#Fem!reader

[gojosluut]

Turning around on your other side facing Satoru, you poke his muscular back with your index finger. Making his back arch a bit, as he turns his head around to look at you with a confused sleepy face.

“what was that for?” he rasps, sleep still lacing in his voice.

“can you lay on top of me..? like on my back..?” you whisper, your eyes peering up at his tired blue ones.

“…”

“…”

“…you want me to do what?” he asks sitting up more to get a better look at you. His face now outright confused.

“..I want you to lay on top of me!! like crush me with your body!” You whine, your hand now laced around his muscular bicep, gently shaking him from side to side.

Satoru sighs a small smirk on his lips. “fine, fine.. lay down on your stomach.” He says softly. You smile up at him before flipping onto your stomach, your face going into your soft pillow. laying in a pencil like position.

He turns over more lifting the covers up as he goes to his knees, before laying ontop of you. Laying his entire weight on your back, he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck.

You sigh softly with content, feeling his entire weight on you. Turning your face slightly to the side having a lazily smile on your lips. “mm now i’m comfortable..” you mumble sleepily, all Satoru can do is chuckle lightly into the crook of your neck.

“why am I crushing you again?” He murmurs into your soft skin.

“becauseeee you’re like my personal heating pad for my period cramps,” you mumble out. As your eyes droop shut. Satoru sighs smiling, shaking his head lightly.

“weirdo..” he mumbles before drifting off back to sleep. with his body quite literally covering yours completely, your period cramps dissolving as his warmth and the pressure of his body soothing the pain entirely.

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[torncwpid]

Top Donator

Summary: Johnny is tuned in like always, until the guest moans and he realizes he knows exactly whose cock you’re drooling over

Cw: smut (mdni), voyeurism, sex work (camgirl), masturbation (male), age gap, unprotected sex, fixation/obsession tone, brief ideation of MMF threesome

Word count: 985

Younger!camgirl!reader having a special guest in her live stream, one of the streams where she invites the top donator of the previous month, where the guest is never fully visible to the camera, their face is always just perfectly cut out of the frame even though everything else is kept on full display for the thousands of viewers while they are either being used like a dildo while you fuck yourself dumb or they are fucking into your needy holes like a fuck machine.

This time the special guest was the latter. So incredibly rough yet so obviously caring towards you, something you never experienced before with the other guests — they only ever wanted to use you and that was it, no care or feelings involved. But this guest had no trouble manhandling you into whatever position he wanted you in right before grunting out a “This okay, luvie?”

That wasn't the only difference the viewers could spot between this guest and the previous ones, though — this guest is so much older than you. It was obvious even without seeing his face. His body was enough to give it all away — all solid weight and deliberate movement instead of the frantic show-off energy of the other guests. His hands were larger and rougher, and moved in a way that spoke of age and experience. Above all, the audience could feel it in the way he handled you. Every touch was controlled and full of the kind of authority only a man could have. He held your hips up when your legs gave out from how cock drunk you got, he kissed your spine between thrusts when he took you from the back, he held your jaw and forced you to stare at him when he could tell your focus was going somewhere else. Even through the screen, they all knew this was someone who would ruin you and still make sure you drank water when he was done.

Of course older!Johnny is tuned in for this stream just like he was for all your previous ones. He has never missed a single one since he found you only a month into your camgirl career. It's almost pathetic how he has unknowingly Pavloved himself into being half hard before you even go live. Now he's fisting his cock with the same mix of lust and jealousy he always falls into when he watches you moaning for another man. But this time it's different, it’s not some cocky little shit between your legs, it’s a man, one who’s clearly around Johnny’s age, maybe even a little older. Watching you being fucked by a man like that twists something low in his gut.

He hates it. Hates how much it turns him on, how good you look taking it from this guest. But worse than that, he hates how much he gets off on it. On how hot it is that you're making such pretty noises — that aren't fake like with the others — for someone who looks almost similar to him. It makes him want even more to be the one stretching you open, whispering praises into your hair while thousands of viewers beg for more. All he can do is watch, stroke himself raw to the sound of your needy little noises, and hope that someday if he just donates enough, tips the right way, waits patiently like a good fucking boy, you’ll finally let him be the special guest.

It takes less than five minutes for Johnny to get completely lost in pleasure as he watches this man bounce you on his lap with a tight grip on your waist, changing positions easily just to fuck you from the back while forcing your face down into the frilly pillows (never hard enough to keep the viewers from hearing your blissed out moans and gasps, though).

But it takes Johnny almost the entirety of the stream and two back-to-back orgasms to get out of his haze enough to realize it. He feels his breath catch in his throat and his hands come to a stop as his eyes are suddenly stuck on the arms that hold your body up. His eyes go wide when he stares and confirms that he does know the exact tattoos that cover this guest's arms and chest.

Now he hears the guest moan instead of the vague muffled groans from the start of the stream. And of fucking course the second that voice spills out clearer, cooing something soft and filthy down at you in that familiar brute British drawl, Johnny freezes. Every muscle goes tense, his grip going still at the base of his cock as recognition slams into him like a punch to the stomach.

He can tell the discovery should have pulled him out of the lustful haze he’s been drowning in since the stream started, but he can feel his cock twitch at the sight of his Lt. forcing his favourite — only — camgirl to take his cock down her throat. The camera captures just right the way Simon has your jaw stretched wide, your eyes glassy, your throat bulging with the thick shape of his cock as he slides it deeper.

Johnny should look away, he knows that. But instead, his hips buck up into his fist like they have a mind of their own and his eyes are locked to the screen.

He can’t stop watching and imagining what it must feel like to fuck his cum into your dripping cunt while Simon’s hand fists your hair, with his calm, ruined voice pouring praise and filth into your brain, his cock shoved down your throat like it belongs there. But fuck if he isn’t still stroking himself anyway, cock twitching with every wet choke and every smug little groan his lieutenant lets slip.

Oh, he'll have fun with this information.

Reminder that my asks are always open!

@141ce @g1v3meabreak @scoobywrites690

[ellana-ravenwood]

“Batman, you need to-IS THAT A BABY ?!” - Batfam x Fem!reader

Synopsis : Bruce and Batmom bring their newborn daughter to the Watchtower, so she can meet their friends (or vice versa). Includes an overprotective Damian, League members who cannot believe the Batman is smiling, and other shenanigans.  

Oop, I’m back (?). My dudes. It’s been TWO YEARS since I last posted here. Two. Years. I posted like, two life update...don’t know if some of y’all saw it, but long story short : I got married, I have a son now, and everything is going so well in my life that I didn’t really need the validation I got from writing online...Buuuuuuuuuuuuut, I still love writing. And so, after quite a long break, here I am :). Hope you will enjoy this, don’t hesitate to let me know if you do : 

Please, do not repost my stories anywhere else, under any other form. Do not translate and then repost them either. Thank you.

My masterlist : @ella-ravenwood-archives

________________________________________________

“You’re evil, you know that right ?” You say, raising an eyebrow.  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my love.” He answers, a small smile on his lips. You turn to him and...Oh that smug look, that smug look you loved so much. He definitely DEFINITELY knew what he was doing. 

And that it was utterly...evil. 

“It’s going to be FUN !” 

Ah, and here’s his little devil. Damian himself. He loved this. Partly because he thought it was funny to mess with everyone, partly because he liked showing that you guys were a family. 

“They won’t believe their eyes !” His little voice kept going, followed by a big roar of laughter that sounded, by all means, more childlike than devilish. 

“That they won’t, they always seem so surprised when Bruce acts like a human.” 

Jason. Still not calling Bruce “dad” (except sometimes, by “accident”, and even him don’t realize he did), he’d only slowly been back at the manor, with all of you. And, for sure, a certain important event which happened about four months ago made it so he came back to live at home.

Dick chuckled and added : “Who would blame them ? We’re talking about a man who eats his burgers with a knife and fork !” He gestured to his father with his left thumb, his other hand shielding part of his mouth as if he was telling them all a secret, as if he was trying to be discreet, so his dad wouldn’t hear...Always quite the little clown, that eldest son of yours. With his exaggerated mannerism, and that sparkle in his eyes, in his smile. 

“I’m certain some of them thought he was genuinely a cyborg for YEARS” Tim added, quite seriously, his tone the opposite of his older brother (and that was just his way of joking...you think). And honestly ? Yeah, you were pretty sure some of your friends at the JLA thought your husband was a robot, at one point. 

Oh yes. That’s where you were going, to the JLA’s headquarters. To execute Bruce’s plan. Quite the evil plan indeed. 

“Hell, even I thought he was one before I met you guys !” Duke chimed in, and that made Cassandra smile widely, as she shook her head up and down pointing at Duke as if to say : “what he just said”. 

And in a very Bruce manner, your husband kept a straight face, ignoring his children’s teasing. Only you, saw that twinkle in his eyes, that smile that might not reach his mouth, but was definitely dancing in those bright blue eyes. 

Oh yes. Yes, your friends were in for quite the surprise. 

************

Meanwhile, in the Justice League headquarters : 

“Oh, hey ! Look, Batman’s zeta tube is turning on ! We haven’t seen him in a while right ?”  

Indeed they haven’t. Because, well, let’s put it this way : Batman’s wife just had a baby. 

A baby girl (finally, right ? You and Cass weren’t TOO outnumbered anymore). 

And Batman had been VERY busy doting over his baby girl. 

Batman had been busy being Bruce Wayne. 

Just a man, who thought he’d never be happy again, not knowing how to handle all those feelings he had for his wife (for you), for his children. 

That was happiness then, right ? 

So, yes. Batman hasn’t been much at the JLA’s headquarters lately. But your husband thought, it was finally time to go see his friends a little bit. He knew they were all up there, because it was their monthly reunion (once each month, they gathered to talk about the state of the world, the universe, what threat lingered, what lurked beyond...and to get very drunk, and see their friends, the only ones who knew what it meant to be a “hero”). 

And that what’s made him particularly evil. 

He knew, they would all be there. He knew what their reaction was going to be. After all, his memory was amazing, he definitely hadn’t forgot the way they reacted the first time they saw you, the first time they learned he had children (childrEN, plural !). 

And he knew they were a little worried about him. 

He had missed their last three reunions, and only answered : “Everything is ok” to their messages asking if he was alright (they hadn’t dared to go see if he was indeed ok, because last time they did that, they found him bed ridden with all the bones in his body broken, and he got so mad at them for butting in his business he worked twice as hard when he was fine again, and didn’t talk a WORD for months...that was, of course, years ago, before you were in his life, but the experience was still in their minds and so, they decided to respect his privacy, he would come to them when ready). And he never pushed his “red button”, him, or anyone in the family. 

They just assumed he was busy, they hoped it wasn’t anything bad. 

Yes. They were worried. For him. For you. For your kids. For Alfred. For your dogs, your cats, your cow...They. Were. Worried. 

And Bruce knew. 

You told him, when your pregnancy was confirmed, to tell his friends. That they would be happy. But after his own initial happy thought, his surge of hope and love at knowing he was going to be a dad again, he started to make his plan. 

Why tell them, when you could toy with them ? 

“They deserve it.” He told you, and you weren’t sure if they did, but you weren’t about to fight him on that. After all, you too, thought it could be amusing. Amusing to hide your pregnancy, making up excuses as to why they couldn't come see you, and you didn’t come up the headquarter. Amusing, to even hide it quite expertly from any form of news (Bruce was a MASTER of disguise, not only for himself), so it would be a real surprise. 

Amusing, to have your little girl in secret, with only your family. Amusing, but also what you wanted. For this good news to be just between you, your children, and Alfred. Your close family. Because you had too few things that just were yours. 

This had to be yours. Your thing, your secret, your own happiness. Yours, and only yours. And you found it was good, that you guys spend the first few months of your daughter’s life only between yourselves. 

It was nice, to go out “disguised” as a normal couple, and show your daughter Gotham (and how her little eyes already tried to take the entire world within them). 

It was nice, to live in total privacy for a little bit. 

So, yes, you had been a little selfish. And he had, too. You knew it wasn’t just to prank his friends, he kept it all a secret. That it was also to have some quality time with his family. To spend the first few months of his daughter’s life being the only one being utterly smitten with her. 

Though, this last thing wasn't true...You were, too. And your children ? Let’s just say your daughter had not been alone ONCE since she was born. And she seemed to love it. 

Whenever she made the slightest sound, smiled, laughed (or cried), they were there, Bruce was there, absolutely loving that little baby. 

She was almost 4 months old now, and Bruce thought that the gist had to be up. What scale did he use to measure this amount of “readiness” ? You had no idea. You thought he was just now ready to share his happiness with his friends, and not just his close family. 

And so here you were, after months of secrecy carefully crafted and orchestrated by your husband, in the JLA’s headquarters, along with your family, the little new addition to said family in your husband’s arms. 

Evil. Your husband was downright evil. 

He knew that what was about to happen would have a massive impact on his friends. He. KNEW. 

And as the zeta tube brought all your family up there, you knew that as he saw their faces, your husband was a little TOO happy with himself for his little “prank”. 

************

“Batman, are you al- IS THAT A BABY ?” Very typical, very in character : the first to react was Flash himself. 

None of the other noticed, and they seemed inclined to think Barry had lost his mind but then...

Bruce’s face didn’t move an inch, he just held that little “package”, and had his same stoic expression except...Except there was a little hand grabbing at his chin. 

Then another hand appeared out of that bundle Batman carried, with a bat plushie bunched in a tight fist, shaking it and...Cooing. 

Cute little sounds, and the way- EXCUUUuuUuuuUSE ME ?

The way Batman just softly looked at her, the way his cold expression was replaced by a tender one as he lowered his eyes to her ??

WHAT ?! 

They knew. They knew he had THE softest spot for his family. They knew his scary aura greatly dimmed when he was around his wife and children. They knew that when they weren’t there, he was only made of shadows. They were his light, his salvation. 

They knew he didn’t have the same face expression, when they were around.

Well, when they were looking at him...Barry swore that Batman loomed around his family, standing menacingly behind them, his eyes cold and calculating as if he was ready to fight any seconds to save his loved ones, and then whenever they turned to him his feature would instantly soften. He will ALWAYS remember the first time he met little Dickie, 9 years old and so full of joy and life, and how whenever he would look at Batman and talk to him, said Batman got a softer expression somewhat, but then when Dick turned around, Batman looked about to murder them whenever they came too close from him. 

Once, Tim, also 9 at the time, years after the JLA met Dick, told Barry matter of factly : “He doesn’t kill people. He could break your knee caps though” in a very Tim fashion. The kid was serious. And had noticed the aura surrounding his dad, how it changed when he was around (he noticed more than his siblings, because for a while, Bruce had been really cold and distant with him, since he met him not long after Jason’s death..understandable. So he was the only one who had this sort of behavior aimed at him, the shield Bruce put in front of him to keep everyone away so he wouldn’t be hurt, the shield that now was lowered for them and only them). 

It was his eyes. His eyes that were always hard and cold, became different when looking at you or his children. 

Not to say that his family never exasperated him, or that he never had his “mask” around them. After all, Bruce’s stoic expression was his face by default. It’s just that he was often too focused. And that he spend years practicing hiding his emotions, practicing keeping a blank face. Because Barry also remembered seeing Dick perched on his father’s shoulders, letting himself dangle in his back, his head upside down, whistling and kicking his feet, and Bruce having this stoic mask on, concentrated. 

Anyway, they knew all that. It had been years, since Bruce finally trusted them enough to bring his wife here, and his kids. But yet, yet they were still surprised sometimes.

Like today. 

The picture of Batman holding a baby was...a little weird. 

Even if he opened up to them over the years, he was still mostly very cold, distant and aloof. You know, Batman. That’s just who he was. So sometimes, to see him so devoted to his wife or kids, it was odd to say the least. 

And right now, as he walked towards them with a baby in his arms, the shock was real. Damn it, will there be a day when the Bat didn’t surprise them with something ? 

How did none of them notice you were pregnant ? Proof again Batman was a master of his craft. And that little girl...

Oh your daughter was such a beaming ray of sunshine, that in his arms it was particularly a jarring image. 

The big scary bat, tall, broad shouldered, muscular in every way, his face void of expressions, holding a tiny baby who kept smiling at everyone around, and playing with her plushy. 

Odd. 

Yet, sweet. 

Were they surprised ? Yes. 

Were they a little mad he hid something (AGAIN) this important from them ? Definitely. 

Were they shocked that his daughter was so darn cute and smiling and laughing that much ? Not really, because you were his mom too. 

Were they happy for him ? For sure. 

Were they going to adore that little girl ? Probably as much as they adored his other kids already, which meant...yes. Yes they were going to. 

Damn that bastard Bruce. Always so sneaky. 

Hal, couldn’t help but think : “First, he’s not a vampire, then, he’s married with children, and now, he has that cute baby. This guy ??!!” 

***********

The initial shocked passed, and only after your children MOCKED all of your friends (you had to give it to Dick, he knew how to imitate them so well..and when Damian joined in ? Oh, oh it was a fit of laughter impossible to fight that attacked them), did they approach your daughter. 

“Her name is Martha.” Bruce said “We named her after my mother.” and it wasn’t his usual flat tone he used as Batman. No, it was a soft voice he usually only reserved for his kids. And the reason he was using it now ? Well. He didn’t want to scare his daughter, as he still held her. 

She beamed at him when she heard her name, and babbled some baby nonsense. She then turned towards all those new faces, and you saw Bruce’s hand hold her a little tighter. 

Your beautiful, sweet soul husband. He clearly was worried she’d be scared, meeting all those new people. Especially since they all wore mask. But Martha-

Martha let go of her bat plushy (which Damian caught before it touched the floor, rolling on the ground in a way you thought was quite comedic. Oh, that boy), and lifted her arms up towards- 

“What a sweet little girl !” Diana said with a voice you NEVER heard her use. You realized it was her “voice reserved for babies and domestic animals”, and it made you smile. It was higher than her usual voice, and full of softness. 

You thought your daughter reached for her because she could feel the warmness in your friend. And after all, amongst all of those gathered here today, she was probably the one that adored babies the most. 

Diana looked at Bruce, who only inclined his head a little to give her the ok to lift her from his arms but-

Another arm stopped her, and took the baby away. 

Damian. 

Damian, the one who took his role as a big brother a little too seriously. 

He held Martha protectively against him, and literally sneered at all your friends. 

************

Damian deemed most of them unworthy to hold his baby sister, and only Clark ended up being allowed to carry her. And that was partly because Clark was the only one who knew about Martha, the only one who saw her already, and he had months to convince your son to trust him with her. 

Being an extremely close friend and all, you just couldn’t hide this from him and... no, really, you literally couldn’t hide this from him as he was the immediately noticed that second heartbeat when he listened in to make sure you and your family were safe. Bruce hated when he did that, but Clark wasn’t about to let them be in danger without moving an inch.

Anyway, Clark was allowed to hold her, but he gave her back to you rather quickly because your son’s stare made him uncomfortable. If eyes could kill, right ? 

Damian took his job as an older brother very seriously. He would protect her at all cost. And you had no doubt that he would be the kind of person to burn the entire world down if it meant saving his family. 

Damian only glared at everyone, letting them approach ONLY after they put on a surgical mask so they wouldn’t give her their “viruses or whatever”. 

You had to admit he was a bit much, and you asked him nicely to calm down a little. He relented on the face masks, but made them all wash their hands (twice). 

You ruffled his hair affectionately, what a sweet little boy. It broke your heart, how so many people judged him too fast. He really was, a nice kid. With a heart of gold. He just didn’t have much luck for the first few years of his life. 

But he chose to be like this. Chose to love, instead of hate. Chose to protect, instead of attacking. 

Although, right now, as Diana came back towards his sister, he definitely seems ready to high kick her (which definitely wouldn’t have hurt the amazon). 

************

It was a hassle, to convince Damian to let go of his sister so they could hold her. As per usual, it’s Dick who managed to convince him, saying Martha was all soft and cute, and everyone deserved to hold her at least once. Adding that if one of them dropped her, he would be allowed to do whatever he wanted to them. 

Some of the mightiest heroes of the planet were gathered hear, but the threat didn’t fall on deaf ears. Damian could be a little intense, and scary sometimes. 

They weren’t fooled by Dick’s agreeable smile either. A smile that didn’t always reach his eyes. They knew if they messed up, he would find every way to rip them to shreds. Dick was often seen as the calmest of your children, but his anger issues from when he was a child were never far. And he could be ruthless.  

Diana held her first, and your daughter babbled to her excitedly. 

Of course, being only 4 months old, she just talked gibberish. And it was so sweet, how Diana answered her : “What ? *babbles from your daughter* Noooooo. *more babbles from your daughter* I can’t believe he said that. And then what ? *babbles babbles babbles*”. 

After that, Dick took her back, and asked if someone else wanted to hold her, under yours and Bruce’s watchful eyes. 

Then again, in the room, many were also already parents and knew how to hold a baby. They weren’t too worried, except-

Except Dick, that little sh-, had found a new game in recent weeks. Whenever he gave his little sister to someone else...he pretended to drop her. 

And it made him laugh and laugh and laugh, to give mini-heart attacks to EVERYONE whenever he gave them his baby sister to them, as they always all panicked and screamed seeing her dropped (Dick always had her secure, he only pretended to drop her of course). 

“Oh no careful !” He’d scream, dropping his arms suddenly (she looooved it) while still gripping her, and they’d scramble to catch her, and he would just laugh. 

“You little-” Hal’s colorful words were...imaginative. And Damian was inclined to agree, since his brother pranked him oh, I don’t know, only about A HUNDRED TIMES since their little sister was born. 

You wouldn’t admit it, but it made you laugh a little too. Even if he got you a few times as well, pretending he was going to drop her. Then again, you trusted your eldest son. Once you and Bruce wouldn’t be around anymore, you knew he would hold this family together. 

************

Martha was a calm baby. She let people hold her, curious enough to not fuss and watch them all intently. It made Barry uncomfortable, how she held his gaze and would just stare at him. 

She would stare, and stare, and stare, and her bright blue eyes were EXACTLY like Bruce’s, it felt like being stared down by a miniature version of Batman. 

He didn’t like it. So he gave her back to whomever was closest, which happened to be Jason

Jason, who was always very delicate with his little sister. He handled her as if he’d break her. It broke your heart, to know he probably literally thought that. 

He refused to hold her at first, sure he would hurt her. But she kept reaching for him, crying when he wouldn’t take her, and she was so adorable and-

He caved, of course. After a little while. And he was oh, the fixture of a patient older brother. You knew he would ALWAYS be part of her life, and step in whenever she needed to. 

Right now, she was grabbing his hair, which were getting quite long, and pulling hard on them as babies do and- He didn’t say anything. He just let her do it. 

You really hoped she wasn’t going to take advantage of this when she’d get older, even if you already had visions of her having her brothers and father wrapped around her little finger, having her sister too, and...apparently, the entirety of the JLA. 

************

“How can such an a-hole make such a cute baby ?” Hal said, looking at the little girl he held. She was sort of dozing off, which for sure was adorable. 

Bruce only glared at him, which amused Hal greatly. He just gave him the shock of his life, he could laugh at his expense a little, right ? 

“I believe, to make a baby, you need to-”

“Um, no, Jon, please, I know how to ! It’s just-Oh, forget it.” 

Flustered, Hal Jordan was flustered. Jon J’onzz didn’t seem to get why, but then again, human sarcasms and irony were still very foreign to him. He always answered pragmatically to people. 

Talking about pragmatism. Hal handed back your daughter to Tim, who slipped her in his favorite new contraption : the baby carrier 3.0 (of his own design). Made so he could do all sort of work while having her strapped to him. Keeping an eye on her at all time. 

Tim adopted the use of a baby carrier, so he could still work while taking care of her (he stole the idea from his dad, who definitely hung around with his daughter EVERYWHERE with that thing...which was the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen, this tall broad man and this tiny baby attached to his chest). 

It was so cute to see her little feet dangling while he was working. Damian nearly lost it when he found Tim WELDING two pieces of metal together with the baby carrier on his front. Tim merely said : “I made her baby sized goggles and a fireproof pyjama, she’s fine, and she likes it” and indeed, your daughter didn’t have a scratch, and cried when Damian hauled her away from the sparks. Ooooh the smug look on Tim’s face as his brother gave her back reluctantly. Damian’s was utterly vexed. 

Vexation he forgot just a few minutes later, when Martha decided she had enough of sparkles and made little sounds of protest (not quite cries), and reached her little arms to him. 

As of now, Tim had her in this baby carrier again, and was strolling around the JLA headquarters, showing his new little sister to everyone. 

************

Cassandra didn’t say a word, as per usual. She never liked big crowds, only spoke to those she trusted the most. Her brothers, her parents. 

She only gestured to others. Remained quiet. But she monitored every little movements. 

Hawkgirl approached her sister ? Noted. Carefully studying every move. Martian Manhunter asked if he could hold her ? Noted. 

Superman made little babbling sound at her, while her dad held her ? Noted, with amusement. It was funny, to see one of Earth’s mightiest hero grimacing to a baby to make it laugh, while said baby was held by another mighty hero who was utterly stoned face. Cass’ smiled at her dad, who smiled back for a fraction of seconds before Clark shifted his head up to look at him too, and Bruce went back to his : “ -_-” face, by reflex really. 

Cassandra never spoke much, but she loved a lot. And her way of loving her little sister ? It was to always keep a watchful eye on her, so she could react to whatever she needed. And give her space when she needed to. 

She had many brothers, she often joked that if she lost one, she could just replace him (a joke you didn’t like much, because you knew it was just a self-defense from her, to shield her heartbreak at the mere idea of loosing a sibling), but only had one sister...

