#build a fic

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

wake up call - spencer reid fem!reader

a night partying turns the morning into one big whirlwind of figuring out how the hell you ended up in your coworker's bed

genre: fluff wc: 1.4k warnings: bau!reader, odd!reader, reader momentarily thinks she slept with spencer, reader walks in on spencer in a towel, embarrassment a/n: this is for my build a fic!!! thank you so much for 500 followers i can't believe it i feel famous💗 side note: this is dedicated to my baby @esote-rika i love you so much mwah mwah

see polls here

The funny—or rather, awful—thing about drinking is that it almost never leads you to good places. It leaves you floaty, giggly (more so than usual), and without any feel for what’s appropriate. Boundaries are tossed out of every window, crashing harshly onto the street below and ruining everything in its path. Shy demeanors flake away to reveal unfortunately weird girls.

Fun and games, they say. It starts with partying with your coworkers and ends with one big group of drunk idiots. Drooling on each other, placing far too much trust in each other’s unsturdy hands.

Far too wasted and stumbly for your own good, you couldn’t possibly drive yourself home.

You knew that.

Yet…

Your eyes flutter open as the flurry of memories from the night previous remain that—a flurry. Each snapshot of laughter and secret spilling lasts only a moment each. Looking down at your legs tangled within sheets that aren’t yours, you realize you don’t know how you got here. And, more importantly, you don’t know where you are. You scan the room with hazy eyes.

Navy blue walls, wooden old furniture, scientific posters on the walls, books.

Spencer?

Yes, it was his apartment that said partying took place but why are you still here at—you look to the small clock on his nightstand—6:47am?

It’s not like you could’ve possibly…

Could you? Surely not, right?

Of course you think he’s smart, awkward, totally your type, but that doesn’t mean anything.

You think he’s adorable because, well, you have eyes.

But at the current moment you’re not sure you can place your trust in them.

So, does that mean you’ve slept with your coworker?

Your eyes drop to your legs again, this time noticing that they’re still covered by sheer black tights. That’s a good sign. One you’ll take to heart happily.

When your feet hit the ground, you’re unsure where you should go.

The side of the bed you hadn’t slept on is slightly disturbed. The pillow has the imprint of a person in it. You wonder if he slept alongside you for the entire night. You wonder if he felt it every time you repositioned yourself.

It’s not something to put thought into, you conclude.

With not one teensy ounce of consideration or any form of forethought, you pad toward the door and slip through. The remnants of last night litter the floor. A trash bag sits by the leather couch, filled with bottles and wine corks and paper cups. A blanketed silhouette haunts the couch. She’s blonde, pink lipstick faded and smeared in a not-so-fashionable manner. Soft snores fall against the leather.

Penelope.

Your graceless feet stumble back toward the bedroom that’s not yours. Frantic eyes search the room like it’s the first time you’re seeing it (it’s the second). Your shaky hands push the door closed, letting it softly click.

On the (not so) off chance you really did sleep with Spencer, Garcia is not the first person you want to know. Although, who is?

Not relevant.

Finding a spot on the floor, you cover your face. A soft groan passes your lips—a groan filled with pure self hatred. Because how did you end up here? In a very abstract way, you suppose it’s beautiful how every tiny decision—spontaneous or planned—affects where you end up. In a very realistic way, it sucks.

You think your impulse control accounts for at least half of the places you end up. As if to prove that point, you stand and walk to what you know leads to the bathroom. Mindlessly, your hand finds the doorknob of the bathroom door.

When it swings open, you’re welcomed with the sight of Spencer. Half naked and afraid—mortified really. In only his boxers.

You squeal, eyes being covered by your hands as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry! I didn’t—uh—!”

“It’s okay! Really—I should’ve…” his jaw goes slack when he realizes that you’re actually the one to blame. Not that he’d ever develop the capability to blame you for absolutely anything.

Spencer stares at you, standing there with your eyes covered and head low. His eyes trail over your crumpled clothes, your sweater, your shorts, your tights.

“I’m really sorry, I should’ve knocked or at least stepped really loud or—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong!” You can practically hear him shaking his head.

You nod and squeak, “I’ll leave.”

Your back is to him in an instant. Cheeks hot to the touch, you let out a long breath. You feel as though this whole morning has been plucked from your own personal nightmares. First, waking up with no memory as to what (or who) you spent the night doing. And then the horror you just caused.

You wipe smeared mascara from your under-eye, loathing yourself a little more every second that passes.

The door creaks open slowly before the silhouette of your coworker peeks out. Now, he’s in a hoodie and sweatpants—possibly the most casual you’ve seen him. Clearing your throat, you look down at your feet.

“I’m really sorry,” you mumble before going on a pure tangent, “I woke up and didn’t know where I was or how I got there or why I got there… and then I saw Garcia and then walked in on— well… you know.”

Spencer clears his throat in the same way you just did. “I know.”

You lift your head to find his eyes–wide and innocent.

“I’m really sorry!”

“It’s okay! I promise. I—I mean, you’ve seen other guys… like that.”

While he’s not lying a big lie, that’s not relevant information, is it? “Well, I— Yes… but I— That’s not—!”

“I just meant—!”

And then… silence.

Filled with awkwardness and tension, the room falls into utter quiet. You swallow to hopefully ease the queasy feeling settling in your gut. You’re unsure whether it’s caused by your liver trying to survive or by the man in front of you (and how you can now picture him naked). That is not a thing you’re trying to do, by the way.

