#maybe i can even talk them into letting me work remote most of the time once onboarding is finished

[sheyshen]

fixed the oven today (the things i do for pizza), dusted and vacuumed, sent out a couple more applications, did some laundry and emailed my idhs contact to see if i can use the PTO that was listed on my last paycheck. now to kick back and game all weekend!

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied nsfw, implied noncon/dubcon, poly yanderes, sprained ankle, captive reader, apocolypse au, talk of fertility, murder of unnamed characters, mentions of potentially killing reader

♡ FEM reader

♡ P2: Staying

Just thinking about the apocalypse, the two army men who’ve long survived it in their shelter with barely any trouble, and then you, a poor girl trying hard to outrun your last captives only to run into them.  

You didn’t realize back then that it was like trading piranhas for sharks, too caught up in begging for their aid to think better of it. You should have just kept running, but your ankle was sprained badly, maybe even broken, and you were wearing so little you would most likely have died from the cold during the night if they hadn’t taken you in.

It seems unfair of them to have kept the giant bunker all to themselves, only the two of them, but you don’t judge. You would likely have kept it all to yourself as well.

This new world has bred new humans, and they’re all monsters. It’s honestly quite surprising they’d even let you in, given this is what they’re protecting, this sanctuary from the past, a comfort most people would kill their closest friend in exchange for.

Trust is all but dead, and so is honor or any other morality—you would know, you’ve lived out there for it all, only having survived by spreading your legs at the right moments. It’s a shameful tactic, and many times, you’ve wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to spare yourself and just die. What was the purpose?

This—you think. This must be it. They have showers and working hot water.

You don’t know how it’s possible—the original owners of the shelter must have been some type of millionaire. You haven’t had a warm shower since the world went to shit—years ago. It’s been a choice of waiting for rain or finding a lake, hoping it wasn’t rancid. Meanwhile, they have soap—scented soap, the lush kind you’d forgotten existed. It feels so nice you have to cry—rejoice—sobbing while lathering yourself, watching all the filth go down the drain, leaving you smooth-skinned once again for the first time in forever. You can’t remember having ever been so clean before, feeling reborn.

They have fresh clothes for you too—new socks and underwear, all clean fabrics, so much more than what you wore—pants, a shirt, and a sweater to keep warm. You didn’t know there still existed people who lived like the old days—you’d thought it was long gone, a bittersweet dream you sometimes have the pleasure of at night instead of the usual nightmares. Never had you thought you’d experience anything even remotely similar, but here you are—looking yourself in the mirror after so long, surprised to see a human looking back at you.

And they feed you. Not scraps, not leftovers, not rot, or days-old flesh from the last successful hunt—but freshly baked bread, vegetables, fruit—for fuck’s sake, they even have juice. You cry again while eating, and then you find yourself begging them again, “Please, let me stay—please, I’ll do anything. I can cook, clean, work—anything at all, I can do it, just please let me stay…”

You’re on your knees, forehead pressed to the heated metal floors—toasty and comforting, you think you could sleep better than ever right there.

“We’ll think about it,” one of them mutters as he gathers the plates. His voice was so harsh he might as well have said, not a chance. It’s clear by his frown that he’d rather send you right out again, leave you to the monsters.

“We’ll at least let you stay until your ankle heals, so don’t worry.” The other is more sympathetic, helping you up. “For now, let’s get you to bed. You must be exhausted.”

It hadn’t crossed your mind that they’d have beds—actual real soft downy mattresses and duvets and pillows. The two of you help make it together. It feels so foreign that you wonder if you might have died earlier. Some years back, you wouldn’t have thought heaven would resemble a prison cell, but now it only made sense—safe metal walls and a bed. What more could one possibly want in the world?

“I’ll wrap your leg for you if you sit.” He holds out a bandage roll, gesturing to your ankle.

Blinking, you can’t even register what he’d just offered until he’s getting down on his knees before you.

You panic, then. Bandages are hard to come by—it hardly seems worth it. “There’s no blood, you shouldn’t waste it—”

“It’ll heal better and faster this way,” he adds reassuringly. His voice is so soft and compelling that you find yourself sitting down without further quarrel, even when it makes you feel spoiled.

He’s gentle with you—holding you steady while wrapping it just tightly enough to be supportive. There hasn’t been a man who’s touched you like it.

“Does that feel okay?”

You can barely tell he’s talking to you. It’s all so lost on you that you can only wordlessly nod your head.

He fastens it just as carefully before standing. “Is there anything else you might need?”

You shake your head just as wordlessly. You can’t believe how nice he’s being. It makes no sense at all. Not in this world. Not anymore.

“I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to lock the door,” he apologizes with a sheepish look once standing on the threshold.

You’d been stuck thinking about how warm the room was, trying to remember a single time you hadn’t been freezing during the night. “That’s okay, I understand,” you say. After all, what’s a locked door in comparison?

“Good,” he smiles—it’s likely the kindest smile you’ve ever seen. “Alright then, good night.”

Once again, you’re left stunned. The last time you’d heard those words spoken must have been from a loved one long since dead. It makes your lip wobble again as you say it back, “Good night.”

It's strange—they could have left you for dead but didn’t. They don’t seem gullible—they can’t be if they’ve managed to protect this place for so long—but you suppose there still exist men who have a soft spot in their hearts for helpless damsels in distress.

As you sink into the comfort, draping your duvet atop your battered body, you don’t even care about the camera in the ceiling—blinking red while watching you.

“Did you have to bandage her up?” he grumbles as the other walks into the bedroom after having said his goodnights to you. 

He’s already in bed, observing through the cameras on a tablet—you were currently curling into the duvet, wrapping it around you close for comfort. You’d likely not slept on anything so soft in a while—it wouldn’t surprise him if you preferred the floor. But no, you drift asleep quite quickly.

“You know how badly things can heal without proper support,” the other answers, regarding it as no big deal. “And besides, it’s not like we often need it—we have plenty to spare.”

He removes his clothes and crawls onto the bed as well, lifting the covers to slot himself right next to the other man, who still has a scowl on his face.

“Oh, come on…” he drawls. “She’s exactly what we’ve been talking about, isn’t she?”

The grump doesn’t answer, still with keen eyes watching you, even as you’ve fallen asleep—as if waiting for you to do something befitting a wild animal in a cage. The other’s eyes fall to the screen as well, but he only awes in delight.

“Look at her, already fast asleep,” he purrs while zooming in on your face. “I mean, did you see how she was begging earlier, what she said? I’d do anything,” he continues, almost whining. “So cute, I could have fucked her right then and there.”

The other man sets the tablet aside with a disagreeing sigh. “We’ll wait at least a week for her system to detoxify from the wasteland,” he says strictly. “I’m not touching her before then, and neither are you unless you want to sleep alone.”

The other groans then, flopping down on his back. “Yeah, yeah, you and your safety protocols,” he dismisses before a smirk creeps up his face, glee twinkling in his eyes as he looks up at his grouchy counterpart. “But then we keep her, right?”

“Tch—we don’t even know if she’s fertile. The wasteland could have made her barren as long as she’s been out there,” the other shuffles down into the sheets as well, turning to look at his partner and the awfully keen look on his face.

“So we test her. Give her a medical check,” he says, again as if it’s not a problem, even when it very well could turn out to be.