Yes. Your youngest child definitely held a special place in everyone’s heart. 

And you could see her slowly creep in every members’ of the Justice League’s heart too. 

Gods, you couldn’t even imagine what would happen to the person who would one day try to hurt her. You could bet, though, he wouldn’t get out of it unscathed (to say the least). 

************

Martha was particularly fond of Duke’s inuit kiss. He had the capacity to instantly calm her, and he could easily feel her inner emotions. 

As she was passed around everyone, and she started to be tired and cranky, he simply retrieved her and brought her to Bruce, because he knew that was her preferred spot to fall asleep. 

He kissed her on the forehead, and sure enough, she was asleep before he could pull away. Your husband put a warm hand on Duke’s head, a warm smile on his face. That boy could always tell what others felt. It was a gift, really, and sometimes a curse as others’ feelings could leak into him. Which is to say that sometimes, when others were sad, he would be too...

But for now, he felt content. At peace. Because his dad was, too. 

And indeed, Bruce, holding his sleeping daughter against his heart, his hand supporting her head gently, was utterly at peace. 

He loved the idea that his arms were his daughter’s favorite place to sleep, and never refused to hold her to help her sleep. You sure were a little jealous, but he told you : “They all always come to you when they need comfort, one kid out of six, you surely can give me, right ?” and though you knew he was joking, it broke your heart a little. 

So, you let go of your jealousy, and let him have this indeed. Martha was definitely a daddy’s girl. And that was good. You could see the impact on your husband, how having a baby in the house soothed him. 

He loved his kids so damn much. He often said they were his lights. And the fact Martha found comfort with him ? 

It reminded him of his own parents. How he would go to his mom, a Martha too, to find the same comfort. To fall asleep in the same way. 

You let go of that small jealousy, as you saw her falling soundly asleep, cuddled up against her dad. And it was funny, how Bruce would take his usual Batman persona, stone faced, standing straight and- 

Having one of two fingers held tightly by both of his daughter’s little hands. She grabbed them as he took her, one hand holding her (she was so tiny...and he was a big dude), the other, she used as a sort of comfort plushy. She held them with all her might, as she slept. 

And Bruce was speaking battle plans, and you had to fight the laughter in you as all your friends couldn’t help but stare at the scene, not knowing how to feel. 

Hal snickered at one point, and he made a gesture for him to zip it, and it was quite an odd scene, as he held his daughter and did that childish gesture. 

Seriously. That guy !! 

************

Batman smiling was...different. 

They all got caught staring at him, when he had his daughter in his arms. Staring because his broad smile was-

Well. Broad. 

It wasn’t his signature smirk. It wasn’t a soft smile. It wasn’t a half-smile. It wasn’t a smile that you could only see in his eyes. 

It was a full on big ass smile (as Barry would say). 

And sure, they already saw him smile like that (although he schooled his face back to “stone mode” when he noticed them looking), never that much. 

As if the birth of his daughter gave Batman another new light, and it was just impossible to yield to his old demon, to brood, when holding that ray of sunshine. 

It made them all feel...soft. And warm. 

It was nice, to know the bat wasn’t just a machine. They forgot it sometimes, that he was, in the end, “just” a man. They forgot why he became Batman. The pain and guilt he held inside. But moments like this, they were reminded of it. 

That the Batman didn’t exist because of hatred, but because of love. 

Because he loved his parents, his city, and now- 

His family. 

It was nice, to get reminded that there was a man below the mask. And though he could be an “a-hole” sometimes, there, holding his baby, he was just that. 

A loving man, who wanted to protect others. 

************

You made a note of every moments you would cherish forever of you introducing your daughters to them all : 

1. The shock on their faces as they beheld the sight of THE BATMAN holding a baby against him, and being so delicate. 

2. Your daughter being the star of the show, all of them smitten with her !

3. Your friends wanting to hold her, and how they beamed at her (and she beamed back, except with Barry, whom she only stared at for some reasons). 

4. Dick’s “game” of pretending he dropped her, and their panicked reaction. 

5. The success of Tim’s baby carrier, and how now, there was always one up in the tower. 

6. Diana and how it definitely seemed like she would move mountain for that child. 

7. How Clark’s eyes filled with tears again, as he looked at Martha. Because it made his friends so happy. You and Bruce. And especially Bruce. And Clark was an emotional man, who suffered too, and was just so happy “The Batman” was happy. 

8. How Jason seemed at peace with his little sister, and how whenever he held her, he seemed less weary than usual around everyone. Like Cass, he didn’t like much being amongst too many people. But now, it felt like he had an “emotional support baby”. Ah. 

9. Their reactions, past the shock, welcoming that new life in the world. 

10. How Bruce monitored his daughter being held by his friends, holding your hand. Even after all those years, when he acted close to you in his Batman costume, it made you...feel things. He always kept a facade as Batman. A facade that would crumble with his kids, and especially with you. PDA weren’t rare. And even after years at his side, it always made your heart beat wildly when he showed affection towards you in public, because it meant- 

Oh it meant so much. 

And you had so many more moments forever ingrained in your heart from that day spend up at the JLA’s headquarters. 

Too many to count. Some sweet, some hilarious- 

All positive feelings. 

And as you and your family stepped back in the zeta tubes, your friends saying “byyyyye” to Martha especially, with their baby voice (making Bruce roll his eyes), and as she waved at them- 

Waved for the FIRST TIME ever oh. 

Oh it felt like you would die of happiness. 

And still, Bruce’s hands held yours tightly. 

He knew. 

He knew, you were the source of this happiness he thought he could never find again. 

He knew. 

He never loved like that before. 

Yes. It felt like you could just die of happiness.

__________________________________________________

And here we are. I hope you enjoyed this. Don’t hesitate to comment and/or reblog, it’s always greatly appreciated :). 

Also, initially, the child was going to be Thomas (their son in my “main” storyline, if you already read a few works from me), but last minute, I was like : “wait no, I want to give Bruce a daughter, and the boys a sister. Also, poor Cass eh ?” and here we are. I really hope you liked this; I’m nervous for some reasons. Anyway. See you soon with another one ? 

[cumironi]

— CUM-LAUDE 101 : INTRODUCTION TO GETTING F$CKED FOR SPORT

feat. gojo satoru, geto suguru, toji fushiguro, ryomen sukuna

summary. let’s do the bet’ they said. anyone who’s popping the nerd’s cherry will get anything he wants’ they said. are men really that dumb? no. . . there is a cute word for it. . . oh, right, manchildddd. but they are not the only one with the bet, no?

trigger warnings. non-sorcerer x college au, manipulative behavior, consensual corruption kink, emotionally unavailable men competing for pussy, bet-based seduction, manipulation with consent, virginity kink, praise kink, degradation kink (mild–harsh varies by character), possessive behavior, size kink, orgasm denial / edging, overstimulation, public sex (library, gym, classroom), unprotected vaginal sex, risky behavior (public exposure), oral fixation (cock sucking, nipple play, biting), dirty talk (highly verbal), choking, face-fucking, cumplay (internal, external, cum on glasses), leg-folding positions, power imbalance (older man / younger woman), slight dubcon flavor (emotionally manipulative, not forced), jealous/competitive male leads, pussy worship (extended scenes), aftercare varies (from none to obsessive), swearing / explicit language, no sorcery but supernatural dickprint energy.

a/n. after all this time, i’ve decided to write each of them too.

WELCOME TO UNIHELL; A CAMPUS SLUT MEMOIR!

CLOWN NUMBER 01. THE CLOWN HAS BEEN FOUND

feat. gojo satoru

summary. the baggy clothes, the glasses, the book, the brain— sum : a nerd, that’s what you are. a center of attention, but not because of how beautiful and popular and everyone wants to date you— no, but because you are a loser. and the popular boys have a bet who’s get to sleep with you first and pop the cherry.

CLOWN NUMBER 02. GUESS WHO'S IN MY PU$$Y TONIGHT?

feat. geto suguru

summary. he’s everywhere; library, campus ground, cafeteria. and the only place he is not is inside you but do you think he will let that happen? probably not. what will he do? you don’t know, how about you pretend to let him spike your drink and find out?

CLOWN NUMBER 03. A GENTLEWOMAN GUIDE TO WEAPONIZED VIRGINITY

feat. toji fushiguro

summary. toji fushiguro, all muscles and huge ego but no brain. what does he love the most? sex. men with no brain like him love sex, especially coming from the “virgin” girl asking to be taken away.

CLOWN NUMBER 04. I WAS JUST TRYING TO READ, NOW I'M C$CKRUNK IN THE STACKS

feat. ryomen sukuna

summary. he started to come around, spending time in the library either to stare at your ass or your tits or your nipples through your shirt. click, click, click! you hear, probably taking a picture of you to send it to his stupid group of friends. but man, does he know it was intentional?

SPECIAL CLOWN APPEARANCE. THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL

feat. nanami kento

summary. and the winner takes it all’ nanami said. and you ask if it’s included of him agree to go on date with you and let you suck his d$ck later? big fat yess if the bet works.

SPONSORED BY SLUTTY OUTFITS AND NIPPLES PRINT

[dixonsdarkelf]

Janie, my love, you have done it once again 🖤

Out of everyone from the new group in Alexandria, he was the one who made the least effort to fit in. He was quiet and always looked ready to leave, like this wasn't a place to call home. He preferred to keep his distance, doing his own thing around the community, and that made him even more interesting to you. Daryl Dixon was certainly different from the rest.

Oh, very different. But in the best way 👀

"Yeah, maybe if ya'd stop annoyin' my ass," he murmured, tightening a bolt. "I'm only annoying the bike," you snorted. "And I'm making sure it doesn't fall apart the second you ride it out of the community."

LMAO I'm obsessed with Reader in this. She reminds me of my OC a little bit with her sass and attitude (a compliment).

You could've sworn you saw the slightest smirk, but Daryl quickly busied himself with the motorcycle, like he hadn't shown you might really have a point with your tips.

Oh he likes it, I just know it.

Indeed, it didn't take long to figure out that convincing Daryl Dixon to teach you how to ride a motorcycle was like trying to herd cats—but grumpy, feral ones… with knives.

😭😂

"Yeah, yeah, I know what a throttle is," you interrupted, waving him off. "I'm not a complete idiot. I could turn this thing into scrap and piece it back together if you wanted me to, so..." His eyes narrowed. "Then maybe shut up and listen." You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You couldn't help it—pissing him off was just too easy.

I can feel the tension through my screen.

"Promises, promises," you smirked, adrenaline rushing through you, making everything feel a bit more exciting. He grumbled something again—probably another insult—but he didn't try to stop you.

Something tells me it's a little different than an insult...

"Maybe give it some time?" Aaron suggested, his voice softer now, sounding more sympathetic. "He'll come around." "Maybe," you sighed, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "But just when I thought I could finally get him to smile and to talk, you pull this."

Why would you do my love, my pookie, my sweet baby angel Aaron like this??? 😭 (it's so good)

Daryl's hand shot out before you could get too far, catching your arm in a grip that could've cracked a tree in half if he wanted it to. He was definitely pissed. With a growl, he yanked you back toward him. "Fine. I'll teach ya. But not here. Not in Alexandria." He released your arm. "Meet me by the gates. Tomorrow, at dawn."

OH OH OKAY THIS IS GONNA ESCALATE

God, he feels good. Warm. Strong. Hell, if I slide even lower, maybe I can make him feel me, too. What if I just—

Okay Reader I see you 👀

"What the hell were ya thinkin'!?" His eyes were practically burning holes through you. "I told ya to slow the hell down and focus! Ya don't listen for shit!"

If he screamed at me like this, I would straight up cry 😭

You tried to pull back, pushing at his chest. "What the hell—!" "Shut the fuck up."

OH--okay

Before you could say anything else, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to your hips and pushing himself closer until there was no space between your bodies. And then, his fingers slipped beneath your panties, and he slid two of them into you. Without warning.

WHOOOWEY!!!

"Ain't lettin' ya look away," he warned as his hands gripped your thighs again, forcing your trembling legs to stay open for him. And God, they were. His touch was everything you didn't know you needed as he slipped his fingers back into you—simply all-consuming. His thumb stroked your clit yet again, and you were sure you were going to lose it way too fast.

OKAY SIR I PROMISE I WON'T 🥵

"Eyes on me," he growled. "Don't ya look away."

YESSIR!!!!!

Your words turned into a choked cry as his tongue moved over your clit, the feeling of his stubble against your inner thighs making you squirm.

Good god this is hot...

"C'mon," he growled against you, not stopping. "C'mon, woman. Fuckin' let go. Let me fuckin' have it." And that was it. That was all it took.

YOU GOT IT BABY

"Goddamn," he growled as his mouth finally reached yours. "Look atcha… all wrecked."

HHHHHHHHHHH

You barely had time to listen to the sound of his zipper before he was back, his cock sliding between your thighs, teasing, the wetness of your pussy making it too easy for him to glide against you.

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

"Shit," he hissed, his voice all muffled against your neck. "Goddamn, ya feel so fuckin' good."

I'm fucking losing it rn...

"Hold still," he grunted. "Gotta clean ya up."

Aww this is actually really sweet.

"Caveman kept ya focused now, didn't he?" He continued, his lips all close near your ear. "Got yer attention real good."

He sure fucking did 😵‍💫

Aaron let out a short, strangled laugh, already backing toward the door. "Yeah, okay! Don't let me interrupt your lesson." His face went red, and he backed up so fast he nearly tripped. "I mean, it sounds, uh... productive. I'll just—yeah." He gestured around awkwardly as he was about to hurry back inside the house.

LMAO poor Aaron 😭😂

Either way, Daryl knew that next time, the only thing you'd be riding was him, and you'd make sure he would be the one struggling to keep focus and control.

Fuck, what an ending

This was a wild fuckin' ride (no pun intended lol) from start to finish, and I loved every second of it. I can't wait to work my way through your whole masterlist 🖤

𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐔𝐩 ⋮ 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔶𝔩 𝔇𝔦𝔵𝔬𝔫

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Learning to ride a motorcycle should’ve been simple. After all, you knew your way around bikes better than anyone in Alexandria—except Daryl Dixon. But one crash and one pissed-off redneck later, and you're stuck with him giving you a hands-on crash course in focus and control.

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Smut ⋮ Language ⋮ Minor Injuries ⋮ Vaginal Fingering ⋮ Cunnilingus ⋮ Semi-Public ⋮ Rough Sex ⋮ Painplay ⋮ Marking

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 14.441 𝑺𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈: S05E13 & S05E14 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Fem!Reader

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: My first oneshot of 2025—and my longest yet! Sorry, not sorry, for the length; Daryl Dixon refused to stop until the lesson was fully drilled in. Hope it's worth the ride.

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ⋮ 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑮𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔

You couldn't take your eyes off of him.

Out of everyone from the new group in Alexandria, he was the one who made the least effort to fit in. He was quiet and always looked ready to leave, like this wasn't a place to call home. He preferred to keep his distance, doing his own thing around the community, and that made him even more interesting to you.

Daryl Dixon was certainly different from the rest.

The first time you caught him working on the motorcycle and the parts he got from Aaron, in Aaron's and Eric's garage, something caught your attention. It wasn't just the way he moved, though the way his hands worked on the machine was something you couldn't ignore. No, it was more than that, and it pulled you in.

And for you?

The sound of metal and the smell of oil were all too familiar. You'd grown up around motorcycles and spent hours watching your old man work on his Harley Davidson most of the time, until you decided to become a mechanic after school, especially for motorcycles. That knowledge was something you didn't share with many others in Alexandria, but when you saw Daryl putting that motorcycle together piece by piece, you figured it might be a good way to start a conversation, if nothing else.

Sure, he kept to himself mostly, spending more time with his crossbow than with humans. But it made him stand out in a place where most people were getting used to living 'normally' again. And you didn't want anything normal. You wanted real.

That's what led you to the garage.

Daryl, of course, was bent over the motorcycle he'd been working on for some time now.

As you walked closer, you pretended to inspect his work. "What is this, a '92 Honda? Nice setup. Yamaha front end, though? Bit of a Frankenstein's monster, huh?"

That got his attention. "The hell ya know 'bout bikes?"

You shrugged, smirking at him. "What, do you think just 'cause I live in Alexandria, I can't tell a carburetor from a walker? Oh, please."

He hadn't spoken to you much since he arrived, but then again, Daryl didn't talk to anyone much. But you? You barely ever got a grunt in your direction since he'd been here.

"Looks like it's finally coming together," you started, trying to sound bored. It was a shitty way to break the ice, but small talk wasn't your thing after all.

Daryl didn't even look up. Grease covered his hands, and his current expression made him look like he'd rather punch you than say hello.

"Yeah, maybe if ya'd stop annoyin' my ass," he murmured, tightening a bolt.

"I'm only annoying the bike," you snorted. "And I'm making sure it doesn't fall apart the second you ride it out of the community."

That earned you a glare. A quick one. And you held his stare for that moment, refusing to look away.

"So yer always this annoyin'?" He shot back, wiping his hands on a rag and finally standing up to his full height.

"You tell me. So what is it? This… special kind of build?" You asked, gesturing to the motorcycle. You had to admit, it did look quite nice.

His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to be a little surprised about your curiosity. "Do ya really know bikes?"

You shrugged, playing it cool. "Enough to know that this isn't a normal setup, but that's just personal taste, you know?"

"It'll work."

"Sure, until it doesn't," you continued with a smirk. "But hey, it's your funeral. Or someone else's if that thing gives out mid-run."

He grunted, clearly not in the mood to admit you might have a point.

"Still, not bad for what you had to work with. Must've been a pain in the ass to track down some of the other parts," you moved closer, getting a better look at the setup. "But I heard Aaron's been helping you out. He's good with scavenging stuff. Though, I bet he didn't know half of what you needed."

That got a grunt of agreement from Daryl. "He ain't bad. Jus' don't need anyone watchin' when I'm workin'."

"Noted." You raised your hands, but you didn't back off. Instead, you crouched next to the machine, inspecting the details up close. You could feel Daryl's eyes on you, probably wondering what the hell you were doing.

After a moment of silence, you looked up at him again. "You ever really gonna take this thing out, or are you just building it for the hell of it?"

Daryl looked over to the garage door as if he was thinking whether or not to answer. Finally, he sighed. "Gonna use it. Aaron wants me on the road, recruitin' and all. Need somethin' fast."

"Yeah? And what if you end up with a flat tire out there? Wait, that might not even be a problem, since it kind of looks like you're building yourself a time machine there," you answered, standing up. "But you're gonna need more than just duct tape and spit to get this thing running."

Daryl's eyes narrowed again. "Told ya I know what I'm doin'," he snapped, his hand tightening around the wrench like he was itching to throw it at you.

But you weren't about to be ignored that easily. "You've really got some interesting mismatched parts here. Yamaha forks on a Honda… Look, I'm just saying that you might wanna check the suspension before you ride outta here. Unless you're aiming to get launched off it."

"Gonna manage."

You snorted. "Sure, you will. But hey, if you ever feel like teaching someone else how to ride, I wouldn't mind learning. I mean, someone's gotta be around to save your ass when that thing tries to kill you."

Daryl shot you a look, his jaw clenching slightly, but this time, he just stared at you like you were the most confusing person he'd ever seen.

"Ya wanna learn how to ride?" His voice sounded annoyed, like the idea was somehow offensive to him, but there was also some slight disbelief to be heard as if he wasn't sure why you'd ask him of all people. "Ain't got time for that. Got 'nough problems without babysittin'."

"Come on," you pressed further. "What's the harm? Or is the asshole routine just for me? Besides, if you ever crash, I promise I'll write you some kinda eulogy. Something about how you died doing what you loved—which is looking perpetually pissed off."

You could've sworn you saw the slightest smirk, but Daryl quickly busied himself with the motorcycle, like he hadn't shown you might really have a point with your tips.

Keeping your voice casual, you stepped back. "Let me know if you change your mind," you continued, brushing off your knees. "Might be fun."

With that, you gave him one last smirk and turned around, leaving him to think about whatever he thought of you.

You spent the next couple of days trying not to think about Daryl Dixon, which was about as easy as trying not to notice a walker biting your arm. But despite your best efforts to act like it was no big deal, the thought of riding that motorcycle—and more specifically, him teaching you—kept making its way into your head.

Daryl didn't say anything about your offer for those few days, too. Hell, he didn't say much of anything, really. He'd pass by you in Alexandria, his crossbow by his side, always looking like someone just spit in his drink. But you had gotten used to the silent treatment by now, so you didn't let it get to you... much.

Indeed, it didn't take long to figure out that convincing Daryl Dixon to teach you how to ride a motorcycle was like trying to herd cats—but grumpy, feral ones… with knives.

It was late afternoon when you found yourself near the garage again, and you hadn't planned on seeing him, but let's face it, you were intrigued. And there he was—still working on the motorcycle and still looking like it personally insulted him.

However, the thing looked all patched together with scavenged pieces and maybe a little bit of wishful thinking. It had a certain look to it, like it wanted to run off into the wild and never come back.

Daryl didn't even move. He didn't look your way. He just kept wrenching something near the seat before he glared at you like you'd asked him to solve a math problem.

"Thought I'd come by and bless you with my knowledge once more," you announced, smirking as you leaned against the workbench.

Daryl only rolled his eyes—actually rolled them—like he couldn't believe he had to put up with you again. "Ain't nobody asked for that."

"Yeah, well, nobody asked for that bike to look like it's held together with a plea and a prayer, but here we are," you shot back, leaning forward slightly. "'Livin' on a Prayer,' in fact."

He grunted, shoving the wrench into the toolbox with force. "The hell do ya know 'bout motorcycles, anyway?"

"I do know motorcycles! I told you, didn't I? And that thing," you pointed to the machine, "is one bad pothole away from turning into scrap metal."

Daryl scoffed, clearly not a fan of having his work criticized, especially by someone who, in his eyes, hadn't earned the right to say something about it. "It'll hold. 'S a good bike."

"Sure, sure," you said, grinning at him. "But if you're so confident, why don't you accept my offer? Teach me how to ride. Let's see if this thing here can handle it."

He stared at you for a long moment, like he was thinking about his options. You could practically see the gears running in his head—whether to shut you down and tell you to piss off or give in just to prove you wrong.

"Ya serious 'bout this?"

"Dead serious," you said, holding his stare. "What? Are you afraid?"

His nostrils flared in the way they did when he seemed to be two seconds from snapping at you, but instead, he just turned back to his work. "Ya wanna learn? Fine. But don't come cryin' to me when ya hurt yer ass."

"Oh, don't worry, Dixon. If I hurt my ass, I'll make sure you hurt yours, too," you said, biting back a laugh as you straightened up. "But I swear, this thing's gonna be your mid-life crisis. What's next, leather pants and chaps?"

He showed you one of those stares again—half-annoyed, half-confused—like he wasn't sure if he should bother responding or pretend you didn't exist.

"Ya done?"

"Done? I'm here to save you from yourself, Daryl. You keep this up, and in a week, you're gonna be having a mullet and wearing a crop top."

He stared at you like you'd grown an extra head. "What the hell're ya talkin' 'bout?"

"Mid-life crisis, Daryl. First, it's the bike. Then, it's questionable fashion choices. Next thing you know, you're coming back from a run with a Corvette and crying over Bon Jovi ballads. I'm just here to make sure it won't happen."

"Ain't havin' no damn crisis."

You smirked. "Uh-huh. That's what they all say. Just remember, I offered to help. I can't wait to see you when you're rocking those chaps and a bandana."

"So, ya still wanna learn to ride or not?" His voice sounded definitely pissed off.

You raised your eyebrows, as if in shock. "Oh my, was that an offer in return? From you? I'm touched, really. Let me just—" You pretended to wipe a tear away from your eye and sob. "This moment's very special to me."

"Shut up," he grumbled, but his voice gave way that he almost sounded amused.

"I'm just saying, this is progress," you said. "Next thing I know, we'll be exchanging friendship bracelets."

Daryl didn't respond right away, but you thought you had seen enjoyment, maybe? Or irritation. It was hard to tell with him. Either way, he was back on his feet now, pulling the motorcycle upright and kicking the stand back. Soon enough, the familiar sound of the engine made its way through the garage, and damn if it didn't make your pulse race just a little.

"Get on."

His sudden words made you blink at him in surprise. "Wait, like… right now? Where's the foreplay, Dixon? At least buy me a drink first."

"Nah, when I'm dead. Yeah, right now," he snapped, unable to believe you were even asking.

"Okay, okay," you mumbled, swinging your leg over the motorcycle with as much confidence as you could have at that moment. The seat seemed normal, but it still felt bigger than you expected.

Daryl stepped beside you, his arms crossed as he watched you. "Ya know how to start?"

"Of course I do," you said, reaching for the handlebars.

You were halfway through fumbling with the throttle at first when Daryl's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. "That ain't how ya do it," he growled as he leaned in. "First lesson: This here's the throttle—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know what a throttle is," you interrupted, waving him off. "I'm not a complete idiot. I could turn this thing into scrap and piece it back together if you wanted me to, so..."

His eyes narrowed. "Then maybe shut up and listen."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You couldn't help it—pissing him off was just too easy.

"Clutch on the left, throttle on the right," he continued, his fingers tapping the handlebars. "Brake's here. Don't yank it like an idiot." He then gave the machine a once-over. "Ya pull the clutch, twist the throttle slowly. Too much, and yer gonna stall it."

"Okay, understood. Show me."

Daryl let out a frustrated sigh but soon moved behind you, reaching around to grip the handlebars. His strong chest pressed against your back, and you immediately forgot how to breathe.

"Ya gotta ease into it," he instructed while his fingers guided yours on the throttle.