“I know… what you meant,” you mutter softly, an awkward half-smirk finding your lips.

His eyes sweep over your face, taking his time to properly inspect each feature–eyes, nose, lips. This might be the first time you’ve been this close. In numerous ways.

You watch as his hand raises slowly to your face. Time is nothing but a unique concept understood only by the ones who crafted it. Slowly, gently, the pad of his thumb swipes away black product from your under-eye. It’s as if the slope of your cheek was sculpted for the purpose of slipping into place with the other half—him. Perhaps one lump of clay formed both of you. Those thoughts are redundant, anyway. Why not let them overtake you, even if only for a moment?

But the thought that still plagues you is if anything happened last night.

“What… uh… happened last night?” you ask shakily.

Spencer’s brows draw together. And his hand drops, cheeks pink. “You don’t remember?”

You shake your head, a frown haunting your lips.

His teeth dig into his lower lip so hard you think it could pierce the velvet skin.

Your mouth opens and closes several times, making you look like the closest thing to a fish out of water. But then you manage, in a high pitched mumble, “did we sleep together?”

Based solely on the comical widening of his eyes, you presume no. And you now want to curl up in a ball and roll under the nearest rock and set up camp for life.

His head profusely, insistently, shakes. “No, no, no! I would never– uh– you were intoxicated, I wouldn’t—”

“Okay!” you squeak, lips pressed into a thin line. That rock is starting to sound really homey.

He nods, his awkward smile mimicking yours. He clears his throat like he remembers something, and then walks to the side of his bed—the one you slept on. He leans down and picks up a pair of black Mary Jane flats. Yours.

He brings them to you and places them in your unsturdy hands. Your eyes meet and, frankly, you have to force yourself to look away. “Thank you,” you say to the floor.

You feel him nod.

With a lift of your head and the flats, you bid him farewell with a small smile.

And then you’re sneaking past Garcia, shoes dangling from your hand and eyeliner smudged.

A total cliché.

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ build a fic; forced proximity edition 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

➴ chose a space, an object and a line of dialogue (a number, letter, + creature), and write/request to your heart’s content!)

𓂃 ࣪˖ a space

꒰ 1 ꒱ a broken-down elevator

꒰ 2 ꒱ a gas station bathroom

꒰ 3 ꒱ a dusty attic

꒰ 4 ꒱ a dimly lit storage locker

꒰ 5 ꒱ a ship’s brig

꒰ 6 ꒱ a bank vault

꒰ 7 ꒱ a wine cellar

꒰ 8 ꒱ an armoury

꒰ 9 ꒱ a hayloft

꒰ 10 ꒱ a shipping container

꒰ 11 ꒱ a holding cell

꒰ 12 ꒱ a firewatch outpost

꒰ 13 ꒱ a secluded cottage

꒰ 14 ꒱ a security hut

꒰ 15 ꒱ the foot of a massive redwood

𓂃 ࣪˖ a body part

꒰ A ꒱ thigh

꒰ B ꒱ palm

꒰ C ꒱ knee

꒰ D ꒱ pinky finger

꒰ E ꒱ ankle

꒰ F ꒱ eyebrow

꒰ G ꒱ nape

꒰ H ꒱ ear

꒰ I ꒱ calf

꒰ J ꒱ stomach

꒰ K ꒱ lower back

꒰ L ꒱ chest

꒰ M ꒱ hip

꒰ N ꒱ scalp

꒰ O ꒱ knuckles

𓂃 ࣪˖ a line of dialogue

꒰ 𓆉 ꒱ “… would now a bad time to tell you that i’m claustrophobic?”

꒰ 𓅨 ꒱ “i- “ “sh, honey.”

꒰ 𓆣 ꒱ “you’re not okay, you’re shaking! what can i do? please, just- just let me help you.”

꒰ 𓃰 ꒱ “shit, someone’s coming- in here, quick!”

꒰ 𓃗 ꒱ “i’ve never been so glad that you run hot.”

꒰ 𓃱 ꒱ “i’m gonna take my hand away, but you have to promise to stay calm, okay?”

꒰ 𓃟 ꒱ “just never figured you for a little spoon.”

꒰ 𓆟 ꒱ “your eyes are really pretty up close.”

꒰ 𓆈 ꒱ “i know you don’t like to be touched, but there’s not a whole lot i can do about that right now.”

꒰ 𓅫 ꒱ “we’re gonna need to talk about some things after this, aren’t we?”

꒰ 𓅟 ꒱ “don’t bullshit me, i can hear your heart pounding.”

꒰ 𓃵 ꒱ “you’re a real good hugger, y’know that?”

꒰ 𓃓 ꒱ “i like your perfume/cologne.”

꒰ 𓆌 ꒱ “of all the fucking people to get stuck here with, of course it had to be yo- “

꒰ 𓆏 ꒱ “i can’t believe that this is what it took for you to let me hug you.”

[agentpeggycartering]

Buck/Tommy for the build a fic, please: "I say this with all the love in my heart, but you look like shit.", sickness, an airplane hangar

I am so so sorry that this took me nearly two months to finish. I hope you enjoy! 🫶

There’s a hand on Tommy’s shoulder and it’s shaking him. He tries to bat at it, but finds that he can’t lift his own hand that high. “Leave me alone.” Tommy mumbles, and he’s pretty sure it comes out unintelligible.