They’ve already broken quarantine rules by letting you in here—and who knows what your real objectives truly are.

“I don’t trust her,” he states.

The other pouts. “I don’t see what one little lady can do—she’s hardly a threat. And we already purged the group that was following her. I doubt any of them made it out alive.”

True, he had gone out and sent several gas grenades into the settlement. Surely, none of them managed to escape, but then again—

“Pest control only works when you kill them all, and we’ve just let one inside our own house,” he grumbles.

The other one sighs. “Okay, so if it turns out she isn’t as cute as she looks, we’ll deal with her like the rest. But if I’m right, and she really is just a harmless little thing, we keep her, and I get to have the first go.”

Suppose there isn’t anything better to do aside from killing you straight away, which would only have been a waste of food, water, clothes, and bandages. 

“Fine.”

The other grins at the agreeance, humming, “I guess until then, we’ll just have to make do with each other—I've been hard since we watched her shower.” He leans forward for contact but is shut down as his bedmate rolls around with his back turned to him.

“Tch—take care of it yourself.” Tonight has been too stressful to tug each other’s dicks. 

He can hear him whine behind him, but he settles down soon enough.

Suppose it would be nice fucking a woman again. It’s been so many years he figured he wouldn’t need it anymore. They’ve made do with each other so far. But even he can’t deny, once you’d washed all the blood and muck off, once he saw the dewy hue of your soft skin and the silk of your hair, all those plush curves, and not to mention that awfully sweet look on your face—he felt the tug in his pants too.

He'll do a medical check on you tomorrow. He hopes you’re fertile. But even if you’re not, he might give in to the other’s wishes and keep you anyway. After all, they might have many luxuries, but the comfort of pussy is one they haven’t had in a long, long, long time.

♡ BNHA – KiriBaku, BakuDeku, ShinKami, DabiHawks, EndHawks, ErasurMic ♡ JJK – SatoSugu, ItaFushi, SukuIta, ♡ HQ – Miya twins, KageHina, BokuAka, ♡ CSM – AkiDen, YoshiDen ♡ BLLK – NagiReo

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[luveline]

Jade can I please get a chatty af yapper sunshine girlfriend with Sirius?? Like May be someone tells her she talks a lot so she's super quiet around him cuz she's worried he'll get annoyed and break up with her but poor Sirius he misses his chatty girl and just angst with fluff

thank you for requesting! fem, 1.4k

James Potter means well. Honestly, you don’t think he has a mean bone in his body, so you try not to take it to heart. 

Unfortunately, your attempts to do so don’t work. They really, unquestionably don’t. By the time you’re outside of Sirius’ flat that afternoon, James’ small comment is all you can think of. 

“You’re so chatty I’m surprised you don’t run out of breath,” he’d said. Not without love. You’d bumped into him in Sainsbury’s and ended up talking for ages about one thing or another, you know him well, you’d even say you were friends, though he’s of course Sirius’ friend rather than your own. “But I’m the same. God, Sirius used to hate how much I talked, he’d be sick of me. I think I numbed him to it over the years.” 

You can’t imagine it. Sirius and James are best friends. With Remus, they’re the most in love threesome of friends you’ve ever met, and it’s nice; it makes you very proud to have a boyfriend who cares for others as deeply as Sirius cares for them. It’s like a constant demonstration of how he’s a good man. 

But you’d never stopped to consider that they weren’t always so seamless, and you’ve regrettably never considered that your constant talking is something that could put him off. 

You talk to Sirius about everything. There isn’t a word to describe the excitement of having someone waiting to listen to you every single night. You could tell him every detail of a day down to what colour socks you wore and you know he’ll sit there listening with his hand on the small of your back, or his fingers twined between yours. You’ve never felt so loved as to be able to just talk about everything and have him talk back. 

But… what if, this whole time, he’s been wishing for a little bit of quiet? 

What if eventually, the talking becomes too much? 

He must be with you for a reason. You aren’t holding the poor guy hostage, he acts like he’s mad for you ninety percent of the time (while the other ten percent is spent sleeping on your shoulder). 

Like now —you knock his door and you can hear him scrambling up from the sofa, the sound of a book dislodged or a remote hitting the rug, you’re not sure. The door yanks open and Sirius smiles at you, pulling you in through the gap with a familiar hand on your hip. 

“Hey,” Sirius says, tucking you against his side, “hey, did you get lovelier over the weekend?” He shoves the door closed and gives you a hug with one arm, pausing in the hall. “Sorry I couldn’t see you. I don’t think we should miss another weekend.” 

You have a lot to tell him. It’s been ages since you spent nearly three days apart, but James’ conversation stays at the front of your mind. 

You decide to be less overwhelming, but not less loving, curling your arm behind his head to pull his cheek down for a kiss. “I don’t think so, either.” 

Sirius tilts his head away from you in an invitation for more kissing. 

You’re at home in his flat. You take off your shoes and hang up your jacket. You change into a pair of jogging bottoms with loose legs and let him hoist you onto his bed for a few stolen kisses, though he isn’t propositioning you, and you end up laying across his bedspread with one of your legs in his lap as he tells you about his days without you, his thumb sliding with pressure down your calf. 

“Mostly I wished I’d asked you to come over anyways, even if it was just to sleep together at the end of the day. Maybe next time we can do that?” he asks. 

“Of course we can.” You smile at him indulgently. “I’d come over for twenty minutes if it was all I could get.” 

“Or I can come to you,” he says, “even if it’s just twenty minutes.” 

He smiles, a beaming thing, and leans down slowly for a soft kiss. 

“So,” he asks, his breath on your lips, “how was your weekend? Lonely?” 

“So lonely,” you tease lightly, eyes fluttering closed as he continues his massaging of your leg. “But it was okay. I missed you, really, and didn’t do much else.”

“No?” he asks. 

Your voice takes on a shine as he squeezes your knee, “Missed your hands.”  

“I missed your everything.” He grabs for your forearms and pulls you into a sitting position. “But everything was okay?” he asks more seriously. 

“Everything was fine.” 

He raises his eyebrows, but eventually lets them relax. “Well, okay. Good, sweetheart, I’m glad it was okay.” 

He persuades you into the kitchen to sit with him as he makes dinner, refusing to let you help, and yet insisting you be there in the same room, as though you’d like to be anywhere else. Sirius makes your favourite of his usual rotation, offering you spoonfuls for tasting, gaps of silence stretching as he struggles to find new conversation. You start answering his questions but remember time and time again that Sirius could become totally sick of you. He might already be. 

Sirius puts the food on a low heat and washes his hands. He wipes them dry, but when he takes your face, dampness lines the inside of his fingers. 

“I’d like for you to tell me what’s wrong,” he says gently, stroking at the line of your startled frown, “before it gets worse. Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Nothing’s wrong.” 

“Please don’t, lovely. If I’ve done something wrong, please tell me. I want us to last forever, and we can’t do that if you won’t tell me when I upset you.” 

“It wasn’t you,” you say instinctively, then regret it. 

“So someone has?” he asks, still so gentle as his hands coast down your neck like he’s sculpting you, coming to rest on the slopes leading to your shoulders. “You can tell me anything. You don’t have to keep it to yourself… please.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Sweetheart.” He frowns deeply. Couldn’t look more upset. “Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

You chew it over, not wanting or willing to cause ructions between Sirius and his oldest friend. “Well, I saw James today at the shop, and… we were talking about you…” 

He waits. “And?” 

