allows him to hit even deeper, pumping his cock into you so hard that the air is forced from your lungs. There’s no one else you could want, no one else who could ever make you feel like this. 

“Shit Billy. I’m so close.” You moan, a familiar warmth starting to coil in your tummy. He nods and slots his lips against yours for one final kiss. His tongue explores your mouth as his dick strikes your g-spot, sending you headfirst into bliss. You cum hard as every nerve in your body is set aflame. His hot, sticky cum floods your walls and leaks from around his cock. 

Silence lies thick in the air aside from your heavy breathing and the soft kisses you share. Billy leans back to peer down at where you’re connected and shakes his head at you. 

He picks you up and places you over his hips, leaning you back. “Can’t waste this, doll.” He tuts at you, gathering the cum leaking from your abused pussy on his tip and pushing it back in. Throwing an arm behind his head, a fucked-out grin crosses his features as you sink down on his cock, letting him rub against your most sensitive spots. A strangled moan sounds in the back of your throat as he slowly pushes back into the deepest parts of your cunt.

His tongue darts out to lick the sweat off of his cupid’s bow, large hands moving to slide down your hips to grab at the fat of your ass. He guides you up and down on him as you babble and cry.

“I’ve got you, doll.” His words send a shiver down your spine and you brace yourself on his broad shoulders. Your cunt flutters around him, “Fuck Billy’-” you cry out.

Billy groans at the sight of a white ring around his shaft, made from a mixture of his and your cum. “So tight… taking me so fuckin’ well.” He bucks his hips, tip grazing your g-spot just right, just enough to make your eyes roll up into your head. “C’mon, doll.”

He leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead, then captures your lips with his. He swallows every moan and hiccup as he pounds into you, only slowing when you clench impossibly tighter around him. Stars are dancing in your vision and pleasure is burning in your veins. You hear him swear again, he lets his head fall back onto the cushions and plants his boots flat on the floor. You nearly scream as he fucks back up into you. He’s growling something in your ear, but his words sound so far away. 

“Cum on my cock, doll. C’mon, do it. Do it for me.” Billy babbles in your ear as he loses his rhythm, now just slamming his hips into yours with all the force he could muster. Your arms are clinging to his neck and he has you trapped against him. White, hot pleasure hits you like a ton of bricks as you squirm on Billy’s lap. His teeth sink into your shoulder as he pumps his hot, sticky cum into your womb. 

He lays back on the couch, letting you rest against his chest.  With a tender touch, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your hair. His lips lingered for a moment. As he pulled back, his fingers began to stroke your hair slowly, each caress a testament to the unspoken passion that simmered between you.

“From now on, that hat stays on you, doll. Let everyone in town see you belong to me."

send me billy thoughts or requests pleaseee :)

[stellamarielu]

impatient intentions

michael robinavitch x female reader

summary: robby’s innocent obsession with his neighbor takes a turn after a dinner invite that leads him straight into your kitchen and renders him a slave to your touch

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, cursing, mutual pining, harmless flirting (well i guess not that harmless), illusions to male masturbation, smut with a whole lot of lead up, oral m!receiving, someone needs to get that man a blowjob stat!, we’re swallowing that old man down y’all buckle up

word count: 2.8k

author’s note: take this as a prologue to late night visits, like a deeper view into their little relationship and their first hookup. however, i wrote this so that it could be read as a stand alone, so do whatever you want. written in robby’s pov cause i’m a sick freak who loves getting in the mind of a pathetic man who desperately needs to be touched.

Robby sat with his hands clasped together over the cool granite of your kitchen island. Watching as you expertly moved around the cramped space, pulling spices from your cabinet with an undeniable muscle memory as you cooked him dinner. 

You were cooking, for him. He offered to help you so many times that the slow cadence of your voice the final time you told him to just sit down and relax was almost laced with annoyance. Almost, but not quite; because you were the one who invited him over for dinner in the first place.