“Come on, baby, it’s time to wake up.” A voice says, and there’s a cool hand on his forehead, rubbing back and forth gently. Soothingly. He knows that voice, that voice is so familiar. Who is it? “Come on, I need you to open your eyes for me, sweetheart.”

Tommy does his best to obey, because he knows that voice and it’s asking so nicely, but his eyes are so heavy it takes him a few tries, and then he has to blink because it’s so bright above him, except for where the light is being blocked by a familiar looking body. “‘Van?” Tommy says, tongue sticking in his mouth as he squints up at his boyfriend. Tommy is so confused, what is Evan doing here? And in his uniform? “What are you doing here?” He asks, the words coming out before he can think to keep them inside his head.

“I’m here to take you home, sweetheart.” Evan says, and Tommy’s brow furrows. It’s not time for him to go yet. He might be really confused, but he knows that much at least. And how did he get here. Because Tommy distinctly remembers that he had dropped Evan off at his station, because the Jeep was giving him trouble and Tommy hadn’t had a chance to look at it before their shifts started.

“‘M supposed to pick you up.” 

“You were, yes, but that we before your Captain called me and told me to come and get you.” Evan says, crouching down so that he’s eye level with Tommy. 

Tommy frowns. Why would his Captain do that?

“Why did he do that?”

“Because you threw up when you went to get out of engine after your last call.”

“I did that?” Tommy says, in sync with thinking it this time.

“You did.” Evan says, running his hand through Tommy’s hair.

“Why did I do that?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. But I’m going to take you home and take care of you until you feel better, okay?” Evan says, and Tommy doesn’t say anything, just makes a noise of agreement, leaning into the hand in his hair. 

Tommy doesn’t know how long he sits there with Evan’s hand in his hair, but he does know that he doesn’t like it when it stops. He whines, and he doesn’t even feel embarrassed about it. 

“I know, sweetheart.” Evan soothes. “But don’t you think you’ll be a lot more comfortable at home? We can lay down in bed, you can snuggle up with your favorite fuzzy blanket, I can put on a movie, we can take a nap together.”

That does sound nice. Why are they still at Harbor if they could be at home doing that. “Okay.” Tommy agrees, and does his best to sit up. Evan is right there next to him, gently guiding him into a sitting position, giving him a moment to get his bearings before helping him up off of the couch and out to his truck. 

Buck helps Tommy get buckled into the passenger seat, adjusting the seat so that he’s comfortable. He puts a bowl into his lap, ‘just in case’. Tommy appreciates that, because he doesn’t fancy the thought of having to clean the interior of the truck because he got sick. Buck then goes around the truck and gets into the drivers seat and gets the truck started, adjusting the heating so that it’s comfortable for Tommy.

“Why don’t you go back to sleep, and I’ll wake you up when we get home?” Buck suggests, reaching over to run his hand down Tommy’s cheek. 

“Okay. Thanks, Evan. Love you.”

“I love you too, Tommy. Now get some more rest.”

[scealaiscoitetareisdorcha]

⋆˚࿔ build-a-fic 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

➴ chose a position, an action and a setting (a number, letter, + creature), and write/request to your heart’s content!

𓂃 ࣪˖ a position

꒰ 1 ꒱ lotus

꒰ 2 ꒱ spooning

꒰ 3 ꒱ missionary

꒰ 4 ꒱ doggy

꒰ 5 ꒱ prone

꒰ 6 ꒱ scissoring

꒰ 7 ꒱ 69

꒰ 8 ꒱ standing

꒰ 9 ꒱ reverse cowgirl

꒰ 10 ꒱ spit roast

𓂃 ࣪˖ an action

꒰ A ꒱ pressing a thumb into their bottom lip

꒰ B ꒱ teasing a nipple between fingertips

꒰ C ꒱ wrapping a hand around the column of their throat

꒰ D ꒱ leaving a hickey on their neck

꒰ E ꒱ holding their hips in place

꒰ F ꒱ giving their ass a soft (or hard) spank

꒰ G ꒱ leaving scratches on their back

꒰ H ꒱ holding their thighs apart

꒰ I ꒱ covering their mouth to quieten them

꒰ J ꒱ wiping away tears of pleasure

𓂃 ࣪˖ a setting

꒰ 𓆉 ꒱ a spare bedroom

꒰ 𓅨 ꒱ a fireplace-lit living room

꒰ 𓆣 ꒱ a bar bathroom

꒰ 𓃰 ꒱ a truck bed

꒰ 𓃗 ꒱ a cheap, flimsy tent

꒰ 𓃱 ꒱ a seedy motel room

꒰ 𓃟 ꒱ a balcony

꒰ 𓆟 ꒱ a work office

꒰ 𓆈 ꒱ a boutique dressing room

꒰ 𓅫 ꒱ an empty hallway

[mxnaluv]

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ BUILD-A-FIC ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

NEW EVENT!!!

Welcome to Build-A-Fic, which isn't building a bear; it's a one-shot that YOU build and send in my ASKS!! Reblogs and notes are greatly appreciated!! (You may use this template for your blog if you would like, just credit me please!)

HOW IT WORKS!!!:

You choose a letter, number, symbol, and character of your choice from the list of fandoms below. And I'll build the fic of what you choose!

RULES

You have to pick at least one of each category and you can choose more than one of each category if you choose

You can specify if you would like it to be gn!reader or not

I do tend to get a lot of submissions in, so if you want a better chance then send yours in more than once!