“And he told me you– you don’t like talking. That you didn’t like talking, that James used to make you sick of it. So I know I talk too much and you’ve never made me feel like I shouldn’t, but I guess I got into my head thinking you’d get sick of me, too.” 

“When we were younger I didn’t like much of anything.” He curls an arm behind your neck to hold you in place, but it’s not a dominant sort of movement, only protective as your noses inch together. “Did you ever read that poem by Bukwoski? Let It Enfold You?” 

“What?” 

“I’m not very good at explaining myself. I thought if you knew the poem, you’d–” He laughs near your cheek. “I hated everything. It wasn’t James’ fault. He did make me sick of it sometimes, but I just wanted to hide from everything.” He breathes out slowly. “I’ve never wanted to hide from you. I can’t get sick of you. Do you get that? I can’t get sick of you. Listening to you is the best part of my day, you’re my personal chatterbox.” 

“Chatterbox,” you repeat teasingly. 

“You could talk for Wales,” he says. “And I love it, I don’t want you to stop, because I’ll never be sick of it.”

“I don’t want it to be some secret resentment.”

“I don’t resent you for anything. I knew exactly who you were when we met and I love it.” He takes your face again. “I love it,” he repeats. 

You steal a little kiss against the corner of his lips. “What was the poem?” you ask. 

“I’ll find my book, and you can read it to me. What do you think?” He takes a slow kiss as you had in the same place, words like honey. “I miss your voice.” 

He’s basically pleading. It’s not like Sirius to plead, but you pull it out of him. 

“Can I have my dinner first?” 

“The one I made while you deprived me?” he asks. “Yes, if you must.” 

He takes another kiss, but you’re happy to give it. 

[joelsgoldrush]

“you can use my skin to bury secrets in” | 6.8k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his brain. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?” OR Logan had always known your generosity would get him in trouble. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. pining. mentions of alcohol. dirty talk. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). logan’s POV. angst/self-deprecation (he just needs a little loving). religious imagery. feelings. petnames. chauffeur!logan. oral sex (m receiving, tiny bit of f receiving). sort of dom!logan. doggy style. unprotected p in v. creampie. A/N: i could say i'm sorry for this, but i'm not. love love love this old man (#needthat). heavily inspired by the song "i know" by fiona apple. @lubdubology my partner in crime who keeps putting up with me, tysm!!! hope you all enjoy it <3

The line between being a good and bad person is thin. So thin, in fact, that Logan finds himself stepping back and forth across it constantly.

Rescuing a kitten from a tree? Good.

Punching a guy at a bar because he didn’t feel like being acknowledged? Bad.

Saving countless lives from mass destruction? Good—heroic, even.

But killing others to do it? Bad—condemnable, scum of the earth.

Where does that leave him? Which side has laid claim to his soul? He’s long accepted he’ll never see the pearly gates.

When the day comes that his body can no longer take it, and he only grows wearier, he’s pretty sure there’s a special place in hell with his name on it, etched in some grave awaiting to be filled.

Maybe Satan’s already counting down the days until he shows up at his door, who knows?

Yet, the more time passes by, the less afraid he is of what lies beneath the surface. He’s learned to coexist with the darkness, with the kind of pain and loneliness that would crush most men.

He doesn’t know how, but he survives it—the agony, the memories, the solitude that hits him from time to time.

And still, he doesn't lose himself entirely. He’s tempted, of course, to linger in the past—it’s always easier to drown there.

If he could go back, he knows he wouldn’t be alone in choosing that path. Some days, it feels like the only option.

But there’s no you in his past.

Logan inhales sharply when your tongue teases his slit, lapping at the precum pooling there. You hum at the taste, your hand resting on his bare thigh, fingers pressing into his skin. Your other hand lazily strokes the length of him, working the inches your mouth can’t take.

It’s clear you’re enjoying this. He can tell from the way your lashes flutter each time he thrusts a little deeper into your slick warmth. A win-win situation.

Letting a girl like you do this to him? That’s bad. Very bad. Red flags all around.

He meets you when he least expects it.

It’s a night like any other. He’s been driving for God knows how long. His joints ache from being in the same position for hours, and a part of his left knee he didn’t even know could hurt begins to throb.

It takes everything in him not to call it quits for the night, not to turn around and head home like a coward.

When exactly his life fell into this monotonous cycle, he’s not entirely sure, but it happened somewhere along the way. Now, it’s all the same: taking care of Charles during the day, catching an hour or two of sleep, then gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, driving through endless stretches of road, resisting any attempts at small talk from the passengers he chauffeurs around.

They all try—every single one of them. They think if they can crack his harsh and bitter exterior, he’ll open up, reveal something, anything to make their eyes go wide.

But why? Why do they insist on breaking through his shell? What do they hope to discover?

No one really cares what’s going on in his mind. They just want to feel good about themselves—like they’ve been kind, amiable, empaths intending to fill some empty and obscure corner of their own lives.

Logan refuses to be the person who grants them that satisfaction.

You slip into the backseat of his limo, closing the door with a soft click. The night clings to you, the scent of the bar still lingering on your clothes. The music is loud enough for him to hear from outside, and he sees the people lined up at the door, willing to cause a fight if it means securing a good time.

There's a slight frown tugging at your features, your lips pulled downward, though your voice is still polite when you blurt out your address.

Five minutes into the drive and you haven’t said a word. Internally, he’s savoring the silence, so happy he could jump on one foot.

This kind of peace is rare. He’d grown unaccustomed to it. The tension in his shoulders eases as the city lights blur past.

But, all good things come to an end, because—

“How’s your night going?” you ask, fiddling with the seatbelt to have something between your fingers. Logan glances at you through the mirror, his eyes catching yours just for a moment, long enough to see the faint, apologetic smile you offer him. He allows himself a heartbeat more to take you in before focusing back on the road.

You click your tongue, a soft sound of disapproval ringing in his ears. “Well, thank you.”

He lets out a quiet huff, grinding his teeth together. “I’d prefer if we stayed like we were before,” he mutters, his voice rough and gravelly. His attention flickers between the passing cars and the occasional glimpses of you that startle him every time he searches for the mirror. Cars. You. Cars. You. You. You. “Y’know, not talking.”

“But that’s no fun at all,” you retort, sliding more to your left, nearly positioning yourself in the middle of the backseat. It gives him a better view of you—whether intentional or not, he can’t say.

The lipstick on your lips is still flawless. A sparkly necklace glints just above the neckline of your dress, and matching earrings dangle from your ears. Wrapped in a leather jacket, you look effortlessly alluring.

This entire sequence is enough to confirm that by no means is he going to heaven. Straight to hell, he thinks, allowing his gaze to trace over each detail of your frame. Straight to hell.

You don’t give up. “Your aura is off.”

That prompts a crooked smirk from him, a shake of his head as he mumbles under his breath: “M’sorry, my what’s off?”

“Your aura,” you clarify, motioning toward him with a light jingle from the many bracelets adorning your wrist. “It’s the energy that surrounds you.”

Logan snorts, amused for a brief second. “Well, you weren’t exactly a beacon of life when you got in either.”

You chuckle softly, leaning back against the seat and looking out the window. “I’m much better now.” A pause before you continue, your tone shifting, losing strength. “My date stood me up. Last-minute cancellation.”