"Uh-huh, yeah, sure, ease into it," you mumbled, trying to sound unimpressed. "And what happens if I don't ease into it? The whole thing explodes?"

"Nah. Ya gonna wipe out an' eat dirt," he shot back, his lips showing a bit of a smirk. "But maybe ya'll learn faster that way."

"Yeah, well, I've eaten worse," you answered, glancing over your shoulder at him. "Besides, I doubt you've ever taught anyone how to ride before. What if you're just a terrible teacher?"

He huffed against your neck. "Ain't teachin' ya much. Now, idle it forward."

You followed his instructions, twisting the throttle just enough to get the engine purring beneath you. The vibration went through your legs, and despite yourself, you had to admit it felt very, very good.

"Okay, now what?" You asked, trying to sound bored even though the adrenaline was starting to kick in.

"Now ya balance," Daryl said, his voice neutral like this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Try not to fall over." You could feel his eyes on you, judging every movement you made. "Quit messin' 'round. Friction Zone is how ya idle forward."

You shot him a look but did as he said, trying not to stall the motorcycle. For a second, you wobbled, and you swore you heard Daryl whisper something—probably betting on how soon you'd crash.

But you didn't. You steadied yourself. It was a weird feeling—kind of thrilling, kind of terrifying.

"Well, look at that," you said, showing him a grin. "Didn't fall over. Guess you're not the worst teacher after all."

"Jus' keep 'em hands on the bars," he instructed, his voice rather patient—well, as patient as Daryl ever got.

You did as he said, gripping the handlebars harder, trying not to think about how close you were to him. His smell wasn't exactly unpleasant. In fact, it was kind of… intoxicating.

Not that you'd ever admit that to him out loud.

"Fine, so what's next? Do I just rev it up and hope for the best?"

Daryl snorted, clearly unimpressed with you being unable to wait. "Ya listen, or yer gonna end up on yer ass."

"You know, Daryl, I don't usually take threats during lessons, but I'll make an exception for you."

His grip tightened on the handlebars, and you thought he might just leave you there. But he didn't. "Don't jerk the damn throttle, woman, or yer gonna take off too fast."

"Throttle, got it. Don't jerk it off. Guess I'll save that one for later." You wiggled your eyebrows, even though he couldn't see it.

Daryl stiffened, grumbling something you didn't quite catch, though it definitely wasn't a compliment.

"C'mon now, twist it—slowly," he ordered.

You followed his lead, the motorcycle easing forward just a bit as you worked the throttle.

"There ya go," Daryl said, his voice sounding a bit less harsh now that you weren't about to play around. "Gotta ease into it."

"Wow, who knew you could be so supportive?" You teased. "Almost makes me think you care."

He grunted. "Jus' don't wanna pick yer ass up off the ground."

"Got it, got it. Now, let's see if I can actually ride this thing without killing myself."

Daryl's hand moved to the clutch, his fingers touching yours as he guided you through the motions. You weren't sure if it was the machine or him, but your heart was beating much faster than usual. Maybe it was both. Either way, you were in for one hell of a ride.

His hand was warm, calloused, and—despite everything—comforting as he guided you out of the garage.

"Okay, slow down a bit, but not too much," he instructed, his voice almost a growl. The way he said it made you shiver, but you refused to let it show. You could be cool about this, right?

"Or I could just go full throttle and see how far I can fly through the streets of Alexandria," you laughed back.

"Real funny," he answered, rolling his eyes. "Jus' don't fuck up. Y'ain't flyin' nowhere. Ya gotta keep it steady."

"Right, no jerking off," you said, moving your head to the side just enough to glance at him. "That's usually my motto, you know, but I can make an exception for you regarding that as well."

"Focus. Don't push it," he warned. "Ya gotta keep yer focus on the bike, not me."

"Really? I thought you were my main distraction." You leaned back a little. "Sure, I'll focus. But I'm also pretty good at multitasking." As you worked the throttle again, you felt a rush of adrenaline. "So, what happens if I actually do fall? You gonna come to my rescue?"

Daryl didn't answer immediately. Instead, he loosened his grip on the handlebars, his body tense next to you. "Ya get back up. Everyone falls. 'S what ya do afterward that matters."

"Profound," you smirked. "You should start writing poetry! 'When life knocks you down, just get back on your bike.' Classic wisdom."

"Shut up and drive."

The motorcycle moved as you used the throttle too hard, and you fought to regain control, laughing nervously. "Shit! Maybe I should have listened to that part about not jerking it!"

He sighed, not bothering to hide his amusement this time. "Ya keep talkin', and ya might jus' convince me to kick ya off myself."

"Promises, promises," you smirked, adrenaline rushing through you, making everything feel a bit more exciting.

He grumbled something again—probably another insult—but he didn't try to stop you. Your movements weren't exactly smooth, but it was a start.

"You're a terrible teacher, by the way," you soon said, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

"Good," Daryl answered. "Means ya won't ask me to do this shit again."

You were just getting into the rhythm, feeling the motorcycle beneath you and getting the hang of it, when you heard the sound of footsteps getting closer behind you.

"Hey! What's going on here?" Aaron's voice destroyed the moment, and you felt Daryl tense near you.

"Shit," he groaned, practically gritting his teeth. You tried to process what was happening as you got off the seat, the way Daryl's body stiffened and the smirk faded from your lips.

"Oh, nothing, just a little driving lesson," you announced, trying to keep going despite the sudden stop. "Motto: 'Try Not to Die, but If You Do, It Ain't My Problem.'"

Aaron laughed, walking closer to you both. "So, it's finally finished?" He looked at the machine, inspecting the mix of parts that somehow came together into something that resembled a proper motorcycle.

"Jus' 'bout," Daryl replied dryly.

Aaron raised an eyebrow, looking from you to Daryl, who was already stepping away from him and you.

"That's great. Looks like you're making some great progress," Aaron continued, stepping closer.

"Ain't needin' ya to worry 'bout that," Daryl grumbled, the annoyance in his voice unmistakable. "Lesson's over."

"Wait, what? You can't just—"

"Don't push it," he snapped, shooting you a look that said he was done. "Ya wanna learn, ya have to find someone else."

You blinked, stunned as he walked away with the motorcycle by his side. "Daryl, stop!"

"Forget 'bout it," he called back, almost like his voice belonged to a different person. "Y'ain't ready."

Your frustration boiled over, and you turned to Aaron, arms crossed. "Thanks for ruining my lesson, by the way. Just what I needed today—more interruptions."

Aaron frowned, glancing between you and Daryl again as he watched him walk away. "What did you expect? He's still new here. Trying to keep his distance from the rest of us."

"Yeah, well, he doesn't need to be an asshole about it," you snapped. "I was getting somewhere!"

"You have to understand that the whole group has been through a lot. Daryl's not always going to be open with people," he explained, but it didn't help your mood.

"I get that, but I was just trying to learn something! Guess it's my fault for thinking he could actually teach me without being a complete asshole about it."

"Maybe give it some time?" Aaron suggested, his voice softer now, sounding more sympathetic. "He'll come around."

"Maybe," you sighed, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "But just when I thought I could finally get him to smile and to talk, you pull this."

Aaron's expression was by now somewhere between concern and curiosity as you huffed, glaring at Daryl walking away.

"Really, Aaron…" You continued, throwing your hands in the air. "You couldn't have waited five goddamn minutes longer to come and ruin my day? You see me finally making some progress, and you think, 'Oh, hey! The perfect time to interrupt!'"

Aaron raised his hands defensively. "Hey, I didn't mean to ruin anything. I didn't know you two were having... whatever that was."

"Whatever that was?" You repeated, your voice rising. "It was a goddamn driving lesson! Or, at least, it was supposed to be before you came along with your good intentions and your bad timing!"

Aaron frowned, the tone in his voice still kind, but he wasn't backing down. "Look, I was just checking in because I heard the sound of the engine. I thought Daryl wanted to head out, and I only wanted to see if he's done with his work on the bike. I didn't realize you were both so busy."

"Busy?" You let out a loud laugh, shaking your head. "You know what? Forget it. Next time I'm about to get Daryl Dixon to do something other than grunt or skin dead animals on the porch, I'll write you a goddamn note so you don't fuck it up. Now he's all pissed off and stomping away with my only chance at learning how to ride a damn bike and not kill myself."

"I doubt he's mad at you," Aaron responded. "Daryl's complicated. Like the rest of the group. They're still very new here. And you were the same when I found you and brought you here. But you're probably closer to getting through to him than anyone else."

You snorted. "Yeah, sure. 'Cause nothing says 'bonding' and 'getting to know each other' like storming off with his damn Franken-bike in a hurry. Really fucking touching."

Aaron smiled, squeezing your shoulder. "Just think about it."

You exhaled loudly, putting your hands on your hips. "Sounds like it's from a fortune cookie. Thanks for nothing."

With that, Aaron simply walked off, leaving you alone.

Soon, some days had passed since your lesson with Daryl. Days that quickly turned annoying when you realized he was avoiding you like you were the last slice of cold pizza at a party.

It felt weird.

Like, ridiculously weird.

And it didn't help that every time you tried to casually walk into the garage or catch him before he went on a supply run, he was either nowhere to be found or suddenly too busy to talk. You even half-expected to see a 'Do Not Disturb' sign near the bike.

It wasn't like you were stalking him—okay, maybe a little—but it was hard to stop thinking about him.

"Should I ask for him? Should I knock on the garage door? Maybe he's just sleeping? Or dead?" You laughed at the last thought. With Daryl, it wasn't a real possibility.

Finally, you sighed and decided to call it a day. "Alright, Daryl Dixon, you win," you said to yourself, kicking the dirt as you turned to leave.

But just as you made it halfway down the street, you heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps, followed by a clink of metal that made your heart race. You turned, and there he was—finally. Daryl Dixon, leaning against the side of the garage, arms crossed, his eyes hidden behind his hair, and with a cigarette in one hand.

Oh no, you're not getting away this time.

"Been hiding from me, huh?" You asked as soon as you reached him. "Gonna run off again? Or maybe you've just been too busy?" You faked a yawn, your eyes narrowing. "Or hiding from the bike lesson, maybe?"

Daryl simply scoffed, the only sign of life you got out of him as you stood a few inches from him. His eyes looked down, clearly not thrilled to see you standing there, but you didn't give a damn.

You put your hands on your hips, pretending to inspect him like he was the most boring human in Alexandria. "Hey… You did promise, you know? I didn't just imagine that part now, did I?"

"Dunno what yer talkin' 'bout."

You raised an eyebrow, your smile growing wider. "Oh? Sure feels like it. Guess you finally realized you're not as good of a teacher as you think."

Daryl sighed, sounding not only frustrated but... pissed off? Maybe both?

"Don't need to explain shit to ya," he grumbled in return.

You grinned, shrugging. "Well, if you're busy doing... whatever it is you do when you're not being an asshole, I guess I'll just go back to trying to learn from someone else." You turned to leave, but not without looking back over your shoulder again. "Don't worry. I won't ask you to teach me again."

That got him. He pushed himself off the garage, taking a few steps closer.

"You promised, Daryl. Or is that just another thing you like to say and not follow through with? You were gonna teach me. Not that I care; I'm sure I'll learn from someone else... unless you finally stop being an ass," you taunted, still looking over your shoulder at him.

Daryl's hand shot out before you could get too far, catching your arm in a grip that could've cracked a tree in half if he wanted it to. He was definitely pissed.

With a growl, he yanked you back toward him. "Fine. I'll teach ya. But not here. Not in Alexandria." He released your arm. "Meet me by the gates. Tomorrow, at dawn."

Without waiting for a response, Daryl walked back inside, leaving you standing there with a grin.

The next morning, you woke up early, a little earlier than you'd planned, but that was the least of your problems. There was a knot in your stomach that you couldn't get rid of, not even with a few stretches or by putting on your clothes.

This wasn't just another run. It wasn't just another 'do this or die trying' kinda deal. No, this was different. And for some reason, you were extremely nervous. What was he gonna do? What was he thinking?

You threw on your jacket, tied your boots like they were the last thing you'd ever do, and then... you hesitated.

What the hell was wrong with you?

With a deep breath, you forced yourself out the door and towards the gates of Alexandria. When you finally made it, you saw him. There he was—Daryl Dixon, standing there like he was waiting for the bus, except minus the whole 'bus' part. The motorcycle was leaned up against the walls, and he was staring straight ahead as if you were the last person he wanted to see right now.

"Well, damn. You did show up. Thought maybe you'd hide behind that attitude of yours for another day," you said, taking your time to walk up to him, not quite giving a damn whether he was ready for you or not.

But Daryl didn't even acknowledge you. He just flicked his cigarette away and gave you a look that could probably kill.

He then grunted, clearly not amused. "Ain't here to talk."

You looked at him, smirking a little. "Oh, I thought we were here to talk. 'Cause last time I checked, you were too busy to teach me anything useful. Guess you did promise, isn't that right?" You continued and raised an eyebrow. "So... what's the deal, huh? You just gonna stand there, or are we gonna start this driving lesson?"

He was still giving you that dead-eyed stare like you just asked him to swallow down rusty nails. The way Daryl was looking at you, all calm but irritated at the same time—it made everything weirder. But now, you had no choice. You had to get on that machine if you wanted to learn.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer to him after he took the motorcycle and got onto it himself. "Get on."

You hesitated before swinging your leg over it as well, the movement too awkward to be smooth. There was no denying it—there was a whole lot of you that wasn't exactly eager to be pressed up against him.

You bit your lip but tried to keep your cool. "Alright, I'm on."

Daryl didn't answer. He just started the engine, his hands gripping the handlebars, and that was when you had to settle into place—right behind him. You were close now—way too close—and that knot in your stomach was only tightening itself. You couldn't help it. You had to steady yourself, right? And as much as you hated to admit it, you found yourself sliding your hands down, almost instinctively. But... it wasn't enough.

And it wasn't fair. Nothing about this was fair. The way he was so broad, strong, and so very close made it impossible to think straight. Your palms were sweating, and it wasn't because you were nervous about falling off. It was him. Just him. And God, it was infuriating, letting your thoughts run wild.

Why does he have to smell so good? Why can't he just be an asshole and not… this?

Your hands moved. Lower.

You didn't mean to, but... there you were. Your fingers grabbed his hips, right there in front of you and so, so very close. He was warm, so warm, and you couldn't not notice it, even if you tried. But you weren't even trying.

Oh, no. Don't. Don't do it. Not now...

But your hands stayed right there. Resting on his hips. You couldn't help it.

God, he feels good. Warm. Strong. Hell, if I slide even lower, maybe I can make him feel me, too. What if I just—

You quickly cut your thoughts off, but the temptation was there. It was stupid. It's Daryl, you reminded yourself, though it didn't make the racing of your heart in your chest any less intense.

"Quit it. Jus' hold on," he suddenly said, still keeping his focus on the road in front of you.

You snapped out of it, blinking as though you were just pulled back from the edge of a cliff.

"Me?" You shot back, trying to sound as neutral as possible, hoping he didn't feel the way your heart was pounding. "You're the one acting like you've got a stick up your ass. Don't act like I'm the problem here."

Daryl didn't respond—again. His hands tightened on the handlebars, and you felt him move slightly on the motorcycle. You wondered if he could feel the way you were still pressed against him, too. If he noticed, he didn't give any sign, but hell, you weren't sure whether that was calming you down or just making everything worse.

Your hands were still grabbing his hips. Still low. Still in the danger zone. And every second you stayed on that seat that close behind him, the more you realized just how close you were to crossing a line you couldn't uncross, too.

Just stop touching him like that. For God's sake, control yourself...

But it was too late, wasn't it? Your hands were already doing what they wanted, sliding ever so slightly as Daryl revved the engine beneath you. And as the machine roared further and you felt the vibration between your legs, you couldn't deny it—you were holding on tight...

And shit, you hated yourself for it, but you couldn't think straight.

Your hands—those traitorous, slightly trembling hands—started to move further without you even trying. At first, you could feel the hardness of his muscles under his shirt. You didn't mean to, but your fingers couldn't resist anymore.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You kept telling yourself you weren't like this, but the warmth of his body in front of you, the vibrations of the motorcycle—the whole situation—it was clearly messing with your head.

And then your fingers touched the waistband of his pants. Your mind started spiraling.

Fuck, stop it.

But your hands were moving still, just a little further, and before you could catch yourself, you were dangerously close to slipping one whole hand past the button of his pants.

Why does this feel so fucking good? So right? No! This is so wrong!

You knew you shouldn't be doing this. You were driving yourself crazy just being this close to him. You should pull away and act like nothing happened. But the thought of him—of the way he looked, the way he smelled—it was too much.

Should I really keep going? You wondered, heart racing. What if I just slide my hand inside and just feel him?

The idea was so sudden it made your stomach growl, but you couldn't stop imagining it. The way he'd react—if he'd stop the motorcycle and throw you off, or if he'd just let you have your way.

But your hand froze at the button of his pants, resting there, barely touching it. You hated how much you wanted to go further, how much you needed to.

Pull back. Move your hand away. Stop thinking about how strong he is.

The way his muscles moved under your fingers, how he wasn't even saying one thing to stop you. Did he want this? Did he feel it too? You hated how much you wanted to find out.

But Daryl kept driving, focusing on the surroundings and possible dangers as you left Alexandria.

Why isn't he stopping me?

He was tense, but that was it. No words, no warnings. And that drove you wild.

Maybe he wants this as much as I do.

Your mind was on fire now, and you wanted him so badly, it felt like your whole body was about to explode. And the weirdest part? You weren't sure you even cared anymore if this was wrong.

If you don't stop me, I swear I'll—

You didn't finish that thought, and as soon as Daryl pulled off the road and into a clearing surrounded by trees, the motorcycle came to a stop.

"This'll do," he said, getting off it and motioning for you to follow.

You stumbled off, your legs still shaky from holding yourself together.

Right now, you wanted to hate him. To scream at him. But the truth was, you were more pissed at yourself. You were supposed to be learning how to ride a motorcycle, not imagining what it would feel like to be all over him and…

No. Stop it. Get your shit together.

"Alright, what's next?" You asked, doing your best to sound casual even as your heart was still racing. "You gonna teach me how not to eat dirt or just let me ride it?"

Daryl glared at you, one eyebrow raised like you were the one making this complicated. "Jus' pay attention."

You snorted, shaking your head. "Sure, 'cause that's been working out for me so far." You crossed your arms, a little too aware of how your body felt like it was overheating.

Stop thinking about him, stop thinking about him...

He was already gesturing to the motorcycle again, explaining the controls all over. "Clutch, brake, throttle—all that stuff."

You nodded, doing your best to stay focused despite how goddamn awkward you felt.

Focus; you can do this.

You glanced at him and caught the way his hands moved around near you, the way his fingers got hold of the throttle like he was born to do this.

"Ya won't wreck it if ya listen."

You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves. "Yeah… 'if,' but okay."

Daryl took a step closer, the space between you suddenly feeling way too small. "Stop makin' jokes, and start payin' some real attention."

You could feel how he stared you down, even without looking into his eyes, and before you could stop yourself, you were blushing—hard.

Shit, shit, shit.

He then smirked, only a little, and you wanted to punch him for it. Or kiss him. You weren't sure. Either way, you tugged at the collar of your shirt like it was too tight, but there was no escaping it.

Daryl was watching you, though his smirk was already gone again. "Jus' sit down on it. Let's see if ya can at least do that alone while out here, without fallin' over."

You had to swallow hard.

Just get on, just get on, and don't think about him.

Your mind was screaming at you to stop acting like you wanted to crawl all over him, but your body was betraying you.

And Daryl for sure wasn't even trying to make it easier, and all you could do was grit your teeth and pray you didn't lose it.

The first time you tried to balance the motorcycle, you almost tipped it over, but Daryl quickly got a hold of it—and you—before you really ate dirt.

"Goddamn it," he groaned, yanking you upright and keeping the motorcycle steady. "Yer fightin' the damn thing instead o' drivin' it. Quit makin' it harder for yerself."

You shot him a glare but didn't respond, figuring it was easier to just get the lesson over with. This time, he stepped in behind you, hands landing on your waist like he was holding onto a ticking time bomb. His grip tightened just enough to make you aware of his presence, but you weren't going to let him throw you off balance.

"Ease up on the damn clutch," he grumbled. "Slowly. Ya ain't in a damn hurry."

By the third or fourth try, you were starting to get the hang of it. You made it a few feet without the motorcycle wobbling like it had been possessed. You didn't even stall it this time.

"Look at me!" You grinned over your shoulder at him all triumphant as you stopped at a treeline. "I'm basically a stunt double at this point! Wanna try jumping flaming buses next?"

Daryl shot you that look again. The one that made you want to throw something at him. "Nah, yer bein' an amateur stunt double wantin' to set yerself on fire… 'cause ya can't keep yer hands to yerself."

You ignored him.

You had it now. You totally had it.

But who needed to play it safe when you could push this lesson to the limit and prove yourself?

You twisted the throttle again but felt a sudden rush of speed. "Shit!" You screamed from far away. "Fuck!"

"What the hell are ya doin'?!" Daryl shouted before you were hurtling forward at fast speed, your stomach dropping as it made everything around you blurry in sight. You had no idea how to stop in the heat of the moment without throwing yourself off it, and that realization hit you hard. You were in panic mode now, and trying to steer only made it worse.

"Daryl? A little help here, please!" You screamed, gripping the handlebars as your hands shook.

"Hold on!" Daryl yelled, but his warning was already too late. The front wheel hit something—a big rock? A tree stump? You didn't even see it. All you knew was that the motorcycle lurched like a wild animal wanting to throw you off its back.

For a moment, you were sure you were about to die. But Daryl wasn't about to let that happen. He lunged forward, grabbing you and yanking you off the seat just before it tipped completely and threw you off.

You and Daryl went down, both of you slamming into the ground hard. You landed on top of him—completely on top of him, with your thighs pressed against his hips and your upper body crashing against his chest.

You knew you fucked up, but his expression only made it worse. The slight pain in your body was nothing compared to the humiliation you felt. All you could do was catch your breath and stare at him.

And Daryl was flat-out pissed. His face was full of rage, and he was breathing hard from the crash. He shoved you off him, his hands on your shoulders as he stood up.

"What the hell were ya thinkin'!?" His eyes were practically burning holes through you. "I told ya to slow the hell down and focus! Ya don't listen for shit!"

You didn't want to admit that he was right, that you'd been very reckless. "Well, maybe you should've taught me how to actually ride instead of standing there like a statue and just barking orders!"

Daryl's hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

He wasn't just angry.

He was livid.

You were both breathing fast now, adrenaline still running through your veins. "And maybe I'm just a fast learner, okay?" You continued.

Daryl looked at you like he was about to rip you in half. "Yer not a fast learner; yer a damn idiot! And now I gotta drag yer dumb ass back!"

He grabbed the motorcycle and swung his leg over it with a grunt. "Get the fuck on," he growled in frustration.

You glared at him for a moment, but you weren't about to argue. You had to get home. You had no choice but to follow him.

Throwing your leg over the seat, you settled behind him. You couldn't even look up now. Every time you did, your stomach hurt in a way that made no sense. The anger, the shame—it was all so degrading. You wanted to argue. You really did. But you were too embarrassed, and your body was too sore to keep up any fight.

Daryl started the engine, and the motorcycle roared to life under you. As he sped down the road, you couldn't help but notice how tense his body still was. Every muscle in his back seemed to be stiff. And he didn't say a word anymore. Not a single word as you rode back toward Alexandria in silence.

His hands gripped the handlebars with such force, you swore the motorcycle might crack in half under the pressure if he kept it up.

You were pissed as well. Pissed at yourself for fucking up and pissed at him for making you feel all... this. You hated that you couldn't read him, hated how he could just shut everything out like that, and especially for making you feel something you didn't want to feel.

Once back at Alexandria, the garage door had barely been shut when Daryl's frustration exploded. He was still breathing hard from the ride, and he hadn't pushed you away since you'd now gotten back, but the way he was glaring at you said enough.

He took a step toward you, pushing you back a little. "Crashed my damn bike…"

"I didn't wreck it, Daryl," you argued. "It's fine!"

"Fine?" He repeated. "That's what ya call near splittin' yer skull open?"

"I didn't crash on purpose!" You shot back, the frustration boiling over. "I'm not dumb!"

He let out a mean laugh, his eyes narrowing. "Coulda fooled me, dumbass!"

"You're the one all trembling here, not me!" You crossed your arms, trying to hold onto whatever bit of defiance was left. "It was an accident, Daryl," you continued, glaring right back at him. "It's not like I'm trying to be your damn stunt double!"

He scoffed, not buying your excuse. "Bullshit. Ya were pushin' it, tryin' to prove somethin', weren't ya? Ya coulda gotten yerself killed!"

Maybe he was right; maybe you had been showing off, but why bother with giving him the satisfaction and letting him know that it was the truth?

"What's your problem, Dixon? It isn't like I destroyed the damn thing," you scoffed.

He shot you a glare. "Problem is, ya don't think. Out there, one screw-up ain't jus' a scratch—it's the difference 'tween comin' back or not comin' back at all!"

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, please! Spare me the PSA! It isn't like I don't know how this shit works! We're all one wrong turn away from dead anyway! What's the big deal?"

"The big deal," he growled, "is ya don't get to pull that shit with my bike!"

His finger shot out, pointing toward the side of the motorcycle. "Look at this," he growled. "Ya see that?"

You glanced where he was pointing and shrugged. "What, a couple of scratches? Boo-fucking-hoo! Rub some dirt with your spit on it; it'll be fine!"