If you want the $mut, then the character HAS to be 18+, no aging up.

HAVE FUN!!!

FANDOM LIST: Ensemble Stars, Naruto, Attack On Titan, Any Kpop Group, Demon Slayer, Mystic Messenger, Haikyuu, Chainsaw Man, Jujutsu Kaisen, Death Note, Black Butler, Marvel, Bungou Stray Dogs, JoJo's Bizzare Adventure, Sk8 The Infinity, Love and Deepspace, Saiki K, Studio Ghibli, One Piece, Obey Me, Blue Lock, Heaven's Official Blessing, HunterXHunter, SpyxFamily, DC

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ -

numbers

FLUFF

Sunny Day

Picnic

Laying Down

City

Shopping

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:·

ANGST

Battling

Arguing

Loss

Fear

Thunder

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:·

SMUT

Date night

Eating

Surprising you

Help me zip this up

Too much to drink

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:·

letters

DIALOGUE A) "What the Fuck?" B) "Oh! I remeber that! C) "I don't owe you anything." D) "I hate you!" E) "Is that what happened? Tell me more." F) "I think that was a bad idea..." G) "Poor you." H) "No one can hear you out here." I) "Isn't it beautiful?" J) "What's that smell?" K) "I wasn't being sarcastic." L) "That's my favorite ____!" M) "Why would you think that?" N) "Do you like it like this? Or this?" O) "Stand back a little." P) "Will you marry me? Q) "I want a baby." R) "You want a baby?" S) "Is this our last goodbye?" T) "Do you want a pillow?" U) "Is that real?" V) "That's not what you said last night?" W) "That's a horrible idea!" X) "Or I could ___." Y) "That's the last time I'm doing something like that." Z) "You were doing so good, what happened?"

·:¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨:·

symbols

SETTING LIST

+ - Balcony

= - Parking Lot

$ - Grassy Field

^ - Apartment

% - Hot Springs

! - Beach

& - College

? - Bedroom

( - Mall

) - Cafe

< - Fancy Restaurant

: - Busy Street

┏━━━━━•❃°•°•°•°❃•━━━━━┓

I always welcome your requests and dms, and I'm excited to add even more in the future! As a student, I do my best to manage my time, so it might take me a little while to respond—please don't feel sad or offended if I haven't gotten to yours yet!

reblogs and notes are appreciated!!

[rebelpeas]

poll masterlist

[morganbritton132]

17 year old, CEO Tim Drake canceling a press conference and then putting out a statement like, “Sorry for canceling last min, Alfred said that he was going to run my laptop through the dishwasher if I didn’t clean my room. I think he’d do it :/. Also, wasn’t really in the mood. Cya -Tim.”

[yallstar]

Jayce knocked against the underside of the roof, acknowledging the driver. He then returned to kissing Viktor slow and hot, seemingly content to ravage him until the very last second, ignoring the halfhearted protests. He just continued to hold Viktor close, petting along his body like he possessed the same soft luxury as the rest of their surroundings. Viktor boggled at the realization – not just that Jayce might be greedy in love, but that he considered Viktor something worth coveting.

more art for chapter 4 of differential burdens in displacement

[demigodsanswer]

There's this moment in Mark of Athena (I think), where Annabeth kind of internally laments that Percy doesn't listen to her when she talks about architecture. She describes his eyes glazing over etc etc. But there are several moments in the books where Percy recalls facts she told him and shares them with other, or moments where he sees a building he thinks is cool and thinks about her. And I just ... I need Annabeth to know that her best friend & boyfriend is hanging onto every word and even sharing her facts with other people.

[senvurii]

oh bedrock bros. i wish you could come home

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

build a fic!!!

in honour of reaching five hundred followers, i'm planning a very special fic which i actually won't be planning at all! this time, you are the planners. every day for the next week i'll post a poll with options for the fic. the winning answer will be incorporated however i choose.

i'm hoping this will be a good way to find out what you guys enjoy and i'll hopefully be catering to your needs!

bonus poll...

poll masterlist

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ build-a-fic 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

➴ chose a line of dialogue, an emotion and a setting (a number, letter, + a creature), and write/request to your heart’s content!

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ a piece of dialogue

꒰ 1 ꒱ “i can’t fucking believe this.”

꒰ 2 ꒱ “what they said back there. is it true?”

꒰ 3 ꒱ “it’s not safe here anymore- we need to leave. now!”

꒰ 4 ꒱ “you know how much i care about you.”

꒰ 5 ꒱ “they’re never going to hurt you again.”

꒰ 6 ꒱ “here, let’s get you warmed up.”

꒰ 7 ꒱ “i didn’t do it. please, you have to believe me!”

꒰ 8 ꒱ “i’m taking you home, and that’s that.”

꒰ 9 ꒱ “do you trust me?”

꒰ 10 ꒱ “i can’t sleep either. mind if i join you?”

꒰ 11 ꒱ “you’re not your worst mistake.”

꒰ 12 ꒱ “try and eat, if you can. it’ll make you feel better.”

꒰ 13 ꒱ “i say this with all the love in my heart, but you look like shit.”

꒰ 14 ꒱ “they’re going to surround us. we need to get ready.”

꒰ 15 ꒱ “i need you to leave.”

꒰ 16 ꒱ “we can’t be seen together like this. not anymore.”