It’s not anger, nor is it disappointment, that laces your words. You seem more resigned than anything else. He’d have expected you to sound at least a bit more conflicted.

“I should’ve seen it coming. He’d been asking to move it forward for a while.”

Does he look like the type of driver who doubles as a therapist? He wishes he could understand why you're telling him all this.

“That sucks,” he still responds, because even though he hasn’t gone out with a woman in what feels like centuries, he understands that sensation all too well. “First time meeting him?”

Listen up, everyone—he’s genuinely engaging in conversation with another soul. This doesn’t happen often.

He hears you hum, eyes still trained on the outside world. You sigh, crossing your arms over your torso. “Would you mind rolling your window up? I’m kind of freezing here.”

“I’d mind that very much,” he says, his voice carrying its usual gruff edge. He fights the urge to grin, but then you unbuckle your seatbelt, leaning in closer to him. Your body is wedged between his seat and the passenger’s, and he perceives your stare boring into his side profile. “Put your seatbelt back on.” 

“You’re fucking with me.” Your finger taps his shoulder once, twice. “First, I get all dolled up for an idiot who bails on me, and now you have the nerve to make fun of me? Give me a break.”

Your eyes stay on him, a smile plastered on your face, anticipating any possible answer.

Crack, crack, crack—you intend to break through his shell, watching him from the front row, waiting for the moment it gives way.

Before you can say more, he cuts you off. “Seatbelt.”

It’s a command, an instruction, and you comply without hesitation.

Warmth pools and stirs low in his gut as he notes how quickly you obey him. 

Would you still look at him like that if you knew the blood he’s scrubbed off his hands? The flesh that his claws have shredded? The names of the lives he’s taken?

Would your warm gaze turn cold, filled with dread instead of curiosity?

Maybe this is hell. Are you the Devil in disguise, tempting him to cross a line he won’t be able to come back from?

A few minutes later, he pulls up to your building. A really nice one, he notes. You announce you live on the sixth floor. He doesn’t need to know that, does he? Why would you tell him that? Why give that piece of information to a complete stranger?

You linger in the backseat, as though you’re expecting him to turn and look at you. And he does, though not for the reason you might expect. “You got everything?”

Eager and full of life, you nod, clutching your purse to your chest. You avert your gaze to read his ID tag, the one that contains his personal details. “James?”

“Glad you can read,” he utters, pulling out a small bottle of liquor from under the seat. He drains it all in one go, savoring the fleeting burn as it slides down his throat, which is enough to keep him going. “C’mon, kid. I already charged you.”

“You drink while you drive?”

“Keeps me entertained,” he says dryly. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. Raising the empty bottle in your direction, he arches a brow. “Goodnight, darlin’. Leave me a good review on your way out.”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

For a couple of days, you don’t bother him again. Bother—notice the implication of the verb in question.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you after that drive. Each time his phone buzzes, a small, restless part of him hopes it’s you, asking for his services, wanting him to be the one you seek out.

And it happens. The best things seem to occur when the moon hangs high and bright.

You: Hi.

He stares at the message, recognition washing over him. He knows it’s you; he can see the other texts you exchanged that night he took you home.

You: Are you working tonight?

You’ve got to be kidding him.

Logan: Why are you texting me?

He types the words with frustration, his thumb hovering over the screen longer than usual. 

You: Why are you answering me?

Oh, you’re smart. 

Logan: Take my advice. Talk to a guy your own age.

You: Damn. Already jumping to conclusions. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have a drink with me.

Logan: I’m busy.

You: Well, what time do you get off?

Logan: I work all night.

You: Can’t even make a quick stop? I swear it won’t take you more than twenty minutes.

An impulse to throw his phone out the window surges within him, but he manages to restrain himself.

Then, as if on cue, the device vibrates again—of course, it’s you.

You: The drinks are on me. Let me know if you change your mind.

Do you think he’s going to let you pay for him? Absolutely not. 

What surprises him more than the message is how easily he remembers your address. It appears to be ingrained in his mind.

He cancels his next trip, scheduled for ten minutes from now, his new destination being your building.

Once he pulls up, he does what feels most natural: he honks. Multiple times. Maybe he’s lucky and you’ll tell him to fuck off.

But you don’t. You’re laughing as you make your way over to the limo, sliding into the backseat in the same way you did a week ago. Your plan had succeeded—you had him exactly where you wanted.

Far from hiding it, you make it evident, obvious. Your heartbeat thrums in the air, and Logan can hear it loud and clear, like the bass in one of those funky songs he likes.

There’s no room for mistakes. He won’t deny it. Even if the feeling is mutual, he can’t shake the idea that he’s doing something wrong.

In his eyes, you’re the forbidden fruit—irresistible, the ultimate temptation known to humankind, camouflaged in the fur of a pretty woman.

You, his paradise on earth, could only lead to one thing: a longing for a chance with you, which he should never be granted in the first place.

He’s diving headfirst into disgrace, and the more he realizes it, the worse it feels. If he were to be scolded like a child, maybe he’d feel relieved, but he’s no kid. He’s a grown-ass man who should be able to resist.

Yet, self-restraint is like sand slipping through his fingers—never lasting long enough.

“You came.” Astonishment. Uncertainty. Amusement. Blinking your eyes at him, you sit very upright, and you don't even bother fastening your seatbelt. “Honestly? I thought you were going to block me.”

I can’t, he thinks. I wouldn’t be able to. I’m not that strong.

“What happened this time? Another failed date?” he inquires, still not starting the car. A look of perplexity appears on your features, puzzled about why he’s not moving. “Ain’t you forgetting something?” He tugs on his own seatbelt for emphasis, the fabric snapping back into place against his coat.

Once again, you follow his lead. “I don’t need to get stood up to want to see you,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance—or so he tells himself. It takes him all his willpower not to collapse right then and there. “Besides, I’m not bad company. I’ve been told I can be pretty funny.” 

“I see…” he trails off, catching your gaze through the rearview mirror, not shocked in the slightest to find you waiting for him to look back. “Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you should. You invited me.”

How easy it is to make your chest rumble with laughter, the genuine sound bubbling up, pure and unrestrained. He feels like some amateur comedian who has just realized his real passion is to cause this type of response in others.

Except, it’s not just anyone’s laughter he insists on provoking—it’s yours, and yours alone.

An unsettling sensation envelops him the second you retrieve your hand, not before squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner. “There’s a bar I go to with my friends sometimes,” you suggest after a beat, shoving your phone in the pocket of your jacket. “We could try that one.”

The moment he steps inside, regret washes over him. Why is everyone here under forty? He feels ancient, like fucking Fred Flintstone.

A fossil out of place, meant to dwell in the shadows, not in a scene like this.

When he freezes in the middle of the bar, your fingers intertwine with his, tugging him along, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. The only thing he’s missing is the leash.

You’re met with his quirked eyebrows as you peer into his eyes over your shoulder, a toothy grin threatening to shake the floor beneath his feet. “You know, people usually sit down before they start getting shit-faced.”

“I’m not getting drunk tonight.” Logan exhales a deep breath, trying to hide his discomfort, his eyes scanning the room. “And neither are you,” he practically yells in your ear trying to make himself heard above the pounding music and incessant chatter. He wonders if you even hear him at all.