Sure, maybe he was the one who offered to help carry your grocery bags up three flights of stairs, but you— you were the one who asked him if he wanted to come over for dinner. Your voice so rich with enthusiasm that it had him agreeing without a second thought.

It wasn’t until he was leaning against the countertop of your kitchen, that he realized this was more than just a conversation in passing outside his doorway. 

After months of living across the hall from one another, meeting face to face in the communal space between your doors, this was the first time he was given the opportunity to bask in your presence for longer than five minutes. 

You were a temptress. One operating in secrecy, naive to your own charm. 

Robby had attempted to brush off his immediate attraction to you by telling himself you were just young and bright-eyed. A girl with a sweet voice, and an equally saccharine smile. It was essentially ingrained in him to take a second look at you. But, your oblivious persuasions persisted through kind words and simple exchanges as Robby got to know you over the course of several conversations strew out over weeks of hallway greetings.

The more moments shared between the two of you, the more he couldn’t pin-point his giddy feelings surrounding your interactions. Was it an innocent infatuation— a harmless little crush that would cause him to steal glances or let his mind occasionally verr off at the thought of you? Or was it deeper; like when he got home late from work and knew he just missed you by the light seeping under your door. The longing to talk to you one last time before turning in for the night could be blamed on his growing need to hear your voice in the evenings.  

The timing was always impeccable when you got home from work; meeting Robby in the same position, both of you exhausted and ready for the tender release of uninterrupted rest. Your “Hi there” and “How was your day” would meet him as his key entered the lock or— if he was lucky, it would find him in the elevator, three floors before he’d come to expect it.

The light rhythm of your words had become essential to his nightly routine. After a day filled with rigorous overwhelm at every turn, Robby would finally head home, ready to hear the pleasant sound of your voice filling the hall and preparing him for a peaceful night on the other side of his front door. The nights he didn’t get to talk with you for those few precious moments before you disappeared to your side of the hallway— those nights, he found it especially hard to relax. It was almost as though a pivotal part of his day was suddenly missing, keeping him from being able to sleep peacefully at night.

Being with you, like this, hearing sentence after sentence fall from your lips in that sugary sweet tone, there was no doubt in his mind he would be getting the best night of sleep in his entire life. 

He couldn’t get enough of you, watching intently as you stood at the stovetop, drinking in all your mannerisms, each movement of your body etching itself into his head. And when your hands reached above your head to open a cabinet, your shirt stretched with them, exposing an inch of your lower back that had previously hid underneath the fabric. He should’ve felt guilty for letting his eyes linger on your skin, but he didn’t. He allowed himself a moment of sinful appeal as he took in the unfamiliar territory. 

He'd thought about you like that a time or two.

Thought about what your soft skin would feel like on his fingertips, or how your body would fit perfectly underneath his. He’d touched himself thinking of you before— shut his front door after a brief conversation with you and gone straight to his bedroom to shove his hand down his pants like a teenage boy. Finishing in his fist to the fictitious version of you that writhed under his touch. They were only ever visions in his head, making him feel sick and perverted seeing as though you’d never shown any explicit interest in him.

It was all his little secret, the way he felt about you. The way you inhabited every last corner of his mind. You continued entertaining him with small waves every day and the naively flirtatious quality of your voice each time you crossed paths, only for it to completely unravel him. 

And unravel him you did— all throughout dinner. You reacted to his every word, hanging onto his anecdotes about work with an entertained sparkle in your eyes. Your attention trailed behind each one of his words as empty plates sat on the table. You swapped stories and delved further into your personal lives, talking in your kitchen for far too long. 

Once you realized how much time had passed, you practically forced Robby out of his chair, apologizing for keeping him so late. He tried to assure you that it was fine, attempting to stay longer to help you clean up, but you were already standing next to him, your hand lightly holding his forearm as you guided him to the front door.

You stood facing each other in the entryway, evidence of goodbye’s hanging on your tongues but neither of you working up the courage to actually speak them aloud. 