꒰ 17 ꒱ “it’s dangerous. i need you to know that before you agree.”

꒰ 18 ꒱ “it’s just one night- surely sharing a bed for that long won’t kill us.”

꒰ 19 ꒱ “it’s getting dark, we should think about heading back.”

꒰ 20 ꒱ “what have i told you about coming here?!”

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ an emotion

꒰ A ꒱ disdain

꒰ B ꒱ grief

꒰ C ꒱ ecstasy

꒰ D ꒱ disbelief

꒰ E ꒱ anxiety

꒰ F ꒱ contentment

꒰ G ꒱ drunkenness

꒰ H ꒱ enjoyment

꒰ I ꒱ confusion

꒰ J ꒱ fear

꒰ K ꒱ hunger

꒰ L ꒱ relief

꒰ M ꒱ distrust

꒰ N ꒱ fondness

꒰ O ꒱ delight

꒰ P ꒱ hurt

꒰ Q ꒱ love

꒰ R ꒱ sickness

꒰ S ꒱ exhaustion

꒰ T ꒱ betrayal

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ a setting

꒰ 𓆉 ꒱ the corner bed in a hospital ward

꒰ 𓅨 ꒱ a spare bedroom

꒰ 𓆣 ꒱ an alleyway behind a dive bar

꒰ 𓃰 ꒱ a mountainside shrouded in fog

꒰ 𓃗 ꒱ a skeevy motel just off the highway

꒰ 𓃱 ꒱ a barren industrial plant in the middle of nowhere

꒰ 𓃟 ꒱ the lush, indulgent foyer of a member’s only club

꒰ 𓆟 ꒱ the war room of a military blacksite

꒰ 𓆈 ꒱ the produce aisle of a 24/7 supermarket

꒰ 𓅫 ꒱ the bedside of someone who doesn’t want you there

꒰ 𓅟 ꒱ the walk-in fridge of a failing restaurant

꒰ 𓃵 ꒱ a rickety old barn’s hayloft

꒰ 𓃓 ꒱ at work, far later than you should be

꒰ 𓆌 ꒱ a stranger’s bed at dawn

꒰ 𓆏 ꒱ an airplane hanger

꒰ 𓅭 ꒱ a medical bay that stinks of antiseptic and fear

꒰ 𓆗 ꒱ the kitchen of a derelict house

꒰ 𓃢 ꒱ the dressing room of a luxury department store

꒰ 𓆧 ꒱ the place where grassy plains meet desert dunes

꒰ 𓃔 ꒱ a beach at low tide

[frownyalfred]

“You are way too pretty and smart for someone who gets kicked in the face every single night.”

Bruce swirled his Cab around, not looking up from his glass. The corner of his lip quirked slightly. “Sounds a little like jealousy to me.”

Lois audibly scoffed over her Chardonnay. “Please. I’m remarking on how unlikely it is.”

“You should know how tenacious…” Bruce trailed off and finally looked up, meeting her eyes, “…beauty and intelligence can be, despite the odds.”

“Your attempts at flattery disgust me,” Lois told him.

“Attempts?” Bruce asked, wounded.

“Is this how you talk to my husband?”

“Mhm,” Bruce downed the rest of his Cab, making a face. “We don’t usually talk.”

“Bruce.”

[soullessfawn]

Build a MCYT fic!

Hello my Tumblr fans, I’m doing a build a fic poll on my Twitter, it ends in three days. It’s to celebrate me getting a hundred followers over there, I would really appreciate it if you vote on the polls!

[ruinix]

recent walk in..sugar daddy quinn mad when he realizes you haven’t been using the black credit card he gave you for expenses

Hello, lovely. Of course, hehe.😏 You did not catch me writing this. I am just a ghost taking over the keyboard. I need to put this out before a new walkin comes out.... (edit not really fully sugar daddy!quinn. But he totally would pay for everything type of boyfriend)

Broken Promise, Broken Cards

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Spanking (pussy slapping??), Edging, Unprotected sex (protections, lovelies, they’re important), Squirting, Just Quinn being so angry that he became calm and he edges you coz he can.

Count: 3356 -> 3734 words (Edited) | Masterlist

You’re sending him pictures of your shopping. One picture after another. One choice after another. Quinn helps you pick when you ask for his opinion. He has no problem answering your texts while he watches a replay of a game. The only problem is that Quinn has yet to receive a notification from any of your purchases.

With that, he can no longer focus on the game. It’s just white noise now while he refreshes his inbox.

Swipe down. Wait. Close the app. Open it. Swipe down.

Over and over again, whenever you send him a new photo of your successful purchase.

None. Not a single fucking one.

He is getting too agitated when he receives a photo of a paper bag of a particular brand of lingerie with your delicate hand holding it. You have your nails done earlier this morning. It’s so pretty with your favorite shade of pink and favorite flower designs. Just like how you described it before you went out. He can’t wait for your hands around him tonight.

‘Focus,’ he reprimands himself.

Shaking his head, focusing on the paper bag instead, locking in the brand, he gives the purchase a few minutes to process—or whatever the fuck—but again, nothing. He stares and stares into the screen, his eyebrows meeting. He remembers having every transaction on that card to be sent over his email too. He set that up long before. So, where the fuck are they?

Are you actually buying things or are you stealing them?

Did you bring cash?