The two of you eventually settle at the counter, drinking in silence. Logan half-expects one of your comments to pierce through the quiet, but you delight in proving him wrong.

Instead, your head sways gently to the rhythm of the song playing in the background, and you take a trial sip of your beer.

He’s acutely aware of the stares from the rest of the patrons. He can pretend to be oblivious, but the weight of several pairs of eyes burning holes into the back of his neck doesn’t go unnoticed.

Being watched has never been his favorite pastime, and somehow, it feels even more uncomfortable with you by his side.

He knows what those looks imply, can nearly taste the hidden implications behind each fleeting glance.

What’s a girl like you doing with a man like him? A question that makes no sense.

Does he have money? A well-endowed reputation? Did he recently inherit any properties?

Are you truly that desperate for human contact?

Is your bed so cold that you decide to go for the first guy who can string ten words together?

Logan doubts whether this whole experiment is part of the community service you must be doing. Maybe he should look up your name online to see if any criminal records come to the surface.

Now that he takes a moment to ponder it, you certainly fit the mold of the criminal type. The kind who gets what she wants when she wants it, leaving a trail of intrigue on her wake.

His fingers circle the glass so tightly he fears it might shatter into a million shards. You notice his tension, nudging his arm with yours, aiming to meet his eyes.

When you do (because, as he said, criminals have their own ways), you smile, and he internalizes that gesture as something familiar, something he feels he’s grown used to. Something rankled in his memory.

It’s as if he’s known you for a lifetime.

“Thank you for coming,” you say softly, and he may be going down the path of hallucinations,  but your attention remains a little too long on his lips. Then, just as quickly, it flickers back to the rest of his face, and you lean back to drink from your beer once more.

Straight to hell, he thinks, tasting the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, for ever daring to believe himself worthy of even a moment of your precious time.

You’re probably the first person to have his full, undivided attention. And that’s… well, that’s saying something.

Most days, you’re pretty talkative, a steady stream of conversation, your words pouring out in an endless flow.

You tell him about your family, your career, that pet of yours that died when you were six years old. You mention a friend you no longer speak to, and the events that led to the downfall of your friendship.

There’s also that dish from your all-time favorite restaurant, the one you buy at least once a week because it never fails to comfort you.

Nonstop, you talk and talk, and Logan doesn’t mind one bit. Soon, he finds himself becoming an active listener—asking follow-up questions, chuckling at your jokes, even when they’re not funny at all.

He sincerely cares about what you have to say.

This whole situation with you is beyond his comprehension. Before he realizes it, you start wanting to spend more time with him.

Sometimes, you ride along in the passenger seat while he drives aimlessly through the city.

Sometimes, you invite him over, cook a meal, and he always takes the leftovers with him, as if a part of you goes with him when he leaves.

Sometimes, you come over to his place, and the roles reverse—you’re the one with the mic, asking the questions, fully aware that you’re treading on holy ground. 

Logan’s got a sign on his forehead that reads ‘Stop: do not enter.’ It’s rough around the edges, hardened by the years, all capital letters in stark blank ink. But in the end, you just take the sign and set it aside.

He never goes into too much detail. Not because he doesn’t trust you—it’s just that there’s too much to unpack, and you don’t need to know all of it. You’ll be better off not carrying the garbage he does.

Yet, you’ve got him by the throat, encouraging him to cough up disjoined pieces of his life, bits of his day, his thoughts, his feelings. It sounds stupid to him, but you make him feel alive. 

You never judge him, never flinch when he brings up stories from his past. As he sits at your table one afternoon, you look at his hands, his claws fully extended, and you don’t shy away. You rub the pad of your thumb across the rough skin of his knuckles, right where the adamantium tears through his flesh.

You don’t care that he’s a mutant, that he’s killed people. You don’t try to deny who he is or what he’s done. Oddly enough, you just wish to be by his side, staring off into the void with him. 

“But why?” he asks, partly flattered, partly frustrated. This could be compared to learning a new sport from scratch—he can’t figure you out, can’t understand why you haven’t run the other way yet.

He likes your company, though he’s always bracing himself for the inevitable day you find a better hobby and leave.

Your reasoning defies logic, and he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll grasp the gravity of your choices.

Almost as if you could feel the turmoil brewing in his mind, you simply say: “You’re nice to be around.”

Nice. Nice. Nice. He’d cackle if he were alone. That word reverberates through him. When was the last time someone called him nice?

Bad-tempered, sure.

A pain in the ass? Definitely.

But nice? Not a term people employed to describe him.

It’s a quality reserved for you, with your endless charisma and kind heart, but not for a man of his kind.

He’s nothing more than a chauffeur, a driver, someone who does and says what’s necessary to survive. Does that make him nice? 

When he tells you he’s probably going to hell, you don’t try to make him feel better. Anyone else in your position might try to soothe him, to offer some hollow reassurance.

Your intention isn’t to change him, for him to pretend to be something he’s not. “Then I’ll meet you there,” you mutter, your shiny eyes searing into his. Under the table, your hand finds his, tender fingers grazing over his knuckles, and for once, he doesn’t pull away.

Could it be that an afterlife catching fire doesn’t sound so bad after all?

As much as he likes to admit how easily you can shift his mood, today is not one of those days.

He’s had a nightmare—nothing new, but this one had been… different. The empty bottle on the nightstand hadn’t been of any help; it never does when they visit him in his sleep.

The ghosts of those who used to be his friends, his family, tiptoe around his dreams in the form of shadows.

Blood. Screams. Shouts of his name. He can’t save them all. Walking through the wreckage, he dodges the bodies of those he couldn’t protect, the knot in his throat tightening with every step, not allowing him to breathe.

Wherever he turns, there’s death, destruction. Sadness. Did he save them all?

It’s always the same routine. He wakes up, screaming, chest aching from the effort. His lungs burn, and he has to remind himself that the limbs attached to him are his own and not the remnants of an immobile corpse.

Sweat clings to his skin, pooling at his temples and nape. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, rubbing at the soreness in his neck.

His phone rings somewhere in the distance, pulling him from his dizzy state. He scrambles to his feet, accepting the call just before it hits voicemail.

It's you. Despite it being late, he swears he feels the gentle kiss of the sun over his brow. Your sweet voice chases away the lingering shadows of his dreams, replacing the bitter taste in his mouth with something real—a reason to get up, to start moving.

He holds onto every second of the brief call, replaying those thirty seconds in his head as he steps into the shower. When the cold water shocks his system, it pulls him fully back to consciousness. He has to get ready.

Even though you insist on getting a taxi, he refuses. He doesn’t mind the drive. His gas tank does, his wallet maybe, but Logan? He just doesn’t.

At the end of the day, he’s protective by nature, and who knows what kind of men are roaming the streets at night?

God forbid they’re anything like him—eager to prompt a smile from you, trying too hard to impress you. He arrives at the conclusion that he’d rather lose fuel and money if it means orbiting around you for longer.

You make him feel better, and tonight, he needs it more than ever. He needs you.

(Now he’s driving. He honks five times when he pulls up to your building. You get on the limo, giggling as you say: “My neighbors must hate you.” He grins. You kiss him on the cheek. Subtle. Not the first time. Still, it doesn’t get old. He feels the faint residue of lip gloss on his skin. He doesn’t wipe it off.)