"Couple o' scratches?" His voice rose, and he bent down to run a hand along the damaged part. "Ya know how I worked on this, ain't that right? To get it runnin' smooth?"

He crouched, looking at the machine like he was inspecting a wounded animal. "Look."

"What?"

"Look," he snarled once more, pointing his finger at the gas tank.

Reluctantly, you stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. The scratches weren't as bad as you'd expected—some scuffed paint and a tiny dent, hardly catastrophic.

"Oh no," you pretended to be shocked and threw your hands up. "It's ruined! Better put it out of its misery!"

Daryl turned around, staring at you in disbelief and anger. "That funny to ya?"

"A little," you shot back, trying to ignore the way your heart pounded. "Newsflash, Dixon! This is a hunk of metal. It'll survive!"

His jaw clenched, and he stood up so fast you stumbled back. "Ain't the damn point," he snapped, stepping closer.

"Then what is the point?" You demanded in return.

"The point is," he growled, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, "ya don't listen. Yer always so goddamn dumb, thinkin' ya know better—"

"I do know better!" You interrupted him. "I could rebuild this bike with my eyes closed! Hell, I could build you a new one from… a scratch!"

Daryl's hands dropped to his sides, his breathing fast as he stared at you. His eyes looked down to your arms, and you followed his line of sight, realizing for the first time that you were trembling.

His eyes softened, just for a second. "Ya hurt?"

"No," you lied, crossing your arms to hide the shaking.

Daryl huffed, and his frustration was boiling over again. "Bullshit."

He moved toward you, closing the space between you as he grabbed you by the arm. You flinched but didn't pull away. His grip tightened, pulling you back toward the motorcycle you'd nearly wrecked.

"Get on," he growled, holding you still.

You froze, glaring at him. "Excuse me?"

"Get on the fuckin' bike," he repeated, his eyes narrowing.

You shook your head. "You're out of your damn mind."

But you didn't fight it when he shoved you over to the seat, guiding you like you were weighing nothing at all. You hadn't expected this—his touch and his obvious anger.

But it wasn't just the crash. No. It was the way his eyes looked at you—like he was waiting for you to back down, to beg for mercy even.

"What?" You scoffed. "You're pissed 'cause I fucked up your bike? Is that it? So fucking ridiculous!"

"'S part of it," he answered, and before you could respond, his hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him.

And you weren't sure what you expected from him, but you didn't expect the force of his lips on yours.

His kiss was aggressive. It wasn't tender. It wasn't gentle. It was all teeth and tongue and the feel of his stubble against your skin.

You tried to pull back, pushing at his chest. "What the hell—!"

"Shut the fuck up."

You barely had time to react before he was pushing you against the motorcycle, and his hands found their way under your shirt. It was almost too much to bear—the roughness of his touch. It had no place here, not with you two practically being strangers in this world, but somehow it made sense.

And no, you didn't pull away. Not now.

"Daryl—" You cut yourself off when his hand slid down to your waistband, tugging at your pants, a movement that was fast and urgent. Your breath hitched, a gasp escaping your throat.

He didn't respond, not in words anyway, as he lowered himself to his knees in front of you, his hands on your thighs, forcing you to stay still.

He wanted you—had wanted you, maybe for longer than he'd ever care to admit.

You gasped again when he pulled your pants down roughly, his hands moving along your hips before dragging them down your legs. You knew his hands were capable—he could gut a deer in under a minute, rebuild a bike from scratch—but this? This was a whole different level of skill, and you weren't sure whether to be impressed or terrified by how quickly he had you undone.

But you didn't have time to process it before Daryl was standing again, his face dangerously close to yours, eyes burning with a fire that made you blush.

God, his eyes.

They weren't just looking at you—they were staring you down.

Before you could say anything else, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to your hips and pushing himself closer until there was no space between your bodies.

And then, his fingers slipped beneath your panties, and he slid two of them into you. Without warning.

You cried out at the suddenness of it, at the overwhelming feeling, but you didn't stop him.

"Still think I'm tremblin'?" He asked as he moved them inside you with a pace that made your head spin. You couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

Sure, he was frustrated—but now it was all coming out, only in a way that you'd never expected. You didn't know what this was—what this would be afterward—but damn if it didn't feel like the only thing that mattered right now.

As his breath turned quicker against your neck, the urgency of his fingers quickened, too. Until he pulled them out of you. The moment he removed his hand, licking his fingers clean, you almost cursed aloud, the emptiness threatening to drive you mad.

He didn't give you time to say anything, didn't even let you think about it, because in the next moment, his hands were yanking your shirt up over your head, and your bra was gone just as fast.

But the way he studied you, every inch of you—like he was savoring the moment as if you were a piece of art he needed to drink in—made everything feel too much. Too much to take. Too much to bear. But also too good to stop.

You couldn't protest, couldn't do anything but let him have his way, and your eyes squeezed shut as you fought to hold it together.

Without a word, Daryl kneeled back down onto the ground again, his hands moving to your thighs, pushing them apart for him.

"Open yer eyes," he ordered, but you didn't. You just couldn't. But you could feel him there, right between your legs, and the anticipation was nearly killing you.

No, you couldn't do anything but obey as his hand was pulling your panties down and his other hand's thumb stroked across your clit, but something else caught his attention. A bruise on your thigh started to slowly form itself from when you'd crashed.

And then, without a word, he leaned forward, his lips pressing hard against the bruise. His teeth bit into the skin, and then he sucked on it with a hunger that had nothing to do with the motorcycle and the crash.

You gasped loudly, eyes opening wide as the sharp sting of his bite was followed by the slow, deep suck of his mouth.

His lips left the bruise for a moment, but it wasn't gone long. His tongue licked over the edges of it, then his teeth, scraping some more, making your legs shiver with lust and a little bit of pain.

As his fingers moved toward and away from your wet pussy, to brush over the scratches on one leg from the crash, you could feel the pressure of his touch as he traced over each one. He didn't care about the discomfort it caused, didn't care about the marks—they were his to play with.

A growl left his throat as he scratched them a little harder, just a little deeper, making you whimper.

You didn't even realize you were staring at him until his blue eyes looked up into yours, a silent claim that went deeper than anything else.

"Ain't lettin' ya look away," he warned as his hands gripped your thighs again, forcing your trembling legs to stay open for him.

And God, they were.

His touch was everything you didn't know you needed as he slipped his fingers back into you—simply all-consuming. His thumb stroked your clit yet again, and you were sure you were going to lose it way too fast.

And the way he kept looking at you—like he was daring you to look away…

But you didn't. Not once.

The pressure was building, that sweet, unbearable pressure, until it felt like you were going to burst into flames.

Indeed, it was pure fire.

"Eyes on me," he growled. "Don't ya look away."

His fingers found their rhythm, slow but deep, making you moan out loud, trying your hardest to keep your eyes open and on him.

"Yeah, 's it," he growled. "Focus."

You nodded wildly, the feeling overtaking everything, your body desperate for more. Every bit of your skin was burning, and you hated how badly you needed this.

"Daryl… I," you gasped, your hands holding on for dear life on the motorcycle seat, trying to stay upright but close to losing the battle with every pump. "I can't—fuck!"

"Can't what? Focus? Ain't nothin' new," he answered, his thumb still on your clit while his fingers were thrusting away. "Can't handle it? Ya jus' gotta focus. Keep yer eyes on me."

You were close, so fucking close already, but he wasn't letting up.

His fingers moved so roughly inside of you, pressing against your G-spot, which soon made you feel certain this was it—this was the moment.

Your legs were shaking hard, your breath coming in quick, desperate moans. "Fuck… fuck…" You whimpered, fingers tightening on the seat behind you.

But then he stopped. Just stopped.

The sudden loss of his fingers was like being thrown into a room full of walkers. You groaned, your hips bucking in a desperate attempt to go after what was just within reach, but he pulled his hand away completely, leaving you trembling and half-crazed.

"What the fuck, Daryl!" You cried out loud as you glared down at him, but Daryl only had the audacity to smirk, licking his fingers off once more like you hadn't been about to shatter into pieces.

"Keep still and shut up," he growled, and before you could scream at him, his head was between your legs.

Your words turned into a choked cry as his tongue moved over your clit, the feeling of his stubble against your inner thighs making you squirm.

It wasn't fair. You were already so close, your body trembling so hard it hurt, but now he was dragging it out, taking his sweet-ass time, licking and sucking like he had all damn day.

"Fuck—fucking hell, Daryl," you hissed, hands grabbing his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against you. The vibrations shot straight through you, making your thighs clench around his head, but he didn't stop—he didn't even flinch.

"Thought ya were so good at takin' risks," he taunted, his lips brushing against your clit as he spoke.

And with that, he sucked on it so hard you nearly screamed, the feeling of it being just on the edge of pain, but God, it was perfect. You were so damn close again, and this time, you needed it.

If he pulled away now, you swore you'd kill him.

"Please," you whimpered, your hips grinding against his mouth in a way that should've embarrassed you. "Daryl, fuck, don't you dare stop again—"

His grip tightened on your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as his tongue pushed you further and further until there was nowhere left to go but over the edge.

But it wasn't just his mouth—oh no. His hands were keeping you in place, his fingers pressing into your skin like he was claiming you, and maybe he was. You didn't care. You just wanted more.

"Fuck—Daryl, I'm—" Your voice broke, too far gone to even finish the sentence.

He pulled back just enough to growl, "What? Yer what?" His voice was rough and way too sarcastic for a man who was driving you insane.

"Stop it and finish me!" You snapped, your hands pulling at his hair like it would somehow speed him up.

He laughed—actually laughed—and that sound went straight through you. But before you could cuss him out for being an 'insufferable bastard,' his fingers were back on you, two sliding inside so easily you swore you saw stars.

Your breath hitched, and then he added a third.

"Fuck—holy shit!" You gasped, your thighs trembling as he stretched you wide. The feeling was nearly too much, but it was just right, and when his fingers started pumping in and out, so deep and hard, you couldn't do anything but ride it out.

He looked up at you then, his blue eyes searching for yours. You wanted to look away, to hide from the way he was watching you like he was saving every second of this to memory, but you didn't. He wouldn't let you.

"Eyes on me," he growled. "Don't ya fuckin' look away."

You didn't think you could blush any harder—you didn't think you had the energy left for it—but then his other hand moved, his thumb pressing into the bruise on your thigh, just hard enough to make you wince.

"Shit—Daryl, that hurts!" You hissed at him, but his grip tightened, keeping you still.

"Good," he growled, looking at you. "Should hurt."

His fingers inside your pussy were picking up speed, driving you mad with how good they felt.

"Ya think I'm jus' gonna let ya off easy after crashin' my bike?"

He pressed harder into the bruise, making you whimper from the pain that somehow only made everything hotter.

"Nah. Yer gonna feel this. Remember this."

You hated how much it turned you on—the sting of his thumb on your bruise along with the pumping of his fingers inside you and the way his mouth was so close to your clit again.

"Please—fuck—please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore. You just needed something—anything—to finally push you over the edge.

"C'mon," he growled against you, not stopping. "C'mon, woman. Fuckin' let go. Let me fuckin' have it."

And that was it. That was all it took.

Everything inside you exploded so intensely you moaned out loud, your whole body arching as the orgasm ripped through you.

"Fuck—fuck, Daryl!"

You tried to keep your legs from giving out, but they were done, trembling so hard you had no choice but to lean fully against the motorcycle once more, trying to hold yourself steady. But Daryl didn't stop. His mouth stayed on you, his tongue again working your clit, dragging out every last bit of your orgasm until you were shaking all over, whimpering and sobbing from the overstimulation.

Only then did he pull his fingers out in a way that made sure you'd feel everything.

But before you could catch your breath, his hands were on you again, gripping your thighs like they belonged to him. Without a word, he hoisted your legs up, wrapping them around his neck. The sudden movement made you yelp, but he didn't care—not one bit.

"What the fuck are you—"

"Shut up," he growled, his voice ragged as he shifted you off the motorcycle and onto his shoulders like you weighed nothing. "Focus."

The cold floor hit your back as he lowered you down, your body shivering against it. He moved near you, his hands gripping your thighs to keep them spread wide as he settled between them again, his face just inches from where you were still dripping for him.

You barely had time to process the new position before his tongue was back on you, licking slow and deep, making you moan aloud through the garage. All you could do was writhe and shake beneath him, your hands searching for anything to grab and hold onto—his hair, his shoulders, the cold floor—trying to keep still as he worked you over.

But then, just when you thought he'd keep going until you couldn't take anymore, he moved, his mouth leaving your pussy as he started to lick and kiss—hot, wet, and sloppy—all over you.

And he didn't move fast. He took his time, crawling up your body like he was deciding which part of you he should tease next. You felt his breath across your skin, so warm yet unsteady, while his hands worked on keeping you exactly where he wanted you—legs spread wide, no room to close yourself off, no room to argue.

His hands? Oh, you knew those hands could kill you if they wanted to, but the way he traced the edges of the scratches on your thigh? Fuck, it was worse. Slow. On purpose. Just enough pressure to remind you it was there. A reminder you didn't need, but apparently, he thought you needed.

The tip of his thumb ran over them once, twice, then pressed down harder. You flinched—it was pure instinct—but his other hand clamped down on your leg, pinning you to the floor. His thumb didn't move, didn't give you a break. If anything, he pressed harder, and you hissed through your teeth. He groaned, low and deep, like your slight discomfort was exactly what he wanted.

Daryl soon leaned down and kissed them. He kissed them like he was apologizing. Then his teeth grazed over the same scratches, and you realized he wasn't sorry for it at all. His tongue followed, licking slowly and wetly over the stinging feeling of them, and your back arched itself off the floor.

By the time he moved up to the bruise on your hips, his fingers found it first, pressing into your flesh like he was testing it, seeing how much it was hurting you. You flinched again, but this time, his response was immediate—a growl coming out of his throat as his fingers dug in deeper.

"Daryl," you started, but your voice cracked, and you knew that he wasn't listening anyway. His mouth replaced his fingers, and the first kiss of his lips made your head snap up.

Not soft, not tender—he sucked on the bruise as if he wanted to drag the pain out of you, to make you feel every sting of it.

He kept going, his mouth kissing up your ribs, licking, biting, sucking, finding every bruise that was forming itself, every scratch, and making sure you knew he'd found them.

"Fuckin' hell…" He whispered as his mouth moved higher, pressing kisses to your chest, in between your tits, before his tongue licked over one nipple.

You gasped as he sucked it into his mouth, one of his hands moving to tease the other, pinching and rolling it between his fingers.

"Daryl, please! Please… just—"

He didn't let up. He crawled higher over you, his body pinning you down, his mouth moving up to your collarbone, where his tongue licked over it next.

By the time he reached your neck, you were a mess, your hands now clawing at his shoulders, desperate for him to give you more, to stop teasing. And he knew it.

But he wasn't done. His teeth found your neck, and he bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, your thighs instantly squeezing around his hips.

"Goddamn," he growled as his mouth finally reached yours. "Look atcha… all wrecked."

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, rough and hungry, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every part of you.

And fuck, you didn't care.

Daryl left no room for argument—not that you had any strength left to argue.

His hands were everywhere at once, sliding over your thighs, your hips, your waist. You moaned into his mouth as his fingers moved back down between your legs, slipping through the wetness he'd left behind when he dragged his fingers through your wet folds, and his smirk certainly showed that he was satisfied with himself.

He wasn't asking for permission, no, but he wasn't rushing either. And he was now giving you the chance to stop him without saying a word.

When you didn't push him away, he leaned back just enough to look at you. His blue eyes seemed darker now, his pupils all wide, searching for something, waiting.

Your hands slid up his strong back, trembling slightly but steadying themselves as they reached his shoulders. You gave him a small but quick nod as you took a shaky breath.

That was all he needed.

With a growl, Daryl's hands gripped your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach fast but not harshly. Before you could even process it all, he pressed himself down against your ass.

"Don't move," he whispered.

You weren't planning to.

He grabbed your hips again, pulling you back just enough to hold them upward. You felt his cock pressing against your ass, still in his pants but unmistakably hard as he grunted and pushed it against you, his hands only holding on harder.

The deep and loud groan he made? You couldn't help but push back against him.

You barely had time to listen to the sound of his zipper before he was back, his cock sliding between your thighs, teasing, the wetness of your pussy making it too easy for him to glide against you.

Your fingers were clawing at the floor as you tried to push back, but his hands held you in place.

His hips rocked forward, and the tip of his cock pressed into your pussy. You tensed, your breath stopping at the sheer size of it, but he didn't push in—not completely. He was letting you feel every inch of how big he was.

When he did push inside, it was enough to stretch you wide open, and with one slow thrust, he sank into you, filling you up. Still, Daryl didn't move right away. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, as he gave you a moment to adjust and made sure you were okay.

Then, he finally started to move.

Slow at first, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again, each movement so controlled.

But it didn't take long for him to move faster.

Harder.

Deeper.

And you couldn't do anything but take it as he pinned you down.

"Daryl—" you moaned, but he cut you off with a growl, his arm sliding down around you, pulling your hips higher to give him better access.

"Don't talk," he ordered, trying not to lose himself. "Jus' take it."

And you did. God, you did.

The garage felt almost suffocating now, and all you could smell was the scent of sweat and sex. The only sounds to be heard were your fast-breathing moans of yourself and his feral grunts as Daryl moved behind you. Every thrust was deep, driving you forward just to pull you back again with a growl, his grip on your hips leaving marks you'd wear for days.

Your hands still searched for any kind of hold against the floor, trying to ground yourself as the intensity of it all threatened to break you apart. His cock stretched you in a way that still bordered on too much, each thrust rougher than the last, and yet you couldn't get enough of it—of him.

"Fuck," Daryl grunted, his voice sounding as if the word was being dragged out from deep inside him.

You couldn't respond to him, not with the way he filled you so completely, your body trembling under his control. But he didn't need any words in return from you. His hand slid from your hip, moving along your ass and up your spine, before he put his arm around your shoulders to keep you steady.

"Don't lose focus now," he growled, leaning over you, his chest brushing against your back. His stubble grazed along your shoulder as he pressed his mouth down, his lips rough, almost punishing. He bit down hard, his teeth sinking into your skin just enough to leave another mark.

You cried out, clenching around him involuntarily. "Daryl—"

"Shut up," he said, cutting you off with another bite to your shoulder, this one softer than the last. His teeth were still on the mark he'd made, right before his tongue soothed it, leaving you shivering.

Daryl's pace quickened, each thrust making your overstimulated body shudder.

"Goddamn, look atcha," he grumbled, his voice full of lust. "Really fuckin' wrecked, ain't ya?"

You whimpered in response, your head falling forward and almost hitting the floor, but your body was still being held on tight by his grip.

"Ya like that?"

You nodded.

"C'mon," he growled, his hand tightening around your chest to keep you steady as his thrusts grew erratic. "Stay with me, woman. Focus. Fuckin' focus."

You didn't have a choice. His arm around your chest and his cock buried so deep inside you made it impossible to think about anything else. And the pressure was building again, unavoidable, and you knew he could feel it—the way your pussy clenched around him, desperate to feel him come, too.

And he didn't slow down. He didn't ease the pace or give you any room to breathe. Instead, he buried his face against you again, his lips sucking on your neck, his tongue following to taste the sweat of your skin.

"Shit," he hissed, his voice all muffled against your neck. "Goddamn, ya feel so fuckin' good."

His hips thrust forward, harder and faster, and you could feel him getting close, his movements losing their rhythm as his breathing turned ragged.

"Fuck—fuck," he groaned, his arm moving from your chest to hold your hip again, his hand grabbing you roughly as his thrusts went deeper. "Gonna—fuck, I'm—"

He didn't finish the sentence. With a loud groan that was almost sounding more animal than man, he pulled out, his hand gripping his cock as he came all over your back with force.

You stayed there momentarily, still on the cold floor of the garage, as you tried to piece yourself back together. Your legs felt like jelly, trembling so badly you weren't even sure they'd hold you if you tried to stand up.

Daryl soon moved off behind you, his heavy breathing just as loud and uneven as yours as he leaned against the motorcycle for balance. His cum was feeling all warm across your back, but you didn't have the energy to care—not yet.

Finally, he straightened himself, pulling his pants back up and putting his softening cock away. You heard the sound of his footsteps next to you as he walked around the garage, and for a second, you thought he was going to leave you there, fucked and half-naked in the garage.

But not long after, he was back, something soft and slightly damp rubbing over your skin.

"Hold still," he grunted. "Gotta clean ya up."

You flinched, moving your head to see what he was doing. Daryl had an old, torn rag in one hand, smudged with a little bit of dry oil, but it was enough to do the job. His other hand pressed against your shoulder, holding you still as he wiped away the mess of his cum he'd left behind.

"You could've at least grabbed a clean one," you grumbled, but there wasn't any real annoyance in your voice.

When he was done, he tossed the rag aside. "Yer alright?"

You smirked, despite the ache in your legs. "What, worried I might've cracked under all that control?"

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he just grunted before crouching in front of you. His hands found your arms as he helped you up, his strength the only thing keeping you from falling right back to the floor.

"Easy," he mumbled, sliding one arm around your waist to steady you. "Ain't wantin' to pick yer ass up again if ya fall."

"Not my fault," you answered, your legs wobbling as you tried to find your balance. "You're the one who—"

"Don't even start," he cut you off quickly, but definitely with amusement. "Ya got no one to blame but yer damn self."

His arm stayed around you as you took a few shaky steps with him by your side as if you had to learn how to walk again, your knees still threatening to buckle. You hated how he looked at you right now, showing you a smirk as he watched you struggle.

"Shut up," you grumbled, leaning against him more than you wanted to admit.

"Ain't said nothin'," he smirked, but the way his hand tightened on your waist betrayed his satisfaction.

Once you were steady enough to stand on your own, he let go, his hands falling to his sides. As you reached for your clothes, putting them on with clumsy, trembling fingers, Daryl leaned against the motorcycle again, watching you with that same gaze he'd had earlier, his blue eyes tracking every movement of your body.

"So? Ya still reckless?" He suddenly asked, as if to taunt you.

You glared at him as you put on your bra and shirt. "Excuse me?"

"Crashin' my bike," he continued, crossing his arms over his chest. "Then gettin' all riled up when ya can't handle shit."

Feeling your cheeks turn red, the heat was spreading all over your face as you turned to zip up your pants. "Maybe if you weren't such a goddamn caveman, my attention would've—"

"Caveman, huh?" Daryl stepped closer, the space closing between you until you could feel the presence of him behind your back. One hand came up, his fingers brushing lightly over the bruise on your thigh from earlier, the touch rather gentle.

"Caveman kept ya focused now, didn't he?" He continued, his lips all close near your ear. "Got yer attention real good."

You hated how easily your body responded to him even now, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"Next time," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "ya might think twice 'bout tryin' to show off."

His fingers then pressed into the bruise just enough to make you wince, reminding you of the lesson he'd drilled into you—literally.

"Control," he said, stepping back again. "Might save yer damn ass next time."

You turned to face the motorcycle with a scowl as you adjusted your clothes, looking around for your jacket. "Are you done lecturing me, or should I grab a notepad?"

"Nah. Jus' get yer shit together," he answered. "We're headin' out again tomorrow. Yer ridin' bitch till ya prove ya can handle it."

Laughing at that, your words were coming out faster than your still-wobbly legs could even move. "Riding bitch, huh?" You repeated as you turned to face him. "Next time you're teaching me to drive, I'll be riding something, alright—but it sure as shit won't be the bike."

It was a bold answer, considering your legs still felt like they'd been switched for spaghetti, but you weren't about to let him see you back down.

Daryl's lips twitched, that small smirk coming back as he closed the distance between you in a few quick movements. One hand shot out, gripping your chin and tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

"Keep talkin'," he grumbled, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "See where it gets ya."

You grinned, biting his thumb just enough to make him hiss. "I think it gets me exactly where I want to be," you responded, voice all daring, even as your pulse kicked up a notch all over. "Don't you think?"

Daryl's silence was answer enough, and for a moment, you thought he might snap again, dragging you into another round right there on the spot. But for now, and for once, you decided to savor and enjoy your little victory. Of course, it didn't last long.

You weren't sure who moved first, but before you knew it, you were pulling him down by his collar, your lips crashing onto his like they had something to prove.

The kiss was all grunts and stubbornness, his teeth biting at your lip as you ran your fingers through his messy hair. You didn't even notice when his hands found your waist, pulling you closer until there wasn't an inch of space between your bodies.

"Y'ain't got any sense o' self-control," he mumbled against your mouth, but he didn't stop kissing you, one hand sliding up to grab the back of your neck.

You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, smirking up at him. "And you've got too much of it," you shot back.

You knew this would've gone on longer—should've gone on longer—but the sound of the side door from the garage to the house opening stopped you both in place like a couple of kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

"Daryl?" Aaron's voice was to be heard, and you felt the blood freeze in your veins. "Are you both back already?"

Daryl let out a growl, his forehead slowly dropping to yours like he was trying to collect himself before turning to look toward the unwanted interruption.

Aaron stood in the doorway, his eyes looking between the two of you, taking in the sheer awkwardness of it all. His eyebrows shot up, and he blinked like he was trying to reset his brain back to factory settings.

"Oh…" Aaron said after a moment, his voice sounding a little bit higher than usual. "I just—uh—saw the garage door was closed from the outside when I came back. Thought you were done with, uh, teaching? I just wanted to get—"

Daryl cleared his throat, stepping back from you but not bothering to hide his irritation. "'M still teachin'."

Aaron's mouth opened like he was about to ask something else, but you jumped in before he could make things even worse. "Yeah, exactly," you said, smiling at him before you looked back at Daryl. "He's teachin' me how to… focus."