Quinn didn’t give you cash for anything else other than your nails and the tip for its service today. His frustrations build up. He’s so close to calling the bank and making sure that the card is activated. When he receives another message, he takes a moment to calm down—he has to—before opening it.

He immediately gets distracted by how bright you look. You are grinning so much that the corners of your eyes crinkle, a blush flushing your face. Your nails are on full show once more as you hold up the bag next to your face. So beautiful.

After a solid five minutes, he remembers to refresh his inbox. Only then does it dawn at him.

Are you even using the card he gave you? No, that can’t be. You promised him to use that card today. You are definitely using it.

Aren’t you?

One last swipe down to refresh his email. Still nothing.

What the fuck.

You’re definitely not using the card.

Quinn paces. He’s getting angry for you breaking your promise, getting worried because you’re buying a lot of stuff today. More than you usually do. Didn’t you just complain about your depleting savings last night? It’s one of the reasons why he secretly transferred a few hundreds of dollars—exactly three thousand—into your account. He knows that you didn’t notice it, because you would’ve transferred it back to him after you lecture him about it. If it’s not that, did you suddenly replenish it in your own way? He quickly checks the date and confirms that it’s nowhere near payday, so that’s not it.

Where the fuck are you getting your spending money?

He refuses to acknowledge that you might be using your old credit card. The one with a fucking limit.

It can’t be.

There is no fucking way.

Something snaps in his head, pushing him to act. He rushes to your office, powers up your computer, and signs in without a hitch, because you’ve never put a password on it. If you do, he knows about your little notebook of passwords under your desk plant next to your monitor.

He never really goes through your stuff. He is content and trusts you with everything. Everything. He knows exactly how deeply you feel about him as much as he does with you. Although sometimes you hide your phone from him, that’s when you’re texting your friends about him. It’s obvious because you keep snickering while throwing glances at him. He doesn’t mind that. Not at all. You can talk to your other friends about other stuff. The fact still remains. He trusts you.

But, right now, he is losing it. He needs to see. He needs to look into your email. Just this one time. He’ll apologize for it later.

His eyes are locked on the notifications, the receipts, the confirmations. The account number on every single one of them is not the one on the black credit card he has given you. He had it memorized, and it doesn’t fucking match. You are not fucking using it. What the fuck.

An ache forms in his chest. It’s like a horrible backhand that could shake up his teeth, so horrible that he had to run his tongue over them, making a clicking sound to ensure his teeth are still rooted. He crosses his arms. His legs are spread wide as he slouches against the backrest, one leg bobbing up and down. He glares at the screen, trying to will the emails to disappear while he burns them one by one in his mind. He tries a different route to imagine the account number to change, but of course, nothing works.

He rubs a hand over his face. His head pounds at the start of a headache. His phone pings from another message. It sounds like a blaring siren, making his ears ring. After a few moments, a new mail pops up.

This is so much worse than you realizing the deposit in your debit. Because one, you broke your promise. Two, he feels useless. If you were not going to use the card, you could’ve let Quinn accompany you during this shopping spree that would at least appease his soul. But then, he can force his card into the hands of the cashiers. Realization hits him.

That’s exactly why you didn’t let him tag along. You know he’ll talk his way to overtake your payments. Exhaling, a chuckle escapes him. A smirk forms on his face as he gazes up the ceiling. You are such a clever girl, aren’t you?

He’ll give this to you, but you are in so much trouble when you come home.

As if on cue, you text him, “I’m on my way home.”

He turns your computer off, standing up. An eerie calm envelope him. He’s still so angry, yet instead of vibrating and burning outwardly, it settles deep inside his bones until nothing comes up. It’s an odd feeling. It’s not heavy. It’s not light. It just is. A calm before the storm.

He undoes his second top button. If you really want to use your credit card, you can. You’re your own person. Still, you should have kept your promise. Such a bad girl.

He walks back to the living room and sits down on the single seater, reaching the remote to close off every curtain, making his place dimmer and dimmer and dimmer.

Then he waits.

He waits until you come in with your impressive haul. Extremely impressive, because you have your arms full already. When you put them down, you only leave to get more of them until you get a little pile in the living room. It’s amusing how your grin looks so self-satisfied, not realizing that he’s sitting in the corner of the room, until your eyes land on him. Your smile turns sheepish, taking your hands behind you, not daring to come closer.

Truly clever.

“Hi, Quinny. Didn’t see you there.” You wave.

“My Love,” he greets, beckoning you with a finger, but you refuse to come, shaking your head. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to put these away.”

He watches you start with one bag with the little nightgown that looks so fucking sexy. You’re clearly distracting him and it’s working. Slightly. He obliges you, his amusement growing the more you ramble. You’ve enjoyed your shopping trip. You speak at a quicker pace than you usually do. You have a little bounce on your step. Your happy energy radiates from you in waves while you continue taking everything out of bags which you fold right after. He knows you’re aware that he knows. That’s why you’re taking your time.

Quinn’s aware that you are genuinely delighted that you distract yourself more than him.

He’s proud and happy that you enjoyed your day.

Truly.

It doesn’t erase the fact that he has already lost it. The calm that his anger turned is what’s keeping him from pouncing on you, from taking you over his lap and slamming his hand on your bare ass until you got handprints that will bruise and ache for a couple of days. Just like how you want them.

He still can’t believe that you’ve broken him just from breaking your promise.

It’s entirely laughable.

Yet heat streaks down his spine, down his lean abdomen, down to his cock.

He’s so fucking hard.