Not in the mood to cook, you declare as you step into his place. The mouth-watering aroma of the Chinese food you bought fills the air, but when he reaches for the bags, you insist that he sit and relax.

Sure, he can take a seat. But to expect him to relax with you around, playing this intricate game? That’s simply impossible. You’re asking for too much. He’s a player at heart, drawn to the thrill of the chase, and he will play along.

What seems inconceivable is the expectation that he can act as if nothing is happening between these four walls.

His attempts to focus on you are futile, as his mind betrays him tonight. All he hears spilling from your lips is pure and plain gibberish. Your very presence is no longer enough to anchor him.

Already immune to your charm, Logan eats his noodles, occasionally nodding when your voice rises at the end of a sentence, indicating a question.

But he nearly chokes on his drink the moment he registers your serious expression, having never witnessed you like this before.

“Are you even here?” you ask, shoving your food aside with a swift motion of your wrist.

What should he answer? What is it that you want to hear? Of course! I’m here, listening to you. It’s a delightful night. Should I start by telling you about my most recent nightmare? Quite the entertainment!

There’s a shake of his head as he lowers his gaze, escaping your concerned expression. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” You tug your chair forward, claiming a piece of his personal space. You know he doesn’t mind. “Want to talk about it? Did something happen?”

“My brain is just… off today.”

“Many thoughts at the same time.” Not a question. Have you completely figured him out?

“Yeah.”

He remains still, dragging his plastic fork across the now-cold steamed veggies, which have lost their appeal.

How amusing—your knees bump against his, drawing his attention. “Can I help you?” It’s new, the breathy tone you’re using, a whisper of agitation weaving through your calm demeanor. 

“Can you erase my memory?” he shoots back, attempting to smirk through the wave of memories that flash behind his eyelids. When he looks into your eyes, the siren in his head blares.

Your pupils are dilated, blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweaty palms that you wipe on your jeans. Tongue darting out to lick your lips. Your heartbeat accelerates, drumming wildly like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings.

He hasn’t been with a woman in ages, but he knows how they react when they see something they like—or, in this case, someone.

“Logan.” His name rolls off your tongue once more, tinged with an unmistakable need. The thought of checking his temperature dances through his mind, but the heaviness in his limbs roots him in place. He feels feverish. “I want to help you.”

Oh, no. No, no, no, no—

“What—what are you on, sweetheart?” Get up. Find your keys. Drive her home. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his head. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?”

He’s no longer in control of his actions. His right hand crawls up your knee, palming the fabric of your pants. It’s numbing: a lapful of you, your rich smell, your quickened pulse.

Tempting. So fucking tempted to take you right now, just like this, without the need for words. Your bodies can communicate in a language of their own, one that transcends spoken phrases. 

I want you, he lets you know through the way he gropes your breasts over your shirt, squeezing them together. He’s always been good with his hands. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a sweet thing like you?

His patience teeters on the edge of a precipice. “Tell me what you want.”

“I asked you first.”

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t know the answer?” He thrusts into the air, grinding against your clothed core, and you close your eyes. He’s rock hard beneath you, the bulge in his jeans shockingly obscene, bordering on grotesque. “We both know what I want, but I’m no telepath, baby. Need you to speak up.”

Twisting the locks of hair at his nape, you press your lips to his neck. “I want to make you forget, to focus on this moment. I want you to live in the present, Logan.” A bite on his earlobe sends shivers down his spine, and he grips your hips with a primal growl. “I can do whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me, and I’ll do it, please.”

Please? He’s spiraling. Please? That’s it—he’s doing it. He’ll grant you your plea, which aligns perfectly with his own desires.

Once his back meets the mattress in his room, you get to work. With delicate precision, you pull down his pants, sliding his boxers off until only his thick thighs and the crown of short curls adorning his cock remain in sight. Your fingers tremble slightly before you wrap them loosely around his length, and it springs to life in your grasp.

Your gaze pierces into his, mirroring the intensity of his own. But something holds you back, prompting you to reach for his hand.

At that moment, it all clicks into place. Logan urges your head down onto him, and he’s welcomed by the slick warmth you provide.

Indeed, he’s very much alive.

“That’s it. That’s—fuck. There you go.” 

His fingers dig into the mattress, clutching the cotton sheets, stopping himself from thrusting into your mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—God, he does—but tonight, he’s on his best behavior.

He wipes the trail of drool from your chin, smearing it gently across your cheek, his thumb lingering as he watches your nostrils flare with a strained, muffled gasp.

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he tastes the wetness on it the same way you’re sucking him: greedily, without any trace of mercy.

This proves I’m going to hell, he thinks, enraptured by the sight of his cock disappearing between your parted lips. Straight to hell.

You draw him back to the present, nuzzling your face against his thigh, your humid breath teasing his thick shaft, pulling him from a deep reverie. Your glossy eyes roam, exploring until they find his, and you gift him an authentic smile. Wrecked and blissed out, it’s as if the lights are on, but no one’s truly home.

He would’ve never guessed how much you reveled in sucking cock, radiating enthusiasm with each of your movements.

“Am I doing it okay?” you wonder aloud, hovering over the tip, swirling your tongue around the velvety head. He’s no fool, and neither are you; deep down, you know you’re doing more than just okay. Actually, you’re giving him the best blowjob of his long, long life.

Each panting, airy praise he huffs fuels your eagerness, making you even more receptive to his desires as the words slip past his lips.

“Fuckin’ amazing, honey. Got me so hard, y’see?” His tone is heavily charged with carnality, gripping himself and smacking the tip against your mouth, the wet sound echoing like music to his ears.

He pulses against your tongue, and you seize the opportunity to trace the thin veins scattered along his length. Gulping, with his gaze fixed on you, Logan notices how you’re still wearing your clothes, wiggling your hips against the mattress, rubbing your thighs together to get something in return. “Are you wet?”

Humming against him, you suck in shaky breath. 

“Words.”

“I’m—I’m wet,” you rasp, voice hoarse. You try to guide him into your mouth and fail miserably, because his grip only tightens, stroking himself instead. “Logan,” you keen, stretching your neck in a silent plea, “don’t be mean.”

“Not mean. Just enjoyin’ myself,” he replies, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head, arching his eyebrows. His fingers curl around your chin, drawing your face nearer to his girth, fascinated by how your eyes flutter shut the more you surrender to the pleasure. “C’mon. Be polite.”

Blame him for it—he believes he’ll never get tired of this game.

“Please.” You whisper, returning to your begging while tenderly rolling his balls, staring at him through your lashes. And then you say it again: “Please.”

Your gaze burns a hole through his crumpled heart. He lets you have it, eager to give whatever you may ask him for. You dive back into it, engulfing his length and bobbing your head up and down with fervor. Hushed whines escape your lips, savoring another bead of his precum.

Logan almost loses it as you hollow your cheeks, instinctively cradling the back of your head. “Easy, baby. M’not going anywhere. Take your time.”

Whenever he feels himself approaching that long-awaited release, he forces his mind to conjure thoughts that will stall his impending orgasm.

The water stains from flooding on the walls.

The supermarket list.

The rising price of gas.

The—

“Fuck. Slow down,” he groans, utterly captivated by the way you point your tongue to draw imaginary patterns along his cock, seemingly memorizing every detail. “Don’t go too hard on me, remember?”

You mumble something under your breath, and at first, he can’t quite make it out. “What is it?”