The words had barely left your mouth before Daryl shot you a look. Still, he couldn't resist adding, "And 'bout… control."

Aaron stood there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish in urgent need of water. Finally, he managed to let out a quiet, "Still teaching, huh?" His voice was full of disbelief. "About control and focus?"

You crossed your arms, smirking. "Of course! And let me tell you, Daryl's got a real hands-on approach." Daryl gave you a warning look, but you ignored him. "Next time, maybe we'll move on to, I dunno, accelerating!"

"Yeah," Daryl answered flatly, his tone as casual as if Aaron had walked in on him fixing the motorcycle, not having had you taken against it. "Focusin' on the road ahead. Controllin' the bike while… ridin' it."

Aaron arched only one eyebrow this time. "Right," he said, dragging the word out like it was hurting him. "Well, maybe teach her outside of Alexandria next time instead of Eric's and my garage?"

You snorted. "Oh, we can, for sure. But Daryl's really good at teaching me how to focus on what's in front of me," you said sweetly. "It's the control part I keep getting stuck on."

Aaron let out a short, strangled laugh, already backing toward the door. "Yeah, okay! Don't let me interrupt your lesson." His face went red, and he backed up so fast he nearly tripped. "I mean, it sounds, uh... productive. I'll just—yeah." He gestured around awkwardly as he was about to hurry back inside the house.

When he left, you could've sworn he whispered something that sounded suspiciously like, "What the hell is wrong with all these people?" before he closed the door behind him.

The second the door clicked shut, you leaned against the workbench, your eyes moving to the motorcycle that had started this whole situation, after all. It stood there innocently enough, like it hadn't been witness to your absolute lack of keeping control. Stepping forward, you traced your fingers along one of the scratches on its gas tank.

"Looks like Frankenstein's bike's seen some rough handling, thanks to me," you said before your eyes moved back onto Daryl, who was watching you like an animal sizing up its next meal. "Guess it'll get used to bein' ridden hard."

Eyes looking up, you were daring him to take the bait. "Think you'll leave some scratches on me next time?"

His muscles were flexing like he was seconds from pulling you back to him. "Keep talkin', woman, and I jus' might."

You grinned, stepping away from the motorcycle and grabbing your jacket, which was on the floor near the workbench. "Guess I'll just have to wait and see, huh?" You put the jacket on, taking your time on purpose to let him stew in his frustration.

Just as you reached the garage door and opened it, you turned back toward Daryl, who'd started to talk, watching you lean your shoulder against the frame. "Yer walkin' funny, woman."

You stopped, moving your head up with a glare. "If I walk funny, I'm tellin' everyone it's 'cause of the bike." You made sure to add a smirk. "I'm going to say it was a wild ride—not a crash."

As you pushed yourself off the frame and stepped outside onto the streets of Alexandria, your grin was as wide as ever. "Thank you for the thorough lesson, Dixon."

But before the garage could even close behind you, something soft and slightly damp was flying past your head, landing on the ground in front of you.

"Jesus, was that—?" You started to laugh, realizing exactly what he'd thrown after you. "Oh, come on! Did you seriously throw that at me? Gross!"

Daryl leaned against the motorcycle, his smirk not obvious, but it was there. "Missed, didn't I?" He didn't flinch, didn't apologize. "Didn't miss on purpose."

"That's disgusting," you called back and laughed, unable to help yourself. "And I'm not picking that up!"

"Didn't ask ya to," he answered, pushing himself off the machine and taking a few steps closer to the street. "But yer might come back in here 'n pick up somethin' else."

"Not a chance," you snorted, shaking your head while you stumbled a little bit. "Better luck next time. Or… tomorrow."

"Fuckin' reckless…" Daryl growled, but with amusement in his voice as he watched you disappear ever so slowly. But he didn't move, not yet. "Jus' get yer damn ass back here!"

You were already down the street and smirking to yourself as you tried to walk and just waved him off, making it clear that it was all for show as you held up both middle fingers, trying to make it seem like you were stumbling away with your body intact.

And, of course, you were—kind of.

Either way, Daryl knew that next time, the only thing you'd be riding was him, and you'd make sure he would be the one struggling to keep focus and control.

[hhhwnr]

ꨄ Third time’s the charm — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: hurt/comfort, angst (with happy ending!)

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

warnings: none. word count: 1,7k

summary: Spencer’s always been good at showing up for the world. This time, he’s learning how to show up for you, and a third chance that you give him might be just enough.

author’s note: currently posting daily because I genuinely have nothing better to do. first time writing over 1,5k words, hehe. I am new to writing in tumblr format and in English, which isn't my first language, so please be kind. I will appreciate any input on how to improve my writing or other tips, but only in a respectful manner ! :)

You always knew it wouldn’t be easy.

Dating Spencer, that is.

You’d been friends long enough—met at a science conference three years ago, had long conversations about memory and metaphor over plastic coffee cups, and laughed over the mutual awkwardness of hotel mixers. The kind of friendship that came easy, like slipping into an old hoodie: warm, loose, no expectations. And maybe that’s why it lasted so long before either of you admitted there was something else simmering beneath the surface. Friends didn’t owe each other explanations. Friends didn’t have to arrange candlelit dinners or schedule around jet lag and crime scenes.

But love—love was more complicated. Love came with the hope of having someone there, and the quiet ache when they weren’t.

You knew what you were signing up for. You knew Spencer Reid was brilliant and kind and unlike anyone else you’d ever met. You also knew that the BAU didn’t exactly take holidays, not for anniversaries, not for birthdays, not even for Christmas. Still, you thought maybe—with enough time and care—you’d learn to live in the space between his absences.

You hadn’t seen him in three weeks. So when Spencer called to say he was back in D.C. and wanted to finally go on a proper date—just the two of you, no profile reports, no phone calls, no interruptions—you’d said yes without hesitating. You dressed up. Chose a restaurant with dim lighting and a soft jazz quartet in the corner. You smiled into your wine glass when he said you looked beautiful and teased him gently for overanalyzing the appetizer menu.

And then his phone rang. Not just a text. A call.

You saw it in his eyes before he even looked at the screen—the shift from soft to sharp. From yours to theirs.

“I’m so sorry, love,” he whispered, already pulling his wallet out, fumbling through apologies as he stood. “They need me to give an emergency lecture—someone dropped out, and it’s really time-sensitive—”

You nodded, of course. What else could you do? You kissed his cheek, wished him luck, and watched him walk out the door.

You didn’t cry, but you didn’t finish your meal either.

The second time, a week later, was supposed to be the redo. He made the reservation himself this time, texted you little updates throughout the day about how excited he was. It was raining when you met him, your umbrella half-broken and your coat damp from the metro. Still, he looked at you like you were a work of art. And for an hour, it really felt like you were getting your shot. You were halfway through telling him about a new project at work when his phone buzzed on the table.

You saw it again. That same shift. A case. Emergency flight.

He looked wrecked about it, eyes flicking over your face like he already knew he was letting you down. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I swear I didn’t know—if I don’t go—”

You stopped him before he spiraled. Smiled tightly. “It’s okay. I get it.”

But this time, you didn’t wait until the server returned. You gathered your bag, kissed him on the cheek like you were still okay, and left before the hollow feeling in your chest could settle in too deep.

Over the next week, you let the space grow.

You didn’t call as often. Left his texts on read longer than usual. When he tried to video call, you said you were busy. You didn’t bring up another date. You weren’t angry—just tired. Tired of trying to schedule time with someone whose life could be pulled away from you with one phone call. Tired of trying not to make him feel bad for something he couldn’t control. So you made it easier for both of you by stepping back.

Spencer noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed the shift in your voice over text—shorter replies, longer delays. The way you didn’t ask when he was coming back this time. The way your usual “goodnight” didn’t come with a heart emoji, or anything at all. It wasn’t dramatic, not even really pointed. But it was enough. It was enough to make him sit alone in his hotel room three nights into the case, phone resting in his palm, thumb hovering over your contact while he stared at the blinking cursor in the message box, unsure what to type. He’d rewritten the same sentence five different ways before giving up and pressing “call.”

He never liked making phone calls—never liked the way his voice could sound too eager or too nervous when it wasn’t in person. But silence? That was worse.

It rang twice before you picked up.

“Hey,” You sounded small. Tired in a way that didn’t come from sleep.

“Hi, love,” he breathed, sinking back against the headboard. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you said. Your voice was quiet — quieter than usual. And cracked just barely at the end, like it had been recently worn thin. From crying, probably. He could tell. Spencer could always tell.

Still, he didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “I saw something today. In the bookstore near the precinct.”

You didn’t respond right away, but he waited. Eventually, your voice came, softer now. “What did you see?”

“They had a copy of The Little Prince. Original French edition.” His voice warmed a little. “It was worn, kind of falling apart. It reminded me of the copy on your shelf.”

That made you smile, just barely. He heard it. Or maybe imagined it. Either way, he kept going.

“I thought about buying it for you. But I wasn’t sure if it’d survive the flight.”

You didn’t answer for a second. Then, softly: “It’s the thought that counts.”

And there it was again — that sadness, thick between the syllables. He could feel it, even through the phone. The weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The heaviness in your throat that didn’t need a name. But he didn’t push. That wasn’t what you needed right now. You didn’t want to talk about why you hadn’t reached out, or how this second failed date in a row had taken the wind out of your hope.

So he told you about a bakery next to the station that made bread shaped like hedgehogs. About the cab driver who insisted on giving him a playlist of 80s jazz fusion. About how the team was tired, but safe, and how JJ had threatened to confiscate his sixth cup of coffee.

He talked gently, letting his voice fill the silence so you didn’t have to.

You didn’t say much. Just murmured in agreement here and there. But Spencer knew you were listening. And you knew that he was choosing every word with care — not to avoid the topic, but to love you without asking anything in return.

Eventually, you said, “I missed your voice.”

Spencer smiled into the receiver. “I missed yours too. A lot.”

Another pause. One of those full ones.

“I think I just need a little time,” you said finally. “Not away. Just… quiet.”

“I get it,” he said. And he did. He always did.

You both fell silent again. Not the heavy kind — this one was soft. Laced with understanding.

Before you hung up, he said, “That book in the window… I’ll see if I can get it shipped. I think it’d be nice on your shelf.”

And you whispered, “Thank you,” like it meant more than he’d ever know.

He didn’t need you to say more. He already knew.

When you turned the key in the lock and tiredly kicked the door of your apartment open, you didn’t expect him to come back early. You didn’t expect to walk into your apartment and find the lights dimmed low, the smell of your favorite takeout wafting from the coffee table, and Spencer sitting on your couch surrounded by a small army of snacks, two soft blankets, and three carefully stacked DVD options: The Princess Bride, Arrival, and Dead Poets Society.

When he heard your keys jingle, he rushed from the couch to wrap his arms around you tightly — warm, steady, and there.

“Surprise,” he whispered into your ear, his voice soft enough to make your knees tremble a little. He held you for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you wouldn’t vanish.

You blinked, caught between a breathless laugh and a lump in your throat. “What… is all this?”

Spencer pulled back only enough to look at you, hands still resting gently on your arms. “I figured if restaurants are cursed, maybe the third time’s the charm.” He smiled, a little sheepishly. “I wanted to make it up to you. I know I haven’t been here… really been here, and I hate that. I hate letting you down.”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come. Your chest ached with too many emotions trying to surface at once. He reached behind the couch and retrieved a small paper bag. Inside were two of your favorite chocolate bars and a tiny potted plant — slightly crooked, clearly picked out with care. A label stuck out from the soil, handwritten and slanted “Date Night Survivor #3.”

Your throat clenched.

“I know it’s not exactly candlelight and violins,” he added, voice lower now. “But it’s what I’ve got. And I did it because… you deserve someone who shows up. And I want to be that person. Even if I have to keep trying until I get it right.”

Tears rolled down your cheeks before you could stop them — quiet, unannounced, like your body had decided it was safe now to finally let go. Spencer noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flicked briefly to the glint of moisture on your skin, but he didn’t say a word. He just reached for your hand and pulled you in again, gently, resting his forehead against yours.

“Come sit,” he whispered, like you were something precious, breakable, and not already breaking. “Food’s still warm.”

And just like that, the ache inside you softened. It didn’t vanish, but it eased. Because he was here. Because he tried. Because this — all of this — meant something.

It felt like breathing again. Like maybe love wasn’t about perfect plans or unbroken promises—but about choosing each other, over and over again, even when the world gets in the way.

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[huntingcupid]

BABAERO WITH LARA RAJ

dapat mo nang malaman na wala lang ang mga sinasabi ng makakating labi at bababaero pangalan ko sa kwento nilang walang pruweba puro lamang imbento oh bababaero bababaero bababaero daw ako

⌗ LARA — fem!reader, smut, fluff, milf!reader, oral, dom-sub dynamics, degrading, swearing, teasing, mommy kink, g!p lara, blowjobs, nipple play, etc...

⌗ CUPID — sorry no updates for like 3 days now, happy 300 followers!! :^)

being a single mom with no support is hard, definitely — you'd have to juggle taking care of your toddler whilst trying to finish shifts in your work, often times you'll bring your kid to work but you know how annoying it must be for your co-workers — so you searched endlessly online even asking other parents where they find babysitters

you didn't have much money, and the father of your kid didn't pay any child support which made making ends meets merely impossible, so life has been hell lately — the extra 100$ in your bank you used to find babysitters

here you are 2am still awake sipping on coffee that had long gone cold, working on a document due the next morning, you massage your temples trying to stay positive — you then come across a post on facebook

“babysitting only for 20$ an hour” it read — you immediately clicked on the link, sending you to an private message with a girl named lara raj, she seemed extremely young, almost like a college student, yet you shrugged and sent a text, eager to find someone to help you

[you]: hello, are you available for the following days, and what are your rates/rules.

the girl takes 30 minutes before responding, you didn't take it as weird since it is late — your phone then rings with a notification she had responded

[lararajj]: oh hi!, i am available, my rate is 20 - 25$ a hour depending on the kids age and conditions

[you]: great, my kid is very nice and obedient, he's only 3 years old, and he's starting to read and write

[lararajj] that seems good, ill see you in that day, just send me the address ^^

[you]: xxx.ave lot, 000 — thank you so much sweetheart

you smile to yourself, sighing out of relief — finally you'll have time to take an extra shift which will give you extra money, maybe you'd be able to buy the ipad your kid has been raving about

you finish typing on your laptop, and decide to start your day since it is almost 4am — you clean up and ironed your uniform hanging it neatly near your bed

you sit next to your kid, wiping away his sweat since you didn't have air-conditioning in the room, you teared up a bit feeling sorry for your son, before standing up and taking a shower

after the shower you get into uniform, the clock struck 7am and you woke up your son, feeding him some muffins you had bought last night — you got him ready and told him about lara, “you'll behave for her cause mommy would be gone for work, be a good boy okay?” your son nodded smiling at you, you melt feeling so proud of how much he has grown, how it felt like yesterday he couldn't even walk, “I'll be good mom!” he giggles

you wait about 30 minutes and hear the doorbell ring, a woman's voice at the other side of the door — you unlock the door as your son hid behind you, you held his hand tightly squeezing

“hello darling, lara right?” you confirm shaking the younger woman's hand, she smiles and flashes you her pearly whites, at that moment you felt a familiar heat in your tummy that you chose to ignore, “yes ma'am, your beautiful by the way” lara compliments as she enters the home

she settles on your sofa, waving at your son, he softly waved back earning him a smile from the woman, “lara I'm terribly sorry my house is quite the mess, but here's your first 20, ill be back by 9pm maybe, his bedtime is 7pm and everything you'll need is in the fridge, call me if you need anything” you explain the younger girl nods

lara couldn't focus at all, she was busy practically eye fucking you, her eyes trained on where your blouse was unbuttoned, showing your cleavage off — the girl had to just smile and nod

“your such an angel lara, thank you so much” you smiled softly, hugging the girl — “welcome, see you later then?” she asks you nod in response

your son runs up to you hugging you tightly as he says his goodbyes, “bye mommy” he pouts, “bye, behave okay?” your son nods before you leave the house, you sat on the driver's seat of your car, sighing contently

you drove to work, happy that you can focus and get extra pay, the radio played some pretty good songs, that made your mood better

work was a whole other story, tiring was an understatement, your jerk of a boss gave you so much work, well his work, you'd silently roll your eyes muttering a few cuss words — your fingers got tired from typing thousands of words, rather you decided to push through knowing your little boy was waiting for you

you often checked your phone, to see if lara maybe texted or called you, surprisingly nothing, but she sent a picture, one of your son laying in your bed, yet what you saw was lara's reflection in the mirror beside your bed, she really is a beautiful girl, you place your phone down focusing yet again on the work you still had to finish

hours ticked by painfully slow, you practically slouched over your laptop, well until it hit 9pm, the office was empty at this point, only your boss and another worker was in the building

you sign out, then headed for your car, driving silently, you hum as you wait in traffic, seeing a big red bee in the distance, jollibee, you thought of buying some food for both lara and your son — you pull up at the drive through ordering a chicken bucket and some adobo rice

after you drove home, you pull at the driveway, parking, you took your bags and the food inside – knocking lara opens the door, her attire changed or maybe she removed her jacket, she's now only wearing a tank top and her sweats — you search behind her but didn't see your kid

“oh he's asleep, i bought some ice cream earlier since he begged me” lara chuckles softly, you crack a smile sitting on the sofa, lara sits next to you getting the bag of food and placing it on the table

the house was practically shining with how clean it is, “thank you so much darling, this is too much” you frown slightly, the girl only gets closer to you till your thighs were touching, “i know it's hard raising kids by yourselves, it's the least i can do miss” lara says — “call me y/n, sweetheart” you replied taking her hand in yours squeezing it tightly

lara had a thing whenever you called her any name at all, gosh she couldn't even hide the tent in her pants, “i have to go to the restroom though” lara hastily says running to the cr, you were confused but just hummed

in the restroom lara pulled down her sweats, stroking her length — she whimpered, her tip red from how sensitive she was, “m-mommy” she whimpers imagining you helping her, imagining your breast wrapped around her dick

you hear the whimpers and rush to the restroom, concerned with the younger girl, “lara, darling are you okay there?” you asked knocking on the door, despite you asking at least 8 times she didn't respond, you grew more concerned, “lara I'm coming in okay?” you say

you open the door only to be met with lara, her sweats and boxers down, her hands pumping her cock, as she moaned your name, the girls face is flushed — lips quivering

“I'm sorry” she mutters yet her hands never stopped, you didn't know how to feel, rather you felt the need to help the girl out, it's your fault why she's needy now

“shh, come on lara” you whisper, removing her hands from her own rod, you get on your knees closing the door behind you two, you kiss the tip marveling at how big it is, “mommy” lara whines, pushing your head down, you choke around her length

saliva dropping from your mouth like a waterfall, she pushed your head deeper, hitting the back of your throat — your eyes roll back, gosh she tasted amazing, salty and tangy like, “you like that?, being a whore for my cock?” lara condescendingly teased, you whimper yet felt how wet it got you

each word that slipped out of her mouth felt like a spell, making you needier by the second, “fuck, I'm close — mommy please” lara pleads, you suck harder, licking her tip before you felt a gush of warm sticky fluid flooding your throat and mouth, “swallow, don't fucking spit bitch” — you obeyed like clockwork

lara pulls out of your mouth, her hands on your jaw, making you look up at her, she smirked enjoying how wrecked you looked, “mommy, you look amazing” she muses tracing over your lips slick with her release, she leads you both out to the sofa area, laying you down on the sofa as she removes your blouse

“shit these look perfect” she says staring shamelessly at your tits, her other hand massaging it as she removes your pants next, you were wet, it bled through your pants even showing a small patch of wetness, “you're so wet mommy” lara teased tracing over your lacy undergarment, “please lara” you begged

she smiles sweetly, finally removing yours underwear, her finger collecting the slick of your folds, circling your clit — you moan quietly biting your tongue, she pushes her dick in, making you whine as you felt her touch your womb, its been oh too long since you last had sex and this just felt amazing

“baby, please” you plead, lara smirks speeding up her thrusts, her grip tight on your hips, your breast bounced as she roughly thrusts in you — “fuck your cunt is so warm, mommy” lara grunts, her hands flew to your nipples twisting and tugging at them

lara could barely take it anymore, it felt like at any moment she would explode in you, “you like that huh? — fuck, you should be ashamed fucking your sons babysitter” lara husks as she pounded into you with reckless abandon — each hit she kept getting you closer and closer

“n-need to pull out” lara mutters not wanting to cum in you without permission, “no baby, please don't” you beg, lara's eyes lit up going rougher, leaving crescent moon shape on your hips due to her nails

a second later you felt her warm cum flood your senses, painting your insides white, with the sticky fluid — “mommy fuck!” she groaned, after a while she pulls out leaving you breathless and aching for her length

lara gave you a glass of water and helped you get dressed before she picked up her things ready to leave, “wait, darling — I haven't paid you yet” you rush next to her handing a pile of crippled 10s and 1 dollars

“don't need that, you already paid me enough tonight” lara chuckles, grasping your hands warming them before she left — you open your hands seeing 200$ in them sneaked by the younger girl, you smile

you knew she was gonna babysit for about three more days, and you'll get to pay her in more ways than money ;)

wc: 1.8k words

[jacksabbotts]

spencer reid x fem!bsf!reader tw .' language, gideon death mention, slight subjectiveness ( bc I can't help myself apparently, but overall wholesome ) an .' to the lovely anon who requested spencer sfw alphabet, thank you for requesting 🫶 you are my first request some of these take place pre relationship and post. i couldn't decide on a concrete timeline.

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers | join the taglist | requested!!!

a is for affection

spencer isn’t touchy with just anyone.

but you’re not just anyone.

he’s awkward about it at first—stiff hugs, nervous pats on the back, hands hovering midair like he’s unsure where to land them. but you never rush him. you never tease when he freezes, never flinch when he startles at your warmth. you just… let him figure it out.

and he does figure it out.

because you keep showing up.

every time you loop your arm through his, every time you knock your knee into his under the table, every time you cup his face between your palms and squish his cheeks while calling him my favorite boy, he softens a little more.

and now? affection from spencer reid is something sacred. something rare. something real.

he doesn’t always say what he feels—but he shows it. in little things.

like bringing you coffee just the way you like it. or resting his chin on your shoulder while you work late at your desk. or smoothing your hair back when you’re stressed and whispering, 'you’re doing so good,' because he knows it’s what you need to hear—even if your throat closes up and you pretend not to cry.

he doesn’t initiate pda in front of the team often, but he lets you do it. he lets you lean your head on his shoulder during briefings. lets you hold onto his arm when you’re cold. lets your hand find his under the table and stays like that—intertwined, steady, quiet.

the affection grows with every shared look, every inside joke, every soft laugh no one else understands. eventually, it becomes second nature. not a question of if he wants your touch, but when.

and when it’s just the two of you, when the lights are low and the case files are closed?

spencer becomes even softer.

his fingers trace slow circles on your arm. he lets you curl into his lap. he kisses your hair like he was born to, murmurs facts and comfort into your ear just to keep you close, just to feel you breathe.

he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

because deep down, spencer reid has always craved connection. and you made it safe to reach for it. you taught him affection isn’t weakness.

it’s the strongest thing he’s ever known.

b is for best friend

you’ve been his best friend longer than you’ve been anything else.

long before the tension, the teasing, the moments you both try not to replay at night—you were just his person. the one who knew how to ground him without using words. the one who never rolled your eyes when he launched into a ten-minute ramble about string theory or the mating rituals of sea slugs.

you always listened.

and spencer? spencer never forgot that.

you’re the person he texts first—about good days, bad days, weird dreams, book recommendations. you know the exact number of sugars he takes in his coffee and how he flinches when the microwave beeps too loudly. you keep extra hand sanitizer for him in your bag. you always carry his favorite pens.

and he… he always carries your lip balm. won’t even admit when he’s using it. just silently pops the cap, uses it, then tucks it back in his satchel like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

you bicker sometimes. he’s stubborn, and you’re worse. but even your arguments are intimate. soft. like a storm between two people who know they’ll always come back to each other. and you do—always.

he lets you see parts of him no one else sees.

the panic. the guilt. the grief. he tells you about the nightmares, the pressure, the fear of losing control. and you hold it all like it’s precious, not too heavy, not too much.

he tells you you’re his best friend. still. even when the looks linger too long, when your thigh brushes his beneath the table and neither of you move. even when he catches himself staring at your mouth during stakeouts. even when he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from calling you mine out loud. even when the two are way past friendship.

because you are his best friend.

the kind of best friend who stays.

c is for cuddles

spencer reid doesn’t cuddle.

not in the way people expect, at least.

he’s all long limbs and awkward hesitancy, all logic and overthinking. he overanalyzes body temperature and sleep cycles and whether he’s holding you too tightly or not enough. he’ll lie there for ten minutes just debating the appropriate number of fingers to rest on your waist.

but you cracked that code long ago. you never ask. you just curl into him without warning, usually during a movie or a stakeout or a particularly exhausting plane ride. and every time, he stiffens for a second—just a second—before he melts like a candle, quiet and slow, into you.

he’s a terrible big spoon. his knees hang off the edge of the bed and he apologizes at least three times before settling. but when you’re the one behind him—arms locked around his waist, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades—he sleeps deeper than he has in years.

in public, cuddling becomes something smaller, something quieter.

your thigh against his in the bullpen. your head on his shoulder in the jet. his pinky hooking yours during late-night coffee runs. no one notices. but he does. god, he does.

your favorite way to cuddle him, though? on the couch. his head in your lap. your fingers in his hair.

he never says it, but you know it’s his favorite too. you can feel it in the way he hums, soft and low, when you comb through his curls. you can see it in the way his eyes flutter closed like he’s safe for once—like he doesn’t have to run equations or calculate risk or be anyone other than yours.

spencer reid doesn’t cuddle, its a germ thing. except when it comes to you.

and he never wants to stop.

d is for domestic moments

if anyone ever asked spencer what he pictured when he thought of the word home, he’d say your name.

it’s not just the place, or the smell of your lemon-and-lavender dish soap, or the fact that your cabinets are alphabetized because he helped you do it one slow sunday afternoon. it’s the sound of your voice calling him from another room. the clink of your mug beside his in the dish rack. the faint scent of your shampoo on his hoodie that you stole and never gave back.

its the little things.

you brush your teeth together, shoulder to shoulder at your tiny bathroom sink. you argue about laundry temperatures and laugh when he folds your shirts like file folders, citing optimal drawer space. he teases you for how you butter toast. you tease him for how he eats cereal dry. you leave little post-it notes on his bookshelves: drink water, stretch your legs, i’m proud of you.

he saves every one.

domestic life with you doesn’t look like anyone else’s. it’s not perfect. sometimes dinner burns. sometimes the sink leaks. sometimes you fall asleep on the couch and drool on his lap. but it’s real. it’s warm. it’s quiet and silly and safe.

and to spencer, who grew up in sterile rooms and too many books and not enough love, that is revolutionary.

you are the routine he never knew he needed.

the grocery list on the fridge. the sound of your humming in the shower. the way you hand him your keys without asking when he stays over. the way he makes the bed in the morning before you even wake up.

you call it domestic.

he calls it heaven.

e is for excitement

spencer doesn’t get excited like most people do.

he doesn’t jump up and down or shout from the rooftops. his excitement is quieter, tucked into the soft edges of his smile and the breathless way he talks when something lights him up.

however you bring out a different kind of excitement in him.

you make him laugh mid-sentence. you make him look forward to things—something he never really did before. trivia nights at the bar ( and the two of you always obviously ). a new coffee shop opening. a spontaneous road trip just because you read about a haunted bookstore two towns over.

it’s not just adrenaline, either. it’s anticipation.

excitement, to spencer, is your knuckles brushing his on the walk to the farmer’s market. it’s you dragging him to the front row of a concert he didn’t even want to go to—until he saw your face in the glow of the stage lights.

it’s the way you squeal when he brings you your favorite candy. the way you clap when the takeout arrives. the way you beam when he finishes a ramble and you actually listened to all of it.

your excitement is contagious, and his is nothing but devoted. yours is loud. his is loyal. and when you're excited about something, he's excited about it—purely because you are.

so when you ask if he wants to come with you—to the movie, to the bookstore, to your cousin’s wedding out of town—he doesn’t hesitate.