He stands up, stalking towards you while you’re crouching next to a pile of paper bags. You’re still rambling a pottery workshop you’ve come across. You’re saying that you want to go back there so you can make mugs for each other. When you’ve already successfully built a mug collection in one of his cupboards.

So adorable. So clueless about the danger prowling towards you.

He stops, his shadow looming over you. He counts the seconds, but you still don’t notice him, do you? Then he sees how your hands start to shake. You do. Silly girl.

A chuckle escapes him as he grabs your arm. He swiftly pulls you up then lifts you over his shoulder.

“Quinn!” You squeal, hitting his back a couple of times. “Put me down! You’re making me dizzy—”

You let out a moan when Quinn slaps the tender spot under your ass.

  “Quiet,” he orders, making you whimper like the dirty slut you are. “What did you say before you left?”

“Bye?” You sound so confused. “I love you?”

He spanks you on the same spot again, making you moan and whine. Even more when he slips his hand under your skirt, his fingers trail up and up, then he puts you down on the bed. Instantly, you flip over, looking at him like he has taken everything from you. He can already hear your protest that’s sitting on the tip of your tongue. He glares at you, daring you to speak them, but you don’t take the bait. You usually do.  Interesting.

“You bought a lot.” Quinn crawls over you.

His hand flattens over your sternum, effortlessly pushing you down.

Your pupils are so blown out when he levels his face with yours, his nose grazing yours, your breath mixing with his. He can smell the gum you chewed on before you arrived, the perfume you’ve sprayed behind your ears. Your eyes fall down his lips and up his eyes again, perfectly seducing him, but he refuses, moving away when you try to kiss him, your tongue darting out to entice him.

Not yet.

“Quinn,” you whine.

“Why’d you do it?” He asks. He kneels up, flipping you over your stomach, pressing a hand on your lower back to keep you from whatever you’re planning which is being  a brat.  

“I didn’t do anything,” you say with pout, shuddering when he slips his hand into your shirt. He unclasps your bra without exerting an effort, so used to your undergarments. “What are you doing? I haven’t showered yet.”

Quinn doesn’t fucking care if you showered or not. Since when did he care? He doesn’t care even if you come from a workout. He has fucked you like that. Many times. All sweaty and dirty. He already licked your sweat as he plunged deep inside your quivering pussy. You coming from a whole day of shopping is simple play for him. You’re just trying to get out of the inevitable punishment.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he rumbles against your ear. He slides his thick fingers under you so he can touch your tits. So soft. So perfect in his hands. Your nipples are so taut from anticipation and his attention. He pinches the sensitive peaks, your hips coming up to grind against him. He pulls away, receiving an unsatisfied groat. “Uh, uh. Answer me before you get what you want, you dirty slut.”

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp.

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?” He grits. He slides down one hand down your abdomen, down into the waistband of your skirt, down until he reaches and feels the wet patch on your panties. He presses and teases along your clothed slit. “See? So fucking wet. I barely touched you.”

“Quinn, please,” you plead, panting for more.

Why are you still not repeating your broken promise?

He’s getting so annoyed. He forces your clothes off, tearing every piece of clothing on your beautiful body. He ignores how much you complain, ignores your little ‘ouch’ because you’re full of shit. There’s no way it’ll hurt when he is tearing the fabric instead of pulling it against your fucking skin. Do you think he’s fucking stupid? Do you think he’ll hurt you that way?

He’s not a fucking rookie.

He keeps you down, spreading your legs by kneeling between them, watching how your pussy drips on the silk sheets, how your entrance quivers, begging to be filled. Languidly, he feels your folds. You feel so fucking good, so fucking soft, so fucking wet.

You gasp and moan like you’re already getting fucked. You’re just so sensitive, aren’t you?

Then he gives you a slap right there. On your dripping pussy. On your clit. His other hand grips your hip to keep you there when you attempt to crawl away, but he gives you another slap. Then another. Another.

You are moaning and writhing from the pain, begging him to stop, when you’re the one pushing your wet cunt against his palm. You keep seeking, even after briefly reeling away from every hit. Your eyes look over your shoulder, meeting his, begging and begging, mentally conveying, “More, more, more.”

Such a good slut.

His slut.

You’re his.

Quinn slides his middle finger into your heat, smirking at how your walls quivers around him. Your cunt is so red from his spanking. His thumb teases your other hole. You writhe, wantonly moaning, pathetically grasping the sheets for support.

You’re not running away now, huh?

Not when he is fingering you. Not when he pounds and puts pressure on that specific spot that has you screaming breathlessly. You want this so much. You’ve been waiting for a relief that he can easily give you.

He adds another finger, thrusting them into your pussy. Harder. Deeper. The squelching noises are music to his ears when it’s coupled with your moans and groans.

Then he feels the familiar pattern of your pussy walls. You’re going to come soon. He knows you so much. Knows your pussy more than you. Knows your little tells like how your thighs quiver, how your toes curl, how your back arches into the bed.

He knows it.

So, it’s so fucking easy to just…pull away.

You look back harshly. You look betrayed as your breaths come out choppy. Disbelief reflects in your eyes, not used to him not letting you come. He always makes you come. Not now though. Quinn takes his fingers from your arousal to his lips and slowly licks them, like he’s feasting on your pussy, groaning at how you taste. Fuck, you’re truly his favorite flavor.