Your eyes fluttered up to meet his, intercepting his intent gaze on your hand; the one that still lingered on his arm. Your touch was subtle, but the effect you had on Robby was strong. Taking over all of his senses as his feet weighed him down to the floor. The room felt heavy as you peered up at him through your eyelashes. Your stare holding a curious purpose— lasting far too long to be a simple meaningless glance. 

Neither of you moved. He was reduced to complete immobility with the delicate weight of your hand brushing his skin. Your wishful eyes remained on him, full of impatient intention. 

In a cautious trail, your gaze fell to his lips. He copied you, letting his stare drop to the perfect pout of your smirk— so pure and inviting. His eyes must’ve idled too long on the lower half of your face because the familiar chime of your voice broke his stare as he watched your lips move.

“You could kiss me you know...” It was a confident statement, fixed with a low purr as you put the newfound tension of the room into words. 

It was the permission he so desperately needed, melting into the air between you, assuring him that he wasn’t some sick and depraved old man thinking about his much younger neighbor in ways he probably shouldn’t. You wanted him to kiss you, you were practically asking him to, and all restraint he had swiftly broke loose.  

A hand pulled gently at your waist while the other cupped your cheek, his face meeting yours in a careful kiss. 

The bitter-sweet relief of surrender came to him in the form of your mouth against his. Finally succumbing to his foolish infatuation and getting washed away by the taste of you on the tip of his tongue. 

Gracefully, your hands slid up his torso, resting at his shoulders until they clasped at the nape of his neck, pulling him further down into you. 

Nothing could’ve prepared him for the shock that tore through his entire being at your touch on his body, the way your hands effortlessly floated up his chest, pressing into his neck as your lips moved with his. Your bodies pushed and pulled against one another, the kiss taking a sharp turn as the weight of Robby’s chest had you caught between him and your front door. 

In a whirlwind of desperation, he brought his hold to your hips, thumbs sliding underneath your shirt and relishing in the warmth of your midriff.

A quiet moan simmered off your tongue and into his mouth at the pressure of his fingertips rubbing into the skin just above your jeans, and the sound caused an involuntary jerk of Robby’s hips. All control was lost as his grasp on you tightened, your frame melting further into the door at your back. You welcomed the contact, pulling him further into you with your hold on the back of his neck. Careful open-mouthed kisses trailed down his throat, sweet sounds of approval still leaking from your lips as they nipped and sucked at his skin.

He nearly wasted away at the feeling of your mouth on his neck. Then the devilish touch of your hands slid back down the front of his body, dancing against the material of his shirt and trailing down further until your fingertips threatened to tug at the waistband of his pants. He could feel the anticipation in your touch, the way your fingers curled into the material at his waist. 

“This okay?” You didn’t even pull back to look at him as you murmured into the crook of his neck. 

He was always in command, never afraid to assert his dominance; but something about the way his most private fantasies were playing out in front of his eyes, had him taking on a more docile image. He was completely bent into your touch, leaning forward and hanging onto every sound that left your body with his hands still buried underneath your shirt. He couldn’t find his voice to reply to your question, but he’d be a fool to say anything other than yes as your hands ventured down another inch into his pants, the feeling of your knuckles brushing against his abdomen nearly making his knees buckle. 

He nodded; the movement drawn-out as a breathless “yeah” made its way from somewhere deep within his chest. 

Robby’s hand met the door, now directly in front of him as you descended to your knees. 

The mix of adrenaline and disbelief coursing through his veins sent his forearm extending and his palm pressing into the solid wood to hold up his weight as you were wedged between the two, kneeling on the tile floor. 

With your eyes looking up at him once more as if to ask for a final approval, your hands tugged at his pants, pulling them, along with his underwear, down his legs and Robby pushed harder into the door, his arms flexing under the pressure. He never would’ve imagined that an innocent dinner invitation would evolve into him standing with his pants around his ankles in the entryway of your apartment. 

He should’ve stopped you. Should’ve been a gentleman and insisted on making you come on his fingers— leading you into the next room and spreading your legs open on your living room couch, but your lips met the head of his cock, and every single thought left his head. 