'yes,' he says.

because with you, even something painfully ordinary feels like an adventure.

f is for flirting

you flirt with spencer like it’s a game—like it’s breathing.

light, teasing touches to his arm when you pass him coffee. a smirk when you catch him staring at your mouth instead of listening to your facts. a playful, 'careful, spence. say one more sweet thing and i might fall in love with you.'

oh, it wrecks him.

because he doesn’t know how to flirt back. not really. not in the traditional sense. and definitely not on the same level you do so effortlessly. he fumbles. he blushes. he babbles about pheromones or victorian courtship rituals. sometimes he stares at you like you’ve short-circuited his brain.

but oh, when he does flirt back?

it’s fucking lethal.

he leans in close, voice low, eyes dark. says things like, 'do you always get this close to your friends?'

it stuns you every time. throws you off your rhythm. and he knows it.

because spencer may not flirt like you do—but he studies you. he waits, he learns, finds your weak spots and then he strikes when you least expect it.

it’s a dangerous little dance—the teasing, the tension, the way neither of you quite crosses the line.

g is for gratitude

he shows his gratitude in quiet, precise ways. he’s not great with grand declarations, and he doesn’t always know what to say in the moment—so instead, he does things.

when you bring him coffee without asking? he refills your gas tank the next time you drive ( even though it one of the things he loathe the most, more than the task of driving itself ).

when you stay up late helping him organize his case files? he shows up at your door the next morning with your favorite pastry from that bakery two neighborhoods away just because he knows that it is your favorite.

when you talk him down from a panic spiral after a rough case? he leaves sticky notes all over your apartment—on your mirror, your fridge, your laptop—each one scribbled with a fact about how wonderful he thinks you are.

he doesn’t always say thank you, not in the conventional way. but you learn to read his version of it. the little offerings, the long looks, the way his hand always lingers just a little longer when he passes you something. the way his voice goes soft when he says your name.

and when you do call him out on it—when you tease, 'you never say thank you, you know that?'—he’ll look at you, a little sheepish, a little shy.

then while he knows your not serious, he'll get the uncontrollable urge to thank you in words he's yet to find. he’ll murmur, 'you’re right. i’m sorry. thank you… for everything.'

and he’ll say it like he means it. because he does. so much more than he can ever quite put into words.

h is for hugs

spencer isn’t much of a hugger ( just like the cuddling, its a germ thing )—at least not at first.

it’s not that he dislikes touch. he just… doesn’t always know what to do with it, especially when it's you. because he doesn't want to do anything to make you uncomfortable. he doesn't know where to put his arms, how long is too long, if he’s holding too tightly, if you can feel how fast his heart is racing.

you, on the other hand, hugged him like it was the most natural thing in the world. like he wasn’t awkward or fragile or some too-smart alien with a trauma record longer than his resume. you hugged him like you meant it. like he was human. like he was yours.

the first time it happened, he stood stiff and overwhelmed, arms hovering in the air like they were waiting for instruction. but you didn’t let go—not until he finally gave in and hugged you back.

now he craves it. practically needs it.

long, sleepy hugs in hotel hallways after a tough case. silent, tight ones when he doesn’t have the words. arms around your waist in your kitchen when you're making tea. a sleepy squeeze before falling asleep beside you—platonic, he says… but his hold always lingers.

he doesn’t say it, but you know: your hugs feel like home. and he’s never had one of those before.

I is for intimacy

intimacy with spencer reid isn’t loud. it’s not flashy or fast or careless. it’s quiet, careful, and most of all, earned.

it’s the way he refills your coffee the exact way you like it before you’ve even asked. the way he walks on the street side of the sidewalk without thinking. the way he lends you books and leaves little notes in the margins—not just quotes, but thoughts. Inside jokes. a silent kind of love letter.

it’s knowing which of his cardigans you like best and not caring when you end up borrowing it for weeks. it’s how he doesn’t flinch when you touch him anymore.

it’s letting you see him cry when gideon disappears and when the weight gets too heavy. it’s forehead presses in crowded places. fingers brushing yours under briefing tables. a single look across the plane aisle that says more than a conversation ever could.

with Spencer, intimacy is dangerous. because it’s addictive. and you both know, once that line is crossed, there’s no going back.

j is for jealousy

spencer is not a jealous man. ( at least, that’s what he tells himself. )

he’s logical, rational. he'd go as far as to claim his evolved.

except, he nearly chokes on his coffee when he sees you laughing at someone else's joke. except his jaw clenches when some local deputy leans just a little too close during a case consult. except, he absolutely does not hear a word morgan says when you giggle and touch the arm of that bartender.

you’re not his. you’re his best friend.

and that’s the problem, isn’t it?

because best friends don’t fantasize about pinning you against his bookcases. best friends don’t memorize the exact shade of your lip gloss or notice when someone else smudges it.

best friends don’t feel sick when you say you have a date and try to act like it doesn’t matter. he is not a jealous man.

but the second someone else makes you smile in that particular way? the second you lean in, all warm and pretty and completely unaware of the effect you have?

spencer Reid suddenly, acutely, violently wants to rewrite the definition of 'best friend.'

k is for kisses

you kiss him first.

it happens on his couch, buried in quiet. the soft flicker of a half-watched documentary plays on, ignored. the two of you are curled close, your body angled toward his, your legs slotted between his knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you’re wearing his hoodie—sleeves bunched in your fists, hem brushing your bare thighs—and he smells like coffee and paperback pages.

you shift slightly, your temple resting against his shoulder. his fingers are tracing circles on your knee without realizing. and when you lift your head to look at him, something shifts in the air—subtle, but certain.

your gaze drops to his mouth.

and you kiss him. just like that.

gently. thoughtfully. like testing the water with your toes before diving in. his lips are soft—slightly parted from surprise, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and the back of his throat. you feel it—the way he freezes for half a second, like he’s afraid to move and wake up from a dream. but his hand on your leg doesn’t tighten. doesn’t flinch. just rests there, warm and steady.

the kiss lingers. then fades.

and when you pull back, his eyes are still closed.

he stays like that for a moment—eyes shut, breath shallow—as if memorizing it, etching it into the quietest corners of his mind.

then, slowly, he opens them.

and looks at you like he’s been holding his breath for years.

no words are exchanged. they’re not needed.

your fingers find his, lacing together.

and the next time you kiss—this time slower, deeper, more certain—he kisses you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do.

l is for love language

spencer shows love like he breathes—softly, instinctively, almost without realizing.

his love language isn’t grand gestures or flashy declarations. it’s quieter than that. it’s the second mug of tea he makes without asking, already prepared exactly how you like it. it’s the way he always walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic. it’s the stack of books on your nightstand, handpicked and annotated, because he thought you’d like the prose in chapter seven.

it’s the way he remembers.

he remembers everything. the exact ratio of syrup you like in your coffee. the way your shoulders curl when you’re cold, even if you insist you’re not. the fact that certain songs make you cry, and which ones to play when you’re sad but want to feel held.

he’s not particularly good at saying the words—at least not at first. But his actions are a language of their own.

and when he does say it? it’s in the softest voice you’ve ever heard.

he says i love you like it’s a secret.

one meant only for you.

m is for mornings

he doesn’t like mornings. not in the way most people do, with coffee and sunlight and birdsong. he doesn’t rise early because he wants to — he rises because he has to. his brain refuses to rest for long. he’s been waking up before dawn since he was twelve. sometimes from nightmares. sometimes from panic. sometimes from sheer inertia.

now, there’s you and mornings have become something else entirely. they start slow and somewhat soft.tTame in a way spencer never knew he craved.

he always wakes first. his body trained to open his eyes just as the faintest sliver of light slips past the curtain seam. but he doesn’t move at first.

he looks at you. every time, without fail.

sometimes your face is smooshed awkwardly into your pillow, mouth parted, a little crease between your brows like you’re solving a puzzle in your dreams.

sometimes your arm is draped haphazardly across his chest like a seatbelt.

sometimes your hand has wormed beneath the hem of his shirt in your sleep — splayed warm across the skin of his stomach in a way that would drive him insane if he weren’t so thoroughly overwhelmed with affection.

sometimes you tangle around him like a vine.

sometimes you’re all the way across the bed, curled up with your back to him, and he has to fight the urge to pull you back with an arm around your waist and an anchor in his heart.

but the best mornings — the ones he wants to trap in amber and tuck into the pages of a book — are the ones where you cling to him like you were born in his arms. your face nestled into the crook of his neck. one leg slung high over his hip. a sleepy sigh escaping your lips as you press closer, even in unconsciousness.

it makes him positively melt.

he lies there, stiff and reverent, heart threatening to beat through his ribcage. he inhales the scent of your shampoo and lets himself fall into the quiet warmth of you. he doesn’t dare move.

because for once, his brain isn’t racing.

it isn’t listing prime numbers or translating ancient greek or replaying the screams of the case before. it isn’t reminding him of every way he’s failed or every way he could.

it’s just… quiet.

it’s just you.

and he’s selfish about it. he hoards the moment. he wraps his arms around you and buries his nose into your hair and pretends like he has every right in the world to be here. pretends you’re his in the daylight too, not just in these quiet, borrowed mornings before the world wakes up.

he doesn’t rush to get up anymore, not when you’re wrapped around him like this. not when you sigh his name in your sleep, soft and sweet and barely audible — like it’s instinct.

not when the first thing he sees every morning is your face.

if he had his way, he thinks, he’d never wake up alone again.

n is of nicknames

you give him so many.

it starts small. mostly innocent. a playful spence here, a sarcastic dr. reid there, said with a grin as you steal his coffee or beat him at chess. you try pretty boy once, just to see what happens — morgan nearly chokes on his water, and spencer turns red all the way down his neck.

you keep it in your pocket for emergencies.

but as your friendship deepens — as something warmer and softer grows in the space between you — your nicknames shift.

sometimes it’s doc, said teasingly when he gets too in his head, or spencey, which he pretends to hate but never corrects, especially not when it's coming from your lips.

other times it’s gentler. intimate. you say hey, genius when you hand him his lunch, or my favorite nerd when he walks in late with six books under his arm. on your sleepiest mornings, it’s just a mumbled baby against his shoulder — and that is the one that wrecks him.

he doesn’t say much in return at first. he’s too careful, too quiet, too worried he’ll misstep and make you uncomfortable. but over time — little by little — he gathers his courage.

he calls you trouble when you tease him. sweetheart when he’s tired and lets his guard down. sunshine when you’re bundled in his bed on a gray morning and he can’t believe he gets to hold you like this.

but your favorite?

your favorite is when he says your name.

not a nickname. not shortened or altered. just your name — reverent, quiet, and full of every unspoken thing he’s too shy to say.

because somehow, when spencer says your name, it sounds like poetry. like worship. like the most important word he’s ever learned.

o is for on cloud nine

he doesn’t do giddy.

he’s too anxious, too self-contained, too prone to overthinking. joy for him is usually quiet—an upward curve of the lips, a soft exhale through the nose, the crease between his brows finally smoothing out for a moment.

but you change that.

you make him giddy.

the first time you kiss his cheek absentmindedly during a case debriefing? he smiles all day. the team notices. morgan jokes that someone must've gotten laid. spencer turns red and insists that’s not what happened ( even though the idea alone makes him dizzy ).

when you curl up next to him on the couch with a book, resting your head on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he physically melts. you don’t see it, but he closes his eyes and lets his cheek brush the crown of your head. he doesn’t even need to read. you are the moment.

he has entire thought spirals about how lucky he is to know you, let alone love you. and when you actually tell him you love him?

he has to sit down.

literally.

on the floor.

because his knees give out.

spencer reid doesn’t always know how to express the way you make him feel — but you can always tell.

it’s in the way he glances at you like he’s making sure you’re still real. in the little, breathless huffs of laughter when you say something ridiculous. in the way he looks at your hand before taking it, like he can’t believe it’s allowed.

you are his favorite surprise. his softest place to land. and when he’s with you, he’s never once wondered what it feels like to float.

p is for physical touch

spencer used to flinch at casual contact. he wasn’t a hugger. didn’t lean in close. didn’t drape his arm around the back of the couch or press his knee to yours under the table.

you snuck in under his defenses, slow and natural. the first time you looped your arm through his on a walk, he thought his nervous system was short-circuiting. but you didn’t even notice. you just pointed out some flowers blooming by the sidewalk like you hadn’t just turned his world inside out.

now, he craves your touch the same way he craves quiet or books or the smell of old paper.

your fingers brushing his sleeve. your knees tucked under his thighs when you share a too-small couch. the way you smooth his collar when he’s fidgeting before a presentation.

and when he’s overwhelmed—head spinning, chest tight, spiraling—he always finds his way back to you. you hold his hand like it’s an anchor. you rub small circles between his shoulder blades when he forgets how to breathe.

he never asks. you just know.

and if you do ask—'spence, do you need a hug?'—he’ll nod, and bury his face in your shoulder like he’s trying to hide inside you.

because in a way, he kind of is.

when you fall asleep on his shoulder during a movie, or grab his hand without looking during a busy crosswalk—he doesn’t flinch anymore.

he leans in.

q is for quirks

he notices every single one of yours.

the way you tap your fingers on your coffee cup when you're thinking. how your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh. the very specific way you fold your notes into little squares—color-coded corners, even if you swear you're not that organized.

spencer catalogues these details like they’re rare scientific data. not because he means to, but because he can’t help it. you fascinate him.

and when you make fun of his quirks—his never-ending facts, his tendency to gesture with a pen when he's lecturing, the way he counts things under his breath when he's stressed—it doesn't feel mean.

tt feels like home.

you’re the only person who can call him a walking encyclopedia and make it sound like a love poem.

sometimes you gently steal his mismatched socks, or purposefully mispronounce latin phrases just to see the way he corrects you without even looking up from his book.

you balance him. you unravel him a little.

if quirks are supposed to be strange or off-putting, then maybe you're both just a little strange. but that’s what makes it work. that’s what makes it wholly yours.

r is for rage

spencer doesn’t get angry easily. he gets frustrated, sure. he gets flustered. he gets overwhelmed and overstimulated and pushed to the brink. but rage? that’s rare. which is exactly why it’s so terrifying when it does show.

it takes a very specific kind of trigger: cruelty, injustice, manipulation. someone being deliberately unkind to someone more vulnerable than them—especially if that person is you.

you’ve only seen him truly, truly angry once.

you had brushed it off when someone said something awful to you in passing—some snide little comment about your intelligence, your worth, your relationship with spencer. but spencer had heard it. and something in him snapped.

he didn’t yell. he didn’t fight. he didn’t lose control. what he did was worse.

he went cold.

his voice dropped to this impossibly calm register. his posture stiffened. he didn’t blink, didn’t look away. he stared through the person like he was calculating every way to dismantle them—verbally, psychologically, existentially. like he could undo them with a few carefully chosen words.

you had to put your hand on his arm to bring him back. he’d blinked like he hadn’t realized how far he’d gone.

when spencer’s angry, he bottles it up. he intellectualizes it. he redirects it toward a puzzle, a lecture, a book with margins filled in red ink. but when that bottle shatters?

he doesn't raise his voice. he raises hell.

and if you’re the one being hurt?

he will never, ever let it go.

s is for secrets

spencer is a vault. a walking, talking, tragically earnest vault.

your secrets are kept in the deepest recesses of his mind—protected by eidetic memory and the kind of unshakable loyalty that borders on devotion. you could tell him something once, years ago, and he’d never bring it up again unless you did. but he’d remember. the exact words. the tone of your voice. the look in your eyes when you said it.

he holds those pieces of you like glass, carefully, reverently and never risking a crack.

but when it comes to his secrets?

that’s whole other story.

spencer is good at compartmentalizing. almost too good. he tells you the truth, sure—but never all of it. not because he wants to lie to you. he just… doesn’t want to burden you. or worse, scare you off.

he won’t tell you how long he stayed awake replaying your words from the jet. he won’t admit that he reread the same sentence in his book twelve times after you leaned over his desk in that stupid bralette. he won’t confess that every time you touch him—his hand, his arm, his shoulder—he feels it all night like a phantom burn under his skin.

the biggest secret he’s keeping?

he’s in love with you.

and he has been. quietly, painfully, and unquestionably.

he’s just scared that if he says it out loud, he won’t be able to unsay it. that if you don’t feel the same way, he’ll lose the one person who makes his world make sense.

so he keeps it buried.

under soft smiles.

under long glances.

under every whispered 'you’re my best friend.'

maybe someday, he’ll be brave enough to let it surface.

t is for texting

he is, predictably, a terrible texter—at least by modern standards.

not because he doesn’t want to talk to you. quite the opposite, actually. it’s just that spencer overthinks everything. a simple 'how are you?' turns into a five-paragraph essay he rewrites three times before giving up and sending, 'hey.'

you usually beat him to the punch anyway.

he replies quickly when it’s work-related. but if you text him something casual like 'miss you,' it’ll take him exactly twenty-three minutes to respond with something impossibly stiff like, 'that’s sweet. i’ve been thinking about you too.'

you once caught him googling 'casual responses to affectionate messages from best friend' and nearly cried laughing.

that being said—spencer does text you. constantly. he just does it in his way.

mid-case, you’ll get things like :

did you know oxytocin is released during prolonged eye contact?

you should drink more water today. you only had one bottle yesterday.

there’s a meteor shower tonight. want to sit on your roof again?

no emojis. no abbreviations. just pure spencer. thoughtful, intuitive, and quietly adoring.

you, of course, obliterate his inbox with chaos. photos, memes, out-of-pocket thirst traps, live updates of your day in ten-second intervals, you fucking name it.

he pretends to be exasperated. he’s not. he saves them all.

sometimes, when he misses you, he scrolls back months just to reread the random thoughts you’ve sent. just to feel close. just to remind himself what it’s like when you’re not there—talking to him like he’s the only one in the world worth texting.

u is for understanding

spencer doesn’t just understand you—he studies you like a science, memorizes you like scripture, holds your emotional tells with the same reverence he gives to the periodic table.

he knows when you're upset even before you do.

a certain hitch in your breath? he clocks it. the way your fingers fidget with the hem of your sleeve? he’s already sitting up straighter beside you. if you’re quiet in a way that isn’t restful, he hears it in the silence.

you don’t have to speak.

you just have to exist, and he reads you like a well-worn paperback.

and more than that, spencer listens. not just with his ears—but with his whole body. his full attention. his kind eyes, his tilted head, the gentle way he says your name when you’re spiraling : 'hey… i’m here.'

he doesn’t jump to fix things unless you ask. doesn’t tell you what to feel. he just gives you a soft place to land.

because that’s what you are for him.

you understand him, too—in a way no one else really has. you don’t get overwhelmed when he info-dumps or loses track of the conversation mid-sentence. you don’t flinch when he stumbles over social cues or blurts something too honest too fast. you know that he’s trying.

you’ve never made him feel like too much.

that’s why it works—why this friendship-turned-something-more feels inevitable.

because spencer doesn’t just understand you.

he accepts you unconditionally.

v is for vacation

vacations with spencer are planned. down to the museum hours, the best walking routes, and which cafés serve the best local pastries ( he probably read twenty reviews, cross-referenced photos, and made a ranked list in his notebook ).

he’s a walking itinerary. but—he only pulls it out if you ask.

because even though he thrives on structure, for you, he’s learned to be flexible. to let things unfold. to enjoy the chaos of wrong turns and missed buses and rainstorms that send you running for cover under a shared awning.

he’ll pick a place based on your offhand comment months ago. 'i’ve always wanted to see the northern lights…' you’ll blink when he surprises you with flight confirmations.

spencer’s ideal trip is somewhere cool and quiet—a cozy cabin with a wood-burning fireplace, a tiny local bookstore, and no cell reception. he’ll sit beside you with a mug of tea and a blanket, reading aloud if you ask. or silently, your knees brushing.

but he’ll do beaches for you. he’ll wear embarrassingly high-spf sunscreen and a button-down in the sand, claiming he’s fine as he squints in the sun and holds your tote bag. he’ll stay until sunset just to see you happy.

and when the sun dips below the horizon and the sky turns gold, he’ll lean over and say quietly, 'you’re my favorite view.'

( which you’ll tease him for. endlessly. but still write down in your notes app to keep forever. )

w is for whining

he claims he doesn’t whine, but you know better.

it’s subtle—softer than a true whine, more like a string of muttered protests delivered in that breathy, under-his-breath tone he thinks you don’t hear.

he whines when he’s tired but refuses to go to bed. when you steal the last slice of pizza without offering to split it. when you take the blanket and wrap yourself in it like a burrito. when he’s the little spoon and you start inching away.

you’ll hear it, all curled up and sulky :

'you said we’d watch the documentary…' 'you didn’t even ask if i wanted the crust…' 'that’s not sharing, that’s theft…'

if you laugh, he only gets poutier.

and yes—he likes when you whine. obviously not in public, not at work, but in private, domestic spaces where you're soft with him.

whining that you’re cold, that your feet hurt, that he hasn’t cuddled you enough today.

he’ll roll his eyes, but he’s already tugging you closer. tucking the blanket around your shoulders. rubbing circles into your calves. sliding a hand over your waist with a quiet : 'better?'

he never admits it, but your whining makes him feel wanted. needed. necessary.