“I said I want you to fuck me.”

Under no circumstances is he surviving this night.

“Really, doll?” Logan seeks the reassurance he desperately needs, fearing that this is all a dream from which he’ll awaken the moment he properly touches you. “You sure you want this old man to fuck you?”

You’re a rambling mess, murmuring Yes, Logan, please, until he maneuvers you to lie on his chest, his glistening cock sliding against your clothes, leaving a trail of dark spots. A whimper dies on your tongue as you brush your lips together, your hot breath enveloping him. “Give me a kiss at least.”

Tilting your head up, he connects his mouth to yours, growling as he detects the dull, sour tang of what must be him. He sucks your bottom lip, hardly aware of what his hands are doing until he shifts your positions, pinning you down.

Logan tugs at your clothes, peeling them away with urgency, his fingers dancing over your nipples until you’re grinding against his thigh, quivering beneath him. With a nip at your damp skin, his eyes flutter open as he studies your expression, casting you a glance that seeks your permission.

A ripple of desire courses through him when you dutifully turn over beneath him, pressing your face further into the pillow. He runs his knuckles along the curve of your ass, his throat going dry as you follow after his touch, arching your body in response.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he licks a long, slow stripe up your wet folds, keeping his tongue flat against your clit for a brief moment. Your arms give out and you stumble forward, stuttering as you mewl his name, fully consumed by the feeling.

So he does it again, and again, and again, flicking the sensitive bud, even though you’re already beyond soaked. It’s a pleasure he indulges in simply because he can.

Straight to hell, he thinks, coating his length with your arousal, teasing your entrance while pushing in only the tip. That motion alone is enough to make him draw a trembling breath before he continues, gradually feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

Straight to hell, the voice in his head utters as he buries himself to the hilt deep within your body, his heavy balls resting against your ass.

Like an intruder in your territory, he’s free to do as he pleases, and you let him have his way with you.

If only this moment could stretch into infinity—he longs for time to relent and never draw to a close. 

What will happen after? Will you spend the night? Does he—

“L-Logan,” you mumble, having adjusted to his size. You rock back into him, impaling yourself even more on his cock. “Please, move.”

The pace he establishes is brutal. Your warm, inner walls exquisitely massage him, and the earth as he knows it stops spinning. Fire pools low in his abdomen, his hands holding you by the flesh of your hips to keep you anchored, each thrust driving you closer to the headboard with an intoxicating urgency. 

“You wanted it from the very start, didn’t you?” He doesn’t know if a response will ever come, but these kinds of thoughts are impossible to contain. He’s just a simple man, powerless against the allure of a tight cunt. “Just got in my car and knew it would end like this?”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

His next thrust punches a whine out of your lungs. Even as you clench around him, stuffed and filled to the brim, you beg for him to fuck you harder. He would’ve laughed at you were he able to catch his breath.

With a more deliberate rhythm, he rolls his hips, jackhammering your most sensitive spot, pulling you closer as he wraps an arm around you. When his fingers find your clit, drawing slippery circles, a cry escapes you, and your body merges with the mattress under you.

Your release takes him by surprise, urging him to continue as you reach back, encouraging him to chase his own climax. He knows all too well the struggle of bringing you to this point without succumbing to his pleasure too soon. Your nails graze along his thigh, leaving delicate marks in their wake, and somehow, the passion and bliss he’s been nurturing ignites into a fiery crescendo.

Shortly after, he goes completely rigid inside you, pressing his forehead against your back as he bites down on your shoulder to muffle his groans. His hand squeezes your breast tightly, riding out his high, blood buzzing in his ears, continuing to spill into you. You spam around him, milking him until the last drop of his seed, his release painting your insides with his warmth.

Logan tucks you under his chin as his vision returns to clarity. You nose his jaw, your fingers softly tracing the contours of his beard. He pulls you closer into his chest, gliding his hands up and down your back.

Half a minute of dreadful silence, then: “Can I stay?”

Oh, yes—pillow talk. He’s not great at this either. Despite that, his eyes soften, snapping to your face.

Logan pauses for a moment. “Sure,” he retorts, dragging his fingers along your shoulder blades. He’s a one-word kind of guy. Just perfect.

Tell her you like her. Tell her you don’t want this to be a casual fling. Tell her it’s more than just sex for you.

Or maybe don’t. Get ahold of yourself, will you?

“Logan?” you ask, resting your palm against his heart.

“What is it?”

“I know.”

You do?

Try as he might, he can’t deny it. He might care about you more than he ever realized.

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[800db-cloud]

spare some spy hcs? 👀

OKAY. ok. so i have been putting off answering this ask because i’m admittedly very shy and very afraid of sharing my headcanons. and also because i have A LOT OF THEM.. but here we are!

here are my headcanon spies :) René works for RED and Jacques works for BLU!

where to start, where to start… i have a LOT of headcanons for them, i’ll be talking for FOREVER here. i’ll just start with story because why not! xP

René’s parents were also agents/spies, so he was always destined to be one as well. And he lives up to his parents’ legacies! He’s most notorious for destroying gangs and mobs and the like from the outside in. He was brought to America years ago to take out a dangerous mob boss, but unfortunately found himself infatuated (and involved) with the boss’ daughter. Luckily for him, the boss’ daughter wanted the guy dead, too.

René’s story is honestly a lot more fleshed out than Jacques’, but here goes anyway:

Jacques’ father was a very rich and powerful man in politics. Jacques himself was the result of an affair, and to keep it hush-hush, his father decided to raise him. Raise is a strong word, though— but he did help his father gain intelligence and blackmail on opposing political parties. Jacques proved to be a promising spy since childhood.

If anyone has any suggestions/ideas for Jacques’ story, let me know haha x) he didn’t have the greatest upbringing per se…

last thing on this section i wanna talk about is the Scouts. René is related to both of the Scouts; he’s RED Scout (Jeremy)’s biological father, and he’s BLU Scout (James)’ adoptive/step-father. Jacques has no relation to either scout, but acts as a guardian figure to BLU Scout.

anyway, this is the part where i continue talking about other miscellaneous headcanons! and these come with doodles :)

You couldn’t catch René DEAD without his mask, or his suit! He’d neeever take them off around other people (‘other people’ is mainly just Scout. For obvious reasons.) Meanwhile, Jacques is pretty lenient in letting his teammates see his face! Everyone on BLU’s seen his face at least once.

A big part of why René refuses to strip down is also due to the fact he has a LOT of tattoos. No doodle for this one because I’ve yet to decide on what tattoos to put on him (ideas are very welcome!!), but yeah! Most of the tattoos were ‘forced’ onto him/he had to get for jobs and ‘fitting in’ with bad crowds, but a good few of them were of his own accord, too.