“Quinn, I…” you call, your eyes tearing up. “You didn’t…”

He flips you over your back. He rests your ass over his thighs while your legs are spread out.

“Didn’t?” he mocks which you only process that as a question. You’ve already been dumbed by your pending orgasm, by your need for it.

“I didn’t come,” you whine, jutting your hips up the air, begging for another touch. “Please make me come.”

“Yeah,” he nods. That makes you smile, sighing in relief. Shaking his head, he silently says, “No.”

He doesn’t let you say another thing, plunging his fingers into your pussy. He fucks you fast and deep, thumb swiping over your clit just so perfectly, only to pull away when you’re on the verge of an orgasm.

By the third time, you finally understand what’s happening and you’re begging and begging.

Your pleas don’t reach him though.

They can’t. Not when he’s still not satisfied. Not when you still don’t say anything. However, the strange calmness that locked him is already dissipating the more he makes a mess out of you. The more beautifully and frustrated you cry.

Oh, his poor, sweet Love.

“Quinn, I’m sorry. I just wanna use my card.” You sob. “I’m sorry. Please. Please. I need to come. It’s been an hour.”

An hour?

You’re counting?

He pauses his torture, because you are finally talking.

You cover your face, hiding your fucked out face, hiding your beautifully blushing cheeks, hiding how your hair sticks to your skin.

“I saw you deposit money in my account again. I thought using my card would be a great revenge. Now, I know it’s not. This sucks! It hurts not to come. We both know you’re just going to pay the bill when it comes.” You sob, looking absolutely hurt and exhausted.

Quinn quickly pulls you up, soothing you with a hug. He sighs as you melt into his touch. You sniffle but your hand reaches between you two, tugging at his pants, trying to get to his cock.

“You have to make me come.” You beg, looking at him with your best puppy eyes. “Please?”

“You always beg so perfectly.” He tucks your hair behind your ears. “Wasn’t so hard to admit your wrongs, was it?”

“I know. I already said sorry—”

He cuts you off by pushing you back. He quickly tugs his pants down, pressing his dribbling cock to your pussy, shuddering at the feel of your trembling entrance. One swift thrust and he’s seated inside of you. Fuck. Your pussy is truly made for him. He perfectly fits. All of him. He can feel every crevice, every texture, every arousal that coats you deep inside. Shit. So good. He can come just by being inside of you, by feeling your tight pussy’s embrace. Did you know that?

But he knows that it’s not enough for you tonight.

You need him to fuck you, so he does. He fucked you hard and rough that your eyes are rolling up as you come. Even then you plead for more and more.

So he gives you everything. Changing the tempo here and there, going slow and deliberate, going back to a fast pace. He gives you everything because you deserve it.

Every time he feels that you’re about to come again, he whispers into ears, “That’s my good girl. Give me one more. That’s it. My good little slut. Take what you need. Come, my Love.”

Every time.

He draws out your fifth orgasm then he comes deep inside you, swearing loudly into your ear. He’s coming so hard that his eyesight dims. Your pussy milks every drop of his cum. How he still manages to flick your sensitive clit while he comes so hard is a mystery, but it doesn’t matter when you start to gush.

You’re making such a mess.

You always do.

“Quinn, oh my, fuck,” you cry out.

“It’s okay. I got you. Just let go, my Love,” he encourages, flicking your clit again and again, until you’ve successfully drench both of you. “No more?”

“No more. No more.” You shake your head, so he stops. “Kiss me.”

He obliges you, kissing you, whispering praises in between. You both spend minutes just kissing until you’ve calm down. Quinn gives you one last kiss before he stands to run a bath. He puts a few drops of lavender and chamomile oils in the tub. It’ll soothe you.

He comes back out to wrap you with a fresh and heated towel while the bath fills up. You look so spent, so Quinn holds you for a few more minutes, whispering more and more soft praises in your ear, because you’ve earned it.

When he hears the tub fill up, he takes you to it. He helps you in, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Just relax here. I’ll join you in a bit, okay?” He says as you settle. You nod at him as your eyes slowly blink. “I won’t take long. Don’t sleep. Not when I’m not here.”

“Okay, Quinny,” you say as you yawn. Your tummy rumbles. “Hungry.”

“I’ll get you a sandwich then I’ll make dinner after our bath. Sounds good?”

You smile at him.

His heart flutters, his stomach filling up with butterflies. He presses another kiss on your head, before he’s off, leaving you to have a little alone time. He got one thing in his mind.

He made his way to your bag that’s left behind on the floor. Humming a soft tune, he carries it to the counter, setting it down, as he takes out the ingredients for a sandwich. Just bread and your favorite jam. Washing his hands quickly, he fixes your sandwich, placing it on a plate. He also takes a fresh and cool bottle of water. It will do for a light snack before dinner, but he doesn’t take it immediately to you.

He sits on a stool, rummaging through your bag, finding your wallet.

He smiles at your photo with him there. It’s taken from a polaroid. He knows there’s another photo tucked behind it. It’s you and him in an ice rink that you had personally printed out. You’re truly cute.

He touches your face, heart pounding at how breathtaking you always look.

Even when you’re so fucked out, your beauty never changes. He can’t wait to grow old with you. He bet with everything he has and more that you will still look like the beautiful woman in the world, because you are.

Then he takes the credit card you’ve used today.

His smile never goes away as he stares at it for full minute.

Then he snips it in half and does the same to another and another.

Now, you only have one card left.