( which he is, but he still likes hearing it. )

x is for x factor

it’s not just his brain. it’s not just the way he knows things, stores them, retrieves them like magic—though yes, that part is hot.

it’s not even the softness he keeps tucked behind a dozen defense mechanisms, or the quiet way he listens when you ramble, or the fact that he always remembers your coffee order, even when you change it six times in a row.

it’s all of that. but more than anything, spencer’s x factor is that he cares.

deeply and unconditionally and when it comes to you, quietly.

he cares when you say you’re fine but clearly aren’t. he notices when you wear the sweatshirt he thought he lost. he pretends not to notice when you cry in the dark and think he’s asleep—just pulls you in closer instead.

he’s emotionally fluent in your every mood. your silence, your sarcasm, your signals. he anticipates your needs before you voice them. knows when to push, when to pull, and when to simply sit with you in the quiet.

and the kicker? he never expects credit.

it’s just… who he is. spencer is himself the x factor. a slow burn, a steady fire, a man who makes falling feel like flying—because you know he’ll catch you. every time.

y is for yearning

spencer doesn’t just miss you. he yearns for you.

there is a difference.

missing someone is a passing ache, an absence in a moment. yearning is persistent. chronic. a dull pulse of longing that lives beneath his skin and lingers in every breath.

when you’re gone—whether it’s a few hours or a few weeks—spencer doesn’t just notice. he feels it. physically.

his brain, so used to buzzing with fact and theory, gets fuzzy at the edges, like he’s operating at 80% capacity, like some vital piece of him clocked out with you and hasn’t returned. he’ll try to ignore it at first and bury himself in pages of a dusty tome or hyper-fixate on a new equation, but it always circles back to you.

to how you brush your fingers through his curls when you’re sitting too close. to the way your perfume clings to his cardigans when you borrow one and give it back days later. to the voice messages you leave—rambling, chaotic, full of laughter—and how he replays them at two am with the volume turned all the way up.

he watches the door of the bau bullpen like it might conjure you if he stares hard enough. he keeps your name open in his contacts, thumb hovering over the call button, before locking his phone and tossing it onto the couch like it offended him.

sometimes, when it’s bad—really bad—he’ll fall asleep with one of your sweatshirts tucked under his pillow. he’ll wake up with it clutched to his chest like a security blanket.

and if anyone asks?

he shrugs and says he’s fine. says he’s busy. says he’s tired.

but really, he’s just spencer: a genius with a tragic crush, loving you in silence like it’s the only language he knows.

the worst part is, he never lets himself believe you could feel the same. so he bottles it up. every flutter of affection. every quiet ache. every skipped heartbeat.

but it leaks out. in the way he always remembers how you take your coffee. in the way he memorizes your laugh like scripture. in the way he turns to you first—always first—like gravity doesn't apply to anyone else.

and when you finally walk into the room again—after a trip, or a weekend apart, or even just lunch out of the office—his chest tightens with relief.

not that he says that. he just gives you a soft smile. offers you the muffin he saved and pretends he didn’t spend the entire time you were gone retracing the shape of your name in his mind like it was a lifeline.

spencer reid doesn’t just miss you. he belongs to you. he just hasn’t told you yet.

z is for zzz

he insists he’s a light sleeper. but that’s only half true.

he wants to be a light sleeper—ready at any moment for the phone to ring, for the case to drop, for something to go wrong. but the moment you curl into his side and tuck yourself against him like you belong there? he’s out like a light.

he sleeps best with you beside him—like his mind finally gives him permission to rest. his muscles soften, his breathing slows. and while the world outside keeps spinning, spencer finally, finally feels still.

and yes—he talks in his sleep. not often, but sometimes you’ll catch whispers in the early hours : mumbled bits of fact, unfinished sentences, your name.

god, your name.

like a lullaby tangled in his dreams.

he’s not a natural cuddler—at least, he wasn’t until you. but now? the moment you’re in bed, he’s got a hand on you somewhere : fingers grazing your wrist, palm pressed to your waist, your ankle resting against his. he sleeps best when he knows you’re there, that he can feel you. and if you shift away in your sleep, give it ten minutes—he’ll find you again.

he doesn’t snore. but he does let out the softest little exhales when he’s fully relaxed, the kind of sound you’d never hear at work or on the jet or in the field. the kind of sound he only makes when he’s safe. home.

he has sleep shirts, sure. pajama sets even. but nine times out of ten, he ends up in one of your oversized tees instead. claims it’s because your detergent smells like lavender and is neurologically calming. you know better. he just wants to be surrounded by you—even in sleep.

and when you wake up before him (rare, but it happens ), you get to see it : the real spencer reid.

hair a mess. mouth slightly parted. arms tangled in the sheets. that furrow in his brow gone, like he’s never known pain or fear or expectation. just you. just rest. just peace.

and if you lean over and kiss his cheek?

he’ll stir, sigh, and mutter the softest 'morning, honey,' still half-asleep.

( and then promptly fall right back into dreaming about you. )

in conclusion, spencer reid is whole heartedly, one hundred percent gone for you in every way possible.

[hitomisuzuya]

Oh miss Hito! Can I plead. I mean please. Request wanderer/scara, perhaps hybrid? (cannon genshin) accidentally smelling some type of aphrodisiac mushroom while doing a commission, and when he finds you he starts to act weird, having really flirt comments he brushes off just to end up slamming the door to ur room and nuzzling on ur thighs, biting them and grinding himself into the mattress with such a sweet sound.

I just want him to get off just by being that close, and who knows maybe scara will rip our panties off and eat like he’s starving

hybrid!scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. grinding. cunnilingus. accidental aphrodisiac usage (i really did not know how to word that). biting. whiny scara.

this request was so intimate 😳

it's inevitable that one will sneeze if something tickles the nose. some pollen happened to be floating by on the wind, connecting right with scaramouche's nostrils.

his ears twitch as he sneezes. it's a big sneeze, one that made him inhale sharply before he sneezed again. the force of said sneeze blew aphrodisiac spores from a mushroom into the air. his second sneeze is what made him inhale it.

"what the fuck is this shit?" he grumbles, batting at the air to disperse the spores. wrinkling his nose, his tail flicks as he continues on his way.

he originally planned to spend the day laying around, and napping. however, as time went on and the aphrodisiac spore's affects start to settle in (which was a little faster than most. consistent irritation made it trickle into his system that much faster), he started thinking about you.

a lot.

when his cock starts to throb just from the mere thought of you, he knows the only thing he wants to do is find you. every fiber screams inside him that he needs you. it didn't matter what he did to try and get his mind off of you, it didn't work.

before he knows it, scaramouche is gritting his teeth, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands to try and control his thoughts. your delicate little body would look so fucking hot swollen with his children.

he can barely ignore the aching in his cock as he knocks on your door. even though it's only a few moments before you answer the door, he thinks you take too long.

you sense something is off. way way way off. "scaramouche? is something wrong?" you are concerned. he just doesn't random drop by, not being the very social type. still though, you are glad to see him, and his charming ears.

"can i come in?" his voice shakes, a little strained. "no, wait, you should stay back," it really would've been for your own good, even if it wouldn't have done you much good in the end. he doesn't know what he is capable of.

"huh?" you tilt your head, confused. you practically have to pull teeth getting him to come inside usually. "are you okay?"

scaramouche barely hears your question. his eyes are shamelessly sliding down your body before he even realizes it. "fuck, those thighs of yours. i could just.." your thighs look so soft, so pliable.

thoughts of holding them apart while he fucks you absolutely stupid consume him.

"w-what? do you even hear yourself?" you blush, looking away shyly. his comments are making your heart pound faster than it usually does whenever he is around.

his skin looks flushed, and his breathing is labored. "are you running a fever?" you start to put your hand on his forehead, "let me check."

"stop it," he growls, batting your hand away. "just forget this happened."

you stand there, stunned as you watch him leave. you want to stop him, and try and find what is going on, but you know that it won't do any good. as you close the door, you swear you hear him scream "FUCK!" in the distance.

hours later, the aphrodisiac is still coursing strong through him. you smelled so good it was suffocating to him. soon enough, he finds himself back at your house, clenching his fists tight.

scaramouche decided to say fuck off to the concept of knocking, simply just walking into your house. "so fucking naive," he hisses discovering your door unlocked, not concerned about just walking in like this.

you are always way too fucking nice to be mad about it.

he zeros in on your scent immediately. you are right up in your bedroom, practically waiting like a wrapped present for him.

"you left your front door unlocked, idiot," his eyes widen seeing you in only a clingy shirt and panties. "oh? doing laundry?" his eyes are anything but discreet as he crawls onto your bed.

you are stunned, watching him crawl onto your bed. "scaramouche? are you okay? i have been worried about you?" the novel you are reading drops from your hand as you watch him crawl to settle at your thighs. "what are you doing?"

"hmm, if you are worried about me, then that means you want to take care of me," his head is getting awfully close to your thighs, and it makes your heart hammer in your chest. his ears flick, keenly picking up your increased heart rate.

"just let me nuzzle them for awhile. they have looked so fucking tempting all day," he sighs shakily, brushing his cheek against your thigh. he fully expects to rightfully kick him away. he has just walked into your room, and was rubbing himself against your very bare thighs suddenly.

you didn't fight him, and he didn't know exactly how you felt about him. "what happened earlier?" you lay back, letting him do as he pleases. in the end, you couldn't and didn't want to say no to him.

scaramouche would rather the ground swallow him whole than admit what happened. "i won't lie, i'm really fucking turned on right now," his cock throbs as his tongue sweeps out to lick the inside of your thigh.

this close to your panties, he can smell the warmth and arousal of your cunt. "your skin..so pretty.." he breathes shakily, skimming his teeth against your skin. "so unmarked," you let out a soft moan as his teeth start to nip and bite your skin.

you squirm a little as he pulls a mound of skin into his mouth to suck on. goosebumps prickle onto your skin as his tongue prods the inflamed flesh before moving onto a different spot. the insides of your thighs tingle as his thumbs brush again them.

you moan softly as he focuses on a sensitive spot. scaramouche whimpers softly, rutting his aching cock against the mattress. "such a pretty noise, so it again."

he can smell you are starting to get wet. moaning, he increases the pressure of his bites, his tongue lapping greedily at your soft flesh. "last chance to push me away, i don't know if i can control myself," he growls, inhaling the sweet scent of your pussy.

"i..i.." is all you can manage, moaning a little louder as his tongue sussed out your clit outside your panties. he groans tasting you, letting saliva soak your panties.

"these are in the way," he mumbles, easily shredding them off of you. immediately, he parts your soaking folds with his tongue, licking long and slow. he can't stop grinding his cock into the mattress. you taste so fucking good it blew his mind.

you gasp as his tongue circles your clit. your hands tremble, shakily finding the back of his head. the sensitive nub throbs and swells. wanting more friction, you gently press his mouth down onto your pussy. "your tongue," you moan shamelessly, "it feels so good."

his fingers press into your thighs, holding them apart as he laps at your quivering hole. he can't hold back his soft whimpers and moans as he devours your hole, prodding the sensitive nerves around your entrance.

"fuck, i am gonna cum," he moans, scooping your clit into his mouth to suck on. his tail curls around your thigh as your hips rock to grind on his mouth, your taste saturates his tongue.

scaramouche didn't know how much he needs to feel you, to taste you, to devour you until now. his body burns with the need. "i need more," he whimpers, holding your pussy on his mouth for a moment, his thumbs stroking the blossoming bruises on your thigh.

cum spills into his shorts listening to whimper while he sucks on your clit. "maybe i'll deny you to enjoy my meal longer," the effects of the aphrodisiac hardly show signs of wavering.

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

"ITS A BIRD ITS A PLANE NO THATS MY SON..."

Bio: More of baby Cairo, the son of WB!reader and Conner Kent. Based of this post

Cairo Kent Who is the cutest little boy to have ever appeared in the spotlight: 3c curls and a light tan with the biggest smile known to man. He is literally the sun, and he could light the whole room with just his presence alone. Little Cairo is a spitting image of his dad; he looks too much like Conner—his cheeky laugh, his goofy personality, and his little pout. It's like that one meme: "Nine's mouth in my stomach making me suffer just to look like your damn daddy!" But you don't mind having him look like your husband. It was cute when he was a mini version of Conner; once, Conner made a joke of calling him "Kon Jr." You were not having it; you wanted to give him a C name that matched with the Kents, and Cairo just rolled off the tongue too well.

But just like you, Cairo is kind of an introvert; and when I say “kind of,” I mean a lot. He gets really nervous and anxious around people. You remember having a parent-teacher conference with his Pre-K teacher. She said that he didn't play with the other kids and was always by himself, which made a lot of sense because that was you. He may look like his daddy, but he has your subtle awkwardness down to a tee. But don't worry, he'll get adopted by super extroverts just like you did, and those Kryptonian genes are strong. Your little boy has powers; he's prone to flying around a lot, barely using his legs for anything. You have to scare him into walking around by saying that he’ll lose his legs if he flies too much. It worked, and it also worked on Conner as well.

Whenever it's time for date night, and you and Conner are too busy to take care of your little bugger, your mom takes care of him. But you refuse to let any of the Bat family get anywhere near Cairo; you're practically hiding him away from them. I mean, who knows how they act? You don't want him to get neglected like you did—pushed to the side, ignored, seen as an outcast. You didn't want those yandere tendencies to rub off on your son. But when Bruce begged to see him, you couldn't say no, and I guess he was the center of attention—which is an understatement. Bruce couldn't keep his hands off the little man, twirling Cairo around, cooing, using a baby voice on him. You feel a smile creep up on your face; the way he treats him can't let them think you're growing soft on them. You're still their biggest hater.

At your baby shower, Damien tried to give you a present for young Cairo; it was two dual swords, and he’ll have to learn how to use them soon. At least the other gifts were more acceptable—baby clothes, little hats. Alfred absolutely adores Cairo, and now your son is starting to get a little British accent the more he hangs out with the butler. Dick and Jason are having a literal staring contest over who gets to hold him. You never really liked kids—not even babies—but when little Cairo holds his finger, his heart melts, and he succumbs to baby fever. Stephanie and Cass can't wait to dress him up in little suits, and Babs has the weirdest baby voice when talking to him, while Damien is trying to make your son into a warrior: "Soon, one day you will be covered with the blood of your enemies!" But for now, he's going to be covered in strawberry jam. Does he have dreams of being a hero? We don't really know—he's in his own world, and there's nerd starting to appear in him. Conner's genes may be strong, but the way he's wandering off to the toy aisle so fast to get a Star Wars Lego set shows that the nerd never dies.

[rasberrybabez]

★⚽₊⊹ ᰔ °⋆

Footballer!Simon who has a habit of acting out on and off the pitch, despite being the team’s star striker. Millions of fans crowd the stadium to watch him play, but really to watch the way a man like that can throw a punch.

Footballer!Simon who is too good of an asset for the team to loose, but the coach is so fed up with his attitude that he needs some rehab. Sends him to a training camp for little kids, to volunteer coach put in the country and hopefully get his act together.

Footballer!Simon that wasn’t nothing to do with little brats and a summer camp, until he meets her. The camp counselor that treats him like just a man, no fan of fortune attached. Counselor!Reader that knows why Simon is here, and treats him like a little boy who needs an attitude adjustment.

Footballer!Simon that finds out he’s extremely, extremely attracted to finally being the one getting yelled at, but only by her.

Counselor!Reader who loves her job, and will not let some rich snob with attitude issues get in the way of it. He will make crafts at seven, he will serve dinner in the mess hall at eight, and he will read spooky stories at ten campfire until curfew at twelve.

Footballer!Simon that slowly wins her over. Does as she says, yes ma’am and all. Teases her about being uptight, pokes fun at her around the kids. Makes her laugh. Teaches them how to play a good match, turns into the football dad coaching from the sidelines.

Footballer!Simon that realizes the way to her heart is the kids. Takes them on as his little ducklings, doesn’t do autographs because that’s for fans, and these are his children now. Apparently, he tells them he lost the birth certificate but they’re definitely his

Counselor!Reader that slowly begins to warm up to him. Scooting closer during dinners, walking back to the cabin with him after the bonfire and talking about everything under the sun. ‘Oh, my brother used to play’… ‘met a guy once at a bar, now I support Tottenham’… ‘I think I’ll take you to one of my games, lass… gimme’ a pretty prize to win for’

Footballer!Simon who knows that he’s here as a punishment, but it doesn’t feel like it anymore. He knows he shouldn’t break anymore rules than normal, this is supposed to help, not hurt. But that zero fraternization policy? Maybe he just missed it going over the rules.

Counselor!Reader who knows she shouldn’t be hooking up in her cabin with the broody rich asshat sent here for a spanking, but maybe she just missed that in the rules. They didn’t specify the volunteer that they were taking on was this annoyingly endearing.

⋆｡𖦹°⚽︎⋆｡𖦹°

[ilovedwardfpe]

May i req 1x1x1x1 x reader smut 🙏🙏

I'm hungry for more freaky 1x fics LMAOO

Js to let know,1x is male here

Grammarly is seriously pmo

Anyway, I hope this is good for my uh… first smut!

And NO I’m not doing the entire thing I’m too lazy

Warnings: smut! Cursing

Pairings: 1x1x1x1x x fem!reader

—————————

Summary:

You were bored out of your mind,BUT looks like someone was hungry.

—————————

(2nd pov)

You were lying on the couch at home with a lollipop in your mouth, staring at the ceiling while the minutes dragged by, the room too quiet, the air too still, and nothing—absolutely nothing—felt interesting enough to do, so you got up without really thinking, just started wandering around the house, poking your head into rooms you’d already seen a hundred times, opening the fridge even though you weren’t hungry, flipping through the TV channels without stopping, walking in circles like maybe, just maybe, something exciting would suddenly appear out of nowhere because that’s how bored you were, so bored that even being bored was getting boring.

Eventually, you decided to walk outside, maybe to see your boyfriend. He was in a house of killers, so going there could get you killed if he hadn’t told them about you. But you had already made the decision and you were going with it. You didn’t feel like waiting around anymore.

Once you got there, they all ended up knowing who you were. No one looked surprised or confused when you showed up. A few glanced your way and gave subtle nods, quiet acknowledgments like you were just another part of the day. Even the youngest one, somehow already taller than you even though you were the adult, looked at you with recognition, not curiosity. It was unsettling, but oddly comforting too. And then, just before you turned to leave, Jason leaned in close and whispered something to you: “Be careful with him..”

(Your pov)

A shiver went down my spine as Jason leaned to whisper, I nod slowly as I walk I've to my boyfriend's door as I knock, All I hear is grunting until the door opens but only by a little, You see your boyfriend and he was sweating and huffing for air it seemed like, I were going to question him! But he had already shoved me inside of the room with him—He felt warm,his crown was off on his bed,You felt like you knew what was happening especially remembering what John said.

“I can’t contain myself…fuck.” he said, picking me up as his hands go to my ass gripping it, he bring me to his bed which the mattress was hard but the bedding and stuff was soft, he sat me down and wrapped my shirt off like a DAMN animal. There was just NO way he could be this bad but oh I was so wrong, he put his head forward and started to lick my chest like a new born baby, I muffled my moans as he begins to undress me and the moment he slips off my pants he slips a finger in, going at a ungodly pace which causes me to do nothing but moan louder each time.

I was gripping his back so hard you couldn't imagine it, he slips another in which causes me to grip harder, my g-spot was hit repeatedly which almost made my eyes roll back, I bet he could feel me getting close because I was tightening up, I was moaning quicker, he picked up the pace and I could not even warn him due to how much I was getting, eventually, I did release and he took his fingers out: Licking them, He smirked and looked up at me as if I was a trophy he had won.

“Good girl. But I'm not done yet.”

—————————————

Yeah I’m not finishing this I have 2 other requests and I need to make my master list 🥀

[omgfangirlland]

How do you think it would go if let's say.. Before joker became a joker.. He had a wife and that wife is reader. She was always there for joker until joker just ghosted her or something when he started to go crazy. Later on, reader meets Bruce and they somehow fall in love (reader has that Mary Sue rizz).

-🔱

Sorry I haven't posted a drabble in a hot minute-

Fallout 3 is an addictive thing, and I should have known better than to believe the father would stay alive, considering I finished Fallout 4 a year ago...

ANYWAY- bit of timeline shenanigans cuz I'm like 90% sure Jack falling into the vat of acid happened long before Dick Grayson, but for my plot it's during-

CW: yandere/stalker bruce

You knew something was wrong as soon as Jack didn't come home. Sure, sometimes he'd be late, but you'd always wake up with the man suffocating you with the clingy way he'd wrap his arms around you, holding you so tight- like he was afraid to lose you.

That was eight years ago. One year ago, Jack Nappier was declared dead, and you were left a widow with an empty grave to mourn over. The police, eight years ago, didn't even want to believe you, just brushed it off as the man being drunk in a ditch- not unlike the other married men in Park Row.

But you knew your Jack. So you fought on it, you fought until someone would listen, and Gordon did- promised you up and down that he'll do everything to find your husband- and then, a month in, he... changed. The man looked guilty as he told you he didn't have any updates, and before you could ask anything further, he scurried away.

You never trusted the police, no one living in Crime Alley does. Gordon was the nail in the coffin that sealed that belief forever.

They would have declared him dead on day one if they could have, but they had to wait seven years, and with those seven years up, the papers were drawn and signed, and Gordon paid for the funeral before anyone else could, before Bruce could.

You hated it.

And your Jack would have hated it too. He wanted to be cremated, his ashes to be turned into "one of them fake sparkly stones" so you could always have a piece of him.

You had to move on with your life, whether Jack left you and ran away with someone else or is actually dead, both were painful options. You got your degree one year after his disappearance and started teaching a few months later.

You... don't know what possessed you to do this- to jump from your window, on the fucking Batman of all people, just so Jason, a kid you've known since he was five, could run away before the bat started swinging.

Yeah, it didn't work out the way you hoped.

"You jumped out from the third-"

"Second."

Batman's eye twitches as he takes in a breath, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as you sit where he plopped you, the hood of the batmobile. "-Second. Floor, on my back, just because you thought I would hit a child?" Bruce ignored how Jason kept swinging the tire iron at his padded knee.

"... Yeah..." You shrugged. Jason gave up after two more swings, huffing and whining with exhaustion. "What even are you?!"

"Is he your kid?"

While the question made you stumble over your words, Jason was quick to yell a yes- and he wasn't lying in his mind, you were more of a mother than his ever was. "Don't you dare touch her- you- you- big b-"

As Jason tried to swing again, this time aiming for the bat's balls, Bruce was quick in grabbing the tire iron from the boy. "Aww..." Jason pouted.

Bruce knew the boy wasn't your son. He knew, because for eight years or so, he's been your shadow, not your stalker, shadow. There was a difference- he was protecting you, making up for what he's done to your ex-husband.

He may have slipped a few times, loomed too close, slipped into your room as you slept- just to make sure you're still breathing! And, well, if he took a thing or two, he always returned them- he tried to, anyway.

This was fine- not the part of you jumping so recklessly out of a window- but the opportunity of actually talking to you. It wasn't for long, but he was willing to play the long game.

It was fruitful, slow, but it got him what he wanted.

It started with Jason, initially he wanted to just send the boy to a troubled youth school, but seeing how close he was to you, and how dedicated he was, Bruce may have manipulated him a bit.

"You do want to keep her safe, right? You can't do that without training."

Jason was the one who took it as him being the next Robin, and Bruce didn't correct him, and when the time came, he sure as hell didn't stop him from modifying the costume to his liking. The boy deserves it after helping Bruce so much with you.

"Batman's really nice, could be a really cool boyfriend-"

It was childish, but you couldn't help but smile at Jason trying to play matchmaker. You knew he was the new Robin, it was hard not to when the first thing he did was crawl like a wet cat through your window to proudly show his costume off while acting like he didn't know you.

Granted, it worked.

Bruce first kissed you while he was bleeding on your couch, Jason napping away on your bed, that's also when you found out who Batman was.

"I want you to know. I want you to be in my life, every side of it."

He had whispered, and you just kissed him again. The next day, Bruce Wayne took you out on a date, by next week every tabloid had you two on the front page, and by next year, you were living in the Manor, nagging Dick and Jason to not leave everything to Alfred, and helping him every night with soft kisses and softer hands.

He wasn't scared you'd find out. He made sure you wouldn't. But if you did, that would be okay. Bruce won't let you go, no matter how hard you fight.

When Joker came back after being missing for two years, creating a ruckus left and right, Bruce made sure to play his cards right- first, the soft, off-hand comment that you should just stay home, work remotely, or just not at all. The chains were placed.

Then, bringing a worried Richard into it. "I just don't want to lose you like- like-" And the tearful face of Dick locked the chains. But what tightened them was Jason's whispered plea. "Please, ma, any one of our enemies could snatch you on the way home- I don't want to see you hurt like that."

But Bruce should have been more focused on Joker. He let him slip through the cracks, led the clown right to you with every loving outing, with every tabloid picture.

Jack won't have it. You were his before- you'll love him as Joker too.

[kelltonic]

Admiration☆彡

Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Drunkenness/alcohol!! Other than that all fluff. Canon-typical asshole Hangman. established relationship and mentions of introverted girlfriend - no use of y/n

Description: While drinking at the Hard Deck with his fellow daggers, Fanboy finally gets to prove the origins of his callsigns through his drunken ramblings about his (civilian) girlfriend.

WC: 1,580

A/N: My first time posting fanfiction on this account!! Glad it’s dedicated to my underrated husband <33 - on that note, I did write this instead of studying (I’m mid exams) as a form of procrastination, and honestly a de-stressing exercise type thing lmao

“Earth to Garcia?” Mickey hears as he slowly raises his head from his phone, awaiting a text from his girlfriend after the string of ‘I miss you’ and ‘you won’t believe what Reuben just said’ messages.

“Huh? Did you say something?” Fanboy responds, unsure of who grabbed his attention.

“Man, what’s even so interesting on your phone? Come on! Live in the moment!” Javy disappointedly scolded him, gaining some nods and murmurs of agreement. Majority of the squadron were sitting in a spacious booth, various alcoholic drinks accompanying them. Fanboy was squished in between Payback and Hangman while sitting across from Phoenix, Bob and Coyote while Fritz and Rooster sat at the end in seperate chairs.

“Sorry I find my girlfriend more interesting than you guys.” Fanboy scoffed sarcastically.

“Really? Doesn’t seem like she’s responding anytime soon.” Hangman joked with that bothersome southern drawl, peering over to see Fanboy’s one sided conversation. He didn’t blame you, it was late. Really late. The daggers were given a day off and decided to celebrate, not having to worry about getting up early - despite the fact majority probably would anyways.

“She’s probably just asleep, she has exams.” Fanboy defended, he didn’t want the others to get the wrong idea, that he was needy or anything. Though, it didn’t really help. But he wasn’t lying, you were mid exam week in college and were conditioning yourself to a better sleep schedule, he would probably tell you to go to sleep if you did ever respond.

“Mhm… I’m starting to think she’s been made up.” Hangman mocked, no matter how much alcohol he has - he will always find a way to push someone’s buttons. If anything, the alcohol made him more irritating. But before Fanboy could interject, he was saved by his best friend.