The warmth of your mouth enveloped him after a gentle kiss to his tip, and a raspy groan trickled into the room from Robby’s lips. 

“Jesus Christ.” 

His instinctive gasp had you taking him even deeper, a small hum of pleasure releasing from your throat and buzzing onto his skin.

His hand was splayed out against the wall, fingertips grasping at nothing as he threw his head back in a state of pure paradise. After less than a minute of seeing you on your knees for him and feeling your cheeks hollow in a way that perfectly encased his throbbing length, Robby had to stare up at the ceiling to keep himself from spilling into your mouth. 

His chest warmed with flames of pleasure induced fulfillment with each bob of your head at his hips. Indulgence sunk into his bones and another pathetic pant found its way onto his lips when your tongue flattened against his base, your mouth sinfully stroking him in rhythm. 

“Fuck sweetheart that feels good.”

The nickname found his lips as an incoherent mumble— an attempt of praise floating down to you in a groan. The otherworldly suction of your lips as you drew him toward the back of your throat had Robby letting out grunts of contentment.

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good. You were like an angel sent down to to set him free of his daily anxieties, kneeling before him on a pedestal of vinyl flooring. 

You worked him in and out of your mouth, the intricate consolation of your movements making him crave more. He hadn’t even finished yet and he was already itching to get his hands on you. An addiction was forming in Robby’s brain like a mental pathway. Hungry for more of you, needing to find comfort in your body more than just this once. He knew he would be seeking it out, crawling back to you every night in desperation to feel the burning in his core and the peace of his mind he found in your touches. 

You moved faster, his whole body growing rigid from the friction of your perfect lips. 

“That’s it- shit.”

He was already spiraling toward release, one more caress of your plush mouth around his cock and he was done for. His body tensed and little puffs of raspy breath fought against his lips as he felt all the tension in his body culminating in a taut strand that stretched unbelievably tight as he waited for one more pass of your tongue on his length.

“Fuck.” 

With a low grunt he wrestled against his own strength, the arm holding him up at the door threatened to give out, nearly sending him doubling over into the solid structure as relief surged through his body. He pulsed in your mouth, his release dripping onto your tongue and you enjoyed it. Drinking down every last drop of him while he slumped into your touch.  

His vision returned after a few seconds of his senses getting corrupted by overwhelming pleasure, just in time to watch you pull back from him, springing to your feet like you hadn’t just changed the chemical makeup of his brain. 

Your expression was smug, a smile flickering onto your face before addressing him for the first time since you were bowed before him.

“Goodnight Michael.” Like a dribble of honey, his name fell from your lips. Michael. No one called him that. But here you were whispering it like a serpent in the garden of Eden, as you simultaneously reached behind you to pull the handle of your front door, nudging him through the doorway.

“Now hold on-“ He began to protest the push of your hands at his lower back, but you were quick to interrupt him.

“I’ve already kept you from sleep long enough. I can’t have you going to work tired tomorrow- gotta save lives and all that.” You were smiling through your words, leaning against the doorframe and watching in amusement as Robby’s rattled mind swam with possible responses.

He knew he couldn’t fuck you— knew it would be nearly impossible for him to get it up again after the earthshattering release that just ran rampant through his body, but he could repay you. He could finally fulfill his dirty daydreams, worshipping you in ways he’d only ever imagined; really taking his time exploring your body and watching you come undone in front of him. In fact, there was nothing he wanted to do more than spend the rest of the night feeding his newfound addiction to your body. 

But the self-righteous smirk curling on your lips stopped him from pushing you back inside and taking what he wanted. This was just a trial run, the challenging expression on your face confirmed it. So, he would wait. Let you soak in your pride for the evening until the next time an opportunity arose for him to satisfy his craving. Because something in the deceitfully innocent stare of your eyes told him this would be the first of many late-night visits between doorways.  

He surrendered, shaking his head with a low chuckle.

“Goodnight.” 

The word hardly left his mouth when you offered him one last playful grin and shut the door to your apartment, leaving him standing alone in the lonely expanse of the hallway. 

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