Jacques doesn’t have tattoos, but he has a myriad of another thing: scars! Lots and lots of scars on this guy. Faded and old, sure, but they’re there. Most prominent ones are the one around his neck (from when the RED Medic beheaded him) and the ones on his forearms (those are from the LAST time he was imprisoned— looong story…)

René doesn’t cook very often for his team, but when he does, everyone’s always BLOWN AWAY by this guy’s cooking! René’s really bad at taking compliments, though— (“Cooking food that’s remotely edible isn’t a compliment, it’s basic survival.”) —but rest assured he’ll be thinking about it for the next month. Jacques, however… Do NOT let this guy into the kitchen. Ever. The BLU base has a special fire extinguisher “In Case Spy Decides To Turn On The Stove”

oooh, this one is an hc and a HALF to me. René much prefers working alone. It’s just in his nature, being isolated and whatnot. He likes to deal with things by himself– maybe he doesn’t want to burden others? On the contrary, Jacques NEVER works alone. It’s a trait he’s had even before being hired to BLU. You never know when things could go wrong, so it’s best to have someone else to fall back to… or someone else you can blame!

these hcs both have something to do with how René and Jacques show their trust in other people :) it’s a bit convoluted but it gets there:

René is, amusingly, very bad at remembering names. Almost laughably bad. There have been many-a-story of his days before RED where he’d get a target’s name wrong, even after he’d repeated it in his head dozens of times over. Names are difficult for him, so if he remembers yours, it means you mean a lot to him! He prefers using his teammates’ names rather than their titles. René is unaware of how charming this specifc trait is to his coworkers (they saw how much work and effort it took for him to memorize their names, they’re just happy with how far he’s come!)

Jacques has a… to put simply, very complicated relationship with food. But the one thing he’ll never turn down is sweets. His favorites especially being chocolate bonbons. Jacques has a hard time eating in front of others, let alone sharing his food! But if he genuinely likes and trusts you enough, he’d have half the mind to share with you. Admittedly, he hasn’t brought himself to share with most of the members of his team yet, except for a select few. Mostly BLU Medic and BLU Sniper.

—

and of course, eventually, EVENTUALLY, these two also become friends! it took a little bit but believe me, they both respect each other’s skill in their job :)

AHHg i could go sooo much longer about them— from things like their physical traits (how much teeth they have? it’s a pressing question) or different periods of their life (why did rené have to leave his family? why was jacques imprisoned for the last time?) BUT this post is so… so, so long. My fingers hurt from typing

If you’ve managed to read through this Beast, THANK YOU RAAHH!!! thanks so much for asking this, too. i hope to spare more hcs someday. hehe ^_^

[sadhours]

in the middle

chapter one

billy hargrove x f!reader x steve harrington

“i like you, and i loved him

we could all be the best kind of friends”

cw: 18+, minors dni, modern au, polyamory, cheating, oral (m and f receiving),

NOW

“Hold on!” Steve calls from the kitchen. The whole apartment smells like popcorn thanks to the bag he’s pulling out of the microwave. You can hear him shaking it, kernels that didn’t get to pop rolling around in the paper bag. Steve rustles through the spice cabinet, selecting the concoction he’s famous for. You watch him empty the contents of the bag into a bowl, then he begins seasoning it. Excitement bubbles through your stomach, mouth watering in anticipation.

Billy wraps his arm around your shoulder, kicks his feet up on the coffee table and pauses the movie with the remote in his other hand. Steve rushes in soon after, flicking off all the lights and settles in right next to you. He hands the bowl over, so you can hold it in the middle. As he sits, Billy’s hand reaches into the hair that curls at the base of Steve’s neck and scratches gently at the bottom of his scalp. Steve melts at the feeling, leans into it and therefore leaning closer to your side. Billy starts the movie, drops the remote to his side and digs into Harrington’s famous popcorn.

It’s peaceful, the three of you enjoying the snack, the movie and each other's company. And maybe you feel spoiled, cuddled up with your two favorite people in the whole world.

It didn’t start this way, however. Only a year ago, you had only one boyfriend, Billy.

THEN

Another dreary day at the luxury boutique you worked in. Only solace was your coworker, Steve Harrington. There was definitely an attraction buzzing between you two. But you had a boyfriend, and a boyfriend you loved deeply. And Steve knew that. So you two were only friends. Friends who flirted every chance they got but it never went further than that.

Steve was a good friend. Even though he liked you, he let you vent about Billy and he never suggested you break up with Billy. As a matter of fact, he actually always gave Billy the benefit of the doubt. Never talked poorly about the guy. Likely, because he didn’t know Billy. They’d met very briefly a handful of times. And they actually were both members of the same gym. But they never interacted there, as far as you knew.

They were pretty opposite. Often, you wished you could just have them both as boyfriends and you think you wouldn’t have any complaints. They could provide a strength where the other was weak. This was absolutely selfish thinking and you knew that. So you tried not to think about it too much. But they got along well enough the few times they interacted.

The store was relatively slow today. January wasn’t a time people shopped, drained from the holiday season. Most customers came in with returns or exchanges. Not a whole lot of schmoozing for that commission was to be done. However, Steve was entertaining as always.

Right now, he was in your ear, creating a great commentary on the teenagers carefulling looking through the selection of clothing you couldn’t imagine them being able to afford. Though, they could be like Steve, blessed with Daddy’s credit card before they could drive. Very unlike you and Billy.

You interrupt him, “So, you dating anyone?”

Steve pulls a face as he turns and leans back against the counter, “I’m dating everyone. Why do you ask?”

Well, shit. You’ve kind of been caught. Huge part of you wants Steve to keep struggling to find a compatible lady in the hypothetical that Billy suddenly dumps you.

“Just curious, living vicariously through you,” you shrug.

Steve snorts, “Trust me, no reason to miss the market. It’s changed a lot since you’ve been in it.”

“Can’t have changed that much in five years,” you argue, rolling your eyes.

“Is your boyfriend not satisfying you?” Steve asks, dangerously. There’s such a flirty tone under it. He didn’t wiggle his eyebrows, but he may as well have.

You groan, shoving him before putting some space between the pair of you and then pretending to be busy organizing the wallets displayed on the counter. Steve gets in your space again, nudges at your arm with his elbow and then raises his brows.

“S’that a yes?”

And you really don't want Steve to think you’ve been considering being unfaithful. Which you have, and specifically with the brunette in front of you. But Billy is satisfying you. There’s just this unfortunate chemistry between you and Steve. You’ve been thinking about it when you shouldn’t, like when Billy’s body is between your legs. So there’s this overwhelming guilt.

“He’s satisfying me. Stop being gross. Dating is fun,” you tell him, “I miss the like, I don’t know, the uncertainty? Billy and I are fine. But we’re comfortable and sometimes that makes me miss dating.”

“The uncertainty is the worst part of dating, ugh,” Steve groans, “I think you want spontaneity. Which you can just tell your boyfriend.”

Steve knows this isn’t true. Billy isn’t the best at expressing feelings— he’s not good at talking about things. In the past, he’s jumped to breaking up whenever you brought up changing things. And the thing is, Steve isn’t wrong. You do want spontaneity, you’d love Billy to surprise you with a date he planned or hell, even bringing home flowers. The whole thing, though, is complacency. You and Billy are just comfortable now. Cohabiting with sex mixed in. You miss romance. And you’ve witnessed Steve dating. He oozes romance. He goes above and beyond for girls who don’t want it. And you think you’d be really appreciative of it.

The conversation is too dangerous to have. You wish you hadn’t brought it up in the first place so you shrug, tell Steve he’s right and luckily, a customer walks in, whisking Steve away to make some commission. You pull out your phone and text Billy. Mostly out of guilt. But you tell him you love and miss him. Tacked a string of lovey emojis on for extra emphasis. He replies with ‘love n miss u 2’.

Steve asks you to go out for drinks after your shift. And mixing these feelings with alcohol is a horrific idea. So you say