“Trust me, she’s real.” Payback groaned. Fanboy wasn’t surprised that he backed him up, or that he seemed so annoyed about it. Reuben had nothing against you, to be honest, he hadn’t even met you in person. But, he did have the unfortunate role of being the closest to Mickey in every outburst he had when he was away from you for too long and needed to scroll through all your shared memories. Reuben had lost count of how many times Mickey showed him his favourite photo of you two right before he got called to Top Gun.

“Really? I need proof or I’m never believing you.” Hangman emphasised, more likely bored than actually unbelieving. Mickey was attractive, both physically and personality-wise, it’s no shocker he’s dating someone. But when your foundation is being a dickhead, and you add alcohol and boredom to the equation, you need someone to annoy. Fanboy was just the easiest target for Hangman given the situation.

“Haha, no chance.” Fanboy swiftly replied. He absolutely loved showing people photos of you. Displaying you with pride, like a toddler showing off their artwork. But when it came to people in the military, specifically other men in the military, he always felt icky. After hearing too much nasty locker room talk, he really only described you and your shared experiences, keeping away from physical depictions and photos. The only exceptions were guys he really trusted, like Reuben. And it’s not even that he doesn’t trust Jake, he just doesn’t want to risk you getting involved in his constant teasing.

“Come on, you always talk about her - just one photo!” Phoenix chimed in, genuinely curious. Fanboy took a second, he was always easy to persuade when he was drunk. But, he stuck to his values and faced his phone away from Jake while scrolling through his favourites album.

“Seriously?” Hangman bluntly groaned, shaking his head in disbelief. “I swear I wont actually say anything weird.” Hangman pleaded, that signature smile spread across his slightly flushed cheeks.

“No shot.” Mickey responded, clicking on one of his favourites of you. You were in a beautiful black dress with some light makeup, it was the one time he ever successfully persuaded you to go to a big party. You were smiling widely, holding onto Mickey while both of you were laughing your asses off. It was a candid one of your mutual friends took while you were both drunk out of your minds. Your hair was slightly tucked behind your ear, revealing an earplug. You were never good with loud noises or bustling groups, so Mickey bought you earplugs to colour match your jewellery. You seemed so happy, and Mickey couldn’t have been more relieved. He was terrified that he would finally get you to go out to a big party and you would hate it, so he sought to make you as comfortable as possible in the situation.

He proudly flipped his phone towards the other side of the booth, presenting you to Phoenix, Bob and Coyote while Rooster and Fritz peeked over. Just about everyone was curious at this point, they had always gotten bits and pieces of his ranting about you but never actually seen the face that matches the admiration.

“Aww!! She’s so pretty.” Bob reacted softly, trying not to overstep but also wanting to validate Fanboy.

“The dress is stunning on her.” Phoenix raved with an approving smile to Fanboy.

“I know, everything’s stunning on her.” He sighed thoughtfully. Despite the fact you were dating, he was still acting like a schoolgirl yearning over her celebrity crush. The others could only laugh at this, while Hangman just drank from his beer. He doesn’t usually feel left out due to his very extroverted and dominating personality, but this was an exception.

“Well that explains a lot.” Rooster chuckled.

“Huh?” Fanboy was seemingly brought out of his trance, tilting his head at Rooster’s comment.

“Your callsign, always wondered what warranted it.” Rooster elaborated, gaining a group-wide laugh. It was so true, he was full on fanboying over you.

His slight embarrassment to his exposure was quickly taken to a halt when his phone buzzed while Phoenix was holding his phone, admiring the photo.

“Mickey baby, you drinking responsibly or just drinking?” You texted. You couldn’t help but laugh at the seemingly millions of messages you had gotten while locked in studying - cramming - for your next exam in… about 7 hours.

Mickey chuckled at your message the moment he snatched his phone back. But, his remaining responsibility took control as he replied.

“You should be sleeping! I love youuuuuuuuuu1!1!1!! go to sleep!” He typed out, his heart sad that he knows he can’t keep you up. But, his last remaining brain cells were aware that you needed to sleep for your big exam in the morning.

“No fair, you texted me first.” You groaned, knowing he was right.

“Yeahhh but like…. I don’t have work in the morning.” He sighed, he was so excited for your exams to be over so he could endlessly bug you without feeling guilty about taking up your time.

“What’s going on now?” Hangman interjected, finally trying to weasel his way back into the conversation.

“I’m telling her to go to sleep, I wasn’t lying - she’s got exams.” Fanboy whined, he was desperate to talk to you - he was always extra clingy when drunk.

“Ooh that reminds me of this other photo.” He quickly switched up, you stopped replying so he could tell you got the message and (hopefully) went to sleep rather than uselessly cramming.

“Oh lord not again.” Reuben moaned, falling back into the seat while he had to sit through yet another rant about you.

“I took this one after the last one when we were in bed..” Mickey was swiftly cut off by some disapproving noises.

“No, no, not like that, it’s nothing sexual - it’s cute!” Mickey reassured, not surprised that his friends’ minds immediately went there.

He pulled up a photo of him lying on your chest while you were both pressed together on your sides, lipstick marks all over his face. He had about a dozen kisses on his face printed from your lipstick, and he couldn’t have been happier. He and you were both still clearly drunk - only the bottom half of your face in frame. Your hair was dangling onto Mickey while he was tucked just below your chin, leaning into your chest. Your smile was just in frame, while his was front and centre. He loved the photo not only for its contents, but also the fact that it was one of your favourites. Mickey explained to his friends the backstory, and how you never really liked seeing or taking photos of yourself. So the fact that you were only partially in frame yet your presence was one of the most significant aspects, it was perfect.

“Okay, okay, we get it - you’re an absolute fanboy. Can we talk about something else now?” Hangman complained, still excluded from the presentation.

“This is what you get for being such an asshole and taking advantage of any personal thing we tell you, Bagman.” Phoenix responded, utilising her daily humbling moment. With a few ‘karma’ and ‘deserved’ comments flying around alongside the comfortable laughter, Mickey couldn’t help but feel so at home. He missed you more than anything, and he couldn’t wait to introduce you to his friends.

“Good night baby ❤️ ❤️” you finally texted back.

“Were you studying just then??”

“I had to finish up!!”

“Yeah? Well good night sweetheart, sleep well ❤️” he replied, shaking his head with a small chuckle.

Began: 1:00am 21st of June

Finished: 2:30am 21st of June

[staylovesmiley]

Going Dumb~ Chapter 15

₊˚⊹ᰔ Pairing; Kim Seungmin x Fem!reader, Stray kids x Fem!reader

₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ Summary; It had been over a decade since you had last seen each other, having met in choir when Seungmin was living with his grandparents in LA and you with your Aunt. Now that you are both presented adults, how will he handle a change to the reality of you he had made in his mind in your absence over the years?

₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ Notes; This is an omegaverse!AU. in this world when someone reaches puberty they will present with one of three sub genders; alpha, beta, or omega. Due to Alphas and Omegas experiencing rut and heat, some jobs are restrictive as to what sub genders they will hire, specifically singling out omegas as heat suppressants are harder to obtain than rut suppressants. Scent glands are located near the pressure points on the neck and small hormonal patches called scent blockers can be placed over them to reduce or rid an individual of their scent for a period of time depending on the strength of the hormones in the patch.

₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ ₊˚⊹ᰔ Warnings; omegaverse!au, beta!kim seungmin, almost all alpha!straykids, female!reader, poly!pack dynamics, angst, mild violence, mentions of sexual harassment/assault and discrimination, smut, enemies to lovers, Kim seungmin is kind of an ass I’m so sorry dandy boy, she/her pronouns used for reader, jealous seungmin, I have only ever wrote one omegaverse story before but it is one of my favorite genres so I hope I can do this justice~

Things were starting to get…tense, so to speak, between you and some of the members.

The show in Singapore went over well and in the days back home in Korea before heading to Australia for a few weeks you found yourself with very little alone time. Sure, you had a day off here and there where you expected to be able to relax but instead you were pulled away to vocal lessons with Seungmin or dance practice with Minho. The alpha and beta were wearing you down and you often came home more exhausted on your days off than you would if you had been working. You didn’t understand why they were taking this joke so seriously, why they kept insisting you train at an idol level, until a few days before you were set to leave for Australia. 

Chan had called you into the studio and your first thought was that he maybe just needed your assistance with something or wanted some company while he worked. It wasn’t unusual for you to lounge on the sofa in his studio while he worked, giving his track a listen when he felt like he needed outside input even though you weren’t sure of how much help you really were. When you arrived you felt a little sense of relief that for once in what felt like so long you weren’t coming to the company to be drilled in singing or dancing, you could finally relax a bit and enjoy your time off. That feeling, however, didn’t last long. 

“What the actual fuck, Chris-“ 

The producer held out a headset to you, holding the door to the recording studio open with a hopeful glint in his eyes. “Please just try it? If you hate it then we can scrap it- I just….i wrote this song because I couldn’t get it out of my head and I think it would suit your voice so perfectly.” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. This wasn’t a joke anymore, and to them maybe it never had been. You shook your head at him in disbelief and turned to leave. “Bunny please wait- just hear me out!” You flipped him off, already tired of this game they had been playing. You had too much going on right now, too content with the life you had with them to make any changes at this time and throw off the balance. Why couldn’t they understand? It hurt a little to leave the alpha there without a word but you just…you couldn’t deal with the pressure right now. You were not idol material and your outburst all those months ago at the met proved that to yourself so why didn’t it seem to dawn on them that this was a bad idea.

As you headed for the elevator you ran into Felix who gave you one of his warm and cheery smiles “Hey Bunny! What are you doing here on your day off?” You frowned, looking back over your shoulder at the alpha leader’s studio before turning back to the alpha in front of you. “Nothing just…checking on Chris. Making sure he isn’t working too hard..” You could tell he knew you were lying, most likely knowing at least some of the others plans to turn you into a star. If he did know, however, he didn’t mention it as his smile stayed firm on his lips and he stepped forward to run a hand through your hair before patting your head fondly. “You’re always looking out for us, thank you. I was just heading out too to grab a bite to eat, wanna come with?” You sighed in relief, nodding as you linked arms with him. “Please? I need to get out and get some fresh air I think- this building is so stuffy and I’ve been spending far too much time in it for my own liking.” The dancer chuckled and lead the way to the elevator. You chose not to comment on how he had been coming from that direction originally, clearly not planning to leave as he had stated but in fact just arriving. But you were grateful to have his company so you kept that to yourself and decided not to question him and his choices.

The two of you went to a cafe not too far from the company, settling down in a booth far in the back with your respective drinks as you waited on your food to be served to you. “So what’s been up with you lately? I feel like I hardly ever see you at home anymore.” The blonde asked as he took a sip from his drink. You sighed, resting your head against the cool wood of the table in front of you. “Don’t remind me-“ Felix chuckled a bit, poking your head gently. “Has 2min been going too hard on you?” He teased, wiggling his eyebrows at you when you eventually sat back up. “That’s an understatement…Chan now too, apparently. I thought you guys were joking about all that idol stuff, ya know-“ The alpha hummed a bit, giving his thanks to the server once your food was delivered to the table. “Yeah I kinda figured…but I don’t think the others realized you weren’t taking them seriously. Have you talked to them about it?” You sighed again, taking a bite from your sandwich. “Kind of? Any time I bring up how ridiculous they are being I get brushed off like they think I’m just not being confident in myself…” Felix nodded, swallowing his own bite of food before responding. “But that’s not it, is it?” You shook your head, running a hand through your hair. “No, it’s not…it’s- a lot to take in. Sure, when I was a kid I would have been over the moon at the idea of being an idol, or a singer in any capacity. But now? We are finally in a good place…things were so turbulent there for a while and you guys have the tour going on and I feel like I’m just now settling in to my role in the pack and as part of your team…I’m afraid this will ruin things again or put unnecessary stress on myself and them..” The dancer watched you carefully, taking in your words as he ate some more of his food before washing it down with more of his ridiculous sweet coffee order. “I understand what you are saying. Maybe you should sit them down and have a serious conversation about it? I get those three can be a little intense sometimes, I mean we all can. They see a lot of potential in you and I’m not gonna lie and say I don’t see it too but I get how overwhelming it can be. They will get it too if you just tell them..like really tell them, not in a passive way but in a serious way.”

You groaned a bit, rubbing at your face tiredly. “I know- but they just seem so hopeful about this for some reason and even though I’m scared I don’t wanna let them down…which scares me even more that I will.” Felix chuckled a bit and tore his chocolate croissant in half to place one on your plate. “Thanks-“ you said softly, giving him a warm smile before taking a bite. “Just trust me, okay? They will understand and hopefully will back off a bit until you feel ready, even if that is never.” You nod, feeling a little lighter after talking with the freckled alpha about your troubles. “We should do this more often, Lix. You’re a really good listener.” You didn’t miss the blush that painted his cheeks, hand coming to rub at the back of his neck. “I try- now let’s forget about all the stress of your pending idol status and my current idol status and maybe catch a movie or something? Just be…people for a little bit before we have to go back on tour?” You grinned, nodding enthusiastically before finishing up your food. “Don’t have to ask me twice, I’d love that!” 

You weren’t sure if Felix had said something to them, but it seemed like everyone finally backed off on all of the idol talk surrounding you at least for a while. It could have also been the excitement of going to Australia again after so long and for a few weeks at that. There was plenty of chatter from all of the members about what they planned to do once they landed and had some free time to kill in the country. 

Once you all landed and got settled in the hotel in Melbourne, you set to unpacking and going through your nightly routine when you noticed something very important was missing. “No…no no no- fuck!” You had practically dumped out the entire contents of your suitcase. Clothes, accessories, and toiletries littered the bed and floor as you ran your hands through your hair scanning the items for the little white box you were positive you had picked up from the drugstore before leaving. With shaking hands you made your way down the hall to Chan’s room, knocking so lightly on the door you weren’t sure he would hear you but soon the door was opening to reveal a freshly showered alpha dressed in a pair of loose fitting shorts and a blank tank top as he towel dried his damp hair. “Bunny! Everything okay? You look a little pale-“ He immediately stepped aside so you could enter. Once inside you continued to play anxiously with your hands as he closed the door and followed after you. “So um…I seem to have maybe, kinda, sorta forgot to pack uh…my suppressants?” You couldn’t face him pacing back and forth nervously as you bit at your lower lip. “I know it was irresponsible of me especially after last time and I really don’t know how I forgot- they were sitting on my desk with all my other vitamins to pack but I must have forgot to grab them-“ Chan sighs a bit, stepping up to place his hands firmly on your shoulders. Soft brown eyes scan over you carefully as his thumbs rub soothing circles over the sleeves of your sleep shirt. “Bunny, take a deep breath. It was an honest mistake, yeah? Let’s calm you down and we can talk about what to do from there.” You nod slowly, letting the scent of the ocean rolling off of him soothe your nerves as you both take a seat on the sofa. You angle your body towards the alpha, curling up into Chan’s side as he rubs your back slowly. “We’re gonna be in Australia for a while…there are a few options though- first one is we can try and find somewhere that will fill your prescription even though it’s kind of last minute.” You frown, burying your head in his neck with a whine. “That’s gonna be kinda hard considering I just filled it before we left- any other ideas?” Chan runs a hand through your hair, looking down at you with a soft and shy smile.

“Well we are gonna be here a while, right? But there is a chance you won’t go into a heat until after we get back and you have your suppressants handy.” You think for a moment, eyes closed so you miss the way he is staring down at you hopefully. “But what if I do go into heat? It would be like a repeat of earlier this year with Hanji and-“ Chan cut you off, shaking his head as he pulled away slightly causing your eyes to open. “Maybe, but this time we would be prepared. We can get whatever you need and set you up a space until it passes…and if you want one of us could help you through it-“ Your eyes widen, sitting up straight and facing him. “Chris you can’t be serious-“ He shrugged, a bashful smile playing at his lips. “I mean I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t be willing to help…I’m sure we all would- just…think it over? Let me know in the morning and if you want I can start looking for somewhere to get suppressants from to last until we are back home.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you stood up. “Yeah um…I’ll think about it- thanks for helping me out and I’m sorry I fucked up and forgot them knowing we’d be here for the better half of a month..” In an instant he was standing as well, wrapping his arms around you and giving a kiss to the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out, I’m just glad you came to me this time so I could help find a solution.” You shook your head a bit, biting back a laugh as your shoved his shoulder lightly. “Yeah yeah you’re just excited at the idea of helping me with my heat.” Holding his hands up defensively, Chan let out a chuckle. “Guilty- but please don’t feel like you have to go that route or if you do that you have to pick me…we are a pack and I’m sure any of the guys would be willing to help. I mean- Han helped you last time and things went well? I’m sure he’d be willing to help you again.” 

Blushing slightly, you nodded your head as you took a deep breath. “Right- well…just um- call around and see if we can get the prescription filled and in the meantime we will just see what happens? Kinda don’t have another option right now..” Chan nodded and gave a gentle kiss to your temple before leading you back to the door. “Go get some rest and I’ll try and take care of it, yeah? No need to stress now when we don’t even know if you’ll go into your heat while we are here.”

If only you were so lucky…

It was a few days into being in Australia, the same day as the concert in Melbourne, actually. You were helping the members back stage when one of the stylists noticed your scent shifting into something much sweeter than it normally was. “Um, Bunny? Are you feeling alright?” She asked softly as she pulled you aside once she had finished setting up her makeup kit. “Yeah I feel great! Why?” You weren’t lying, you felt pretty good. You had gotten a good nights sleep and felt like you had just downed a buckets worth of caffeine. That- should have been your first warning. “Nothing just…take care of yourself, yeah?” She glanced over at where the members were goofing off before looking back to you with a smile. 

You found it a little odd but pushed the interaction to the back of your mind as you got back to work. Your next warning was when you were helping some of the other stylists with dressing the members and found yourself with your face buried in Hyunjin’s neck as you inhaled his warm leathery scent deeply. The alpha dancer giggles as your breath tickled his skin, hand instinctually coming to rest at the back of your head. “Bunny what’s gotten into you- you don’t normally scent me like this..” your eyes widened and you pulled back so fast you almost sent the both of you tumbling where you still had a grip on his collar and he on the back of your head. “Oh gosh I’m sorry Jinnie- you just smelled so nice I got a little carried away….I should have asked first-“ It was then he seemed to get his own whiff of your scent and his pupils grew to match your blown out state while he looked you up and down. “No it’s- I don’t mind, you should do it more often.” You blushed and shook your head, seemingly snapping out of a trance as you hit his shoulder lightly. “Go finish up with hair and makeup, yeah? You’ve gotta save all that flirting for stay.” 

The last warning you needed was your energy from earlier fully depleting while the boys were on stage, curling up on the couch hugging one of Jeongin’s sweatshirts to your chest with your face pressed firmly in the collar where his scent was the strongest. You stayed that way until it was time to load up and head back to the hotel when you felt Changbin’s strong arms scoop you up to carry your lethargic form to the van. “Hmph? What’s going on?” You mumbled, rubbing sleep from your eyes with one hand while the other still held tightly to the maknae’s clothing. “The concerts over, bun- we’re headed back to the hotel…” The muscled rapper chuckled as he carefully set you down in your seat. Chan came into your field of vision then with a soft smile that was laced with some concern. “We need to have that talk when we get to the hotel, yeah? Remember, make a plan?” You were still a little confused from sleep and the pheromones he was pushing out towards you were not helping your brain fog. “What do ya mean?” You mumbled as you once again attempted to rub the sleep from your eyes.

“Bunny…you’re in preheat- all of us can smell it.” Minho interjected from the seat beside you, distracting you from Chan climbing into the seat on your other side and helping to buckle your seatbelt. “Wha- but it’s too soon? Right?” You groaned a bit in annoyance, resting your head back against the seat as it finally settled in. “Hey, I said before not to stress so don’t stress okay? We’ll talk about it in private, okay? Do you want to just talk with me or have the whole pack there?” The leader’s voice was calm but you could tell he was holding back from scenting you right there in front of the driver. “Um- just you, if that’s okay? And Minho.” As you added the last bit the alpha to your left perked up curiously and looked over to his leader. “Yeah that’s okay. Just relax and we will talk about it soon. We aren’t that far from the hotel.”

Once you all arrived you were quickly ushered into the elevator with Minho on one side and Chan on the other, the rest of the members watching in different stages of confusion as you left them all behind. You made it to Chan’s room quickly and once you were seated on the couch with Chan standing in front of you and Minho sat in the arm chair in the corner, they both looked at you expectantly. “So Bunny, this is up to you…how do you wanna do this?” The eldest said as he rested his hands on his hips. From his tone of voice you would think he was talking about something as trivial as washing the dishes or cooking a meal but the expression he wore on his face told you he was a little on edge and eagerly awaiting your call on what you planned to do for your heat. “If you want we can set you up somewhere away from us and make things as comfortable as possible for you to ride this out so we don’t bother you or get in the way or ya know…make you uncomfortable-“

“I want Minho.” You cut him off mid ramble, face serious as you looked over at the alpha in question who sat with eyes as wide as saucers. “Me?” He asked quietly after a while, pointing a finger at himself as he looked from you to Chan. You nodded slowly, standing up to give your body a good stretch. “Yeah. Things will go faster with help, and I trust you.” Both alphas looked between each other and you multiple times without saying a word causing you to shift your weight between your feet awkwardly. “If you don’t want to that’s okay, I just- Chan had mentioned you guys might be willing to help and so I thought-“ It was your turn for your anxious ramblings to be cut off as Minho stood from his seat abruptly, almost pushing it back into the wall with the speed of his movements. “I’ll do it. Um- I mean I don’t mind if that’s what you want.” You couldn’t help but let out a little laugh at his enthusiasm, shaking your head as you shifted your focus back to the topic at hand. “We have some time before it really hits…probably won’t be until after we’re in Sydney. We have an Airbnb for our stay there, yeah?”

Chan nodded, still looking at Minho almost….with jealousy? “Yeah- we do. There is a loft bedroom I can set up for the two of you. Unless you want a place just for you both? I can make the arrangements-“ He began pulling out his phone, presumably to book a place for you and Minho to spend your heat together in private. “No I uh…I want you guys there in case anything happens? Incase we need you guys- I don’t want it to be like last time with Han I want the pack there.” You watched as Chan swallowed hard before nodded, a shy smile playing at his lips. “We can do that. I’ll let staff know what’s going on as discreetly as possible and have them make sure we have all the supplies you guys will need….food, water, um- other stuff….” You laughed again as you walked up and gave the alpha leader a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks Channie, you’re a good leader. I’m gonna go get some rest, you should too since we’ll be traveling most of tomorrow.” 

With that, you left both alphas alone. Once you made it back to your room you found Seungmin curled up in your bed scrolling on his phone. “Minnie? Whatcha doing here?” You made your way over to your suitcase and grabbed what you would need for a quick shower before bed, ruffling his hair on your way past. “Wanted to make sure you were okay…um-“ He locked his phone, setting it down on the bed before sitting up to face you. “You’re starting your heat soon….aren’t you?” You gave him a little nod, feeling a bit embarrassed discussing it with him knowing that in the past he seemed to get a bit jealous over you spending time with Minho and now you were about to share a heat with the man. “Yeah, I am-“ Seungmin nodded, looking down at his lap for a bit as he played with the hem of his sleep shirt. You hadn’t realized your talk with the two eldest of the group was long enough that he had time to shower and be waiting on you in your room. “Um- is it okay if I stay in here with you tonight? I’ve heard omegas can get really awful cramps during preheat and so I brought a few hot hands and thought maybe we could watch a movie until we fall asleep? I know it’s not the same as having a heating pad but-“ You couldn’t help but smile at his kindness, making your way over to kiss him softly on the forehead. “That’s very sweet, Seungmin. Yes, please stay? I just gotta wash up and then I’ll be right back yeah?” He nodded, his damp hair flopping almost like puppy ears despite its shorter length than in the past. You let out an involuntary giggle as you turned and made your way into the bathroom.

After your shower you came back and immediately flopped down onto the bed beside the main vocalist, snuggling up into his side causing him to shiver a bit with your still damp hair brushed against his neck. “No no, come on. Up.” You pouted a bit as he stood, tugging on your arm to pull you back into the bathroom. “What-“ He sat you down on the closed toilet seat and took the hotel hair dryer off of the wall as well as a fresh towel from the shelf. “You can’t go to bed with wet hair, you menace.” He teased, gently towel drying your hair some more before turning on the hair dryer. “Oh and you’re one to talk Mr CEO of menaces.” You giggled, flinching a bit as the hot air blew against your scalp. His eyes widened at the movement and quickly he turned the device off. “Too hot? Sorry-“ You nodded a bit, watching as he fumbled around a bit trying to get the temperature turned down before turning it back onto your hair. “Better?” You hummed, eyes closing as you let the warmth flow over you. “Mhm much better.” 

Once your hair was mostly dry you both went back to the bedroom and snuggled up close together under the covers, the beta opened up two of the heating packs he had brought and shook them until the began to warm. You placed them on your abdomen and sighed in relief, head resting on his shoulder. “Cozy?” He asked softly, arm coming to rest around your shoulders a bit hesitantly. “Very, thanks Minnie.” With a nod, he started scrolling through the options for movies while asking your opinion to see what you should watch.

The rest of your evening was spent curled up into the betas side as he gently played with your hair until you both fell asleep, the smell of sweet citrus and warm laundry filling the room and helping to lull you into a deep slumber.

author's note: Tumblr count your fucking days oh my god- you guys have no idea how difficult it has been trying to post this chapter...diabolical, truly- anyways please lmk your thoughts in the comments or reblogs as I love reading your reactions and predictions for my works~ how are we feeling about bunny’s heat and her choosing to spend it with Minho? I’m curious to hear what you think may happen next~~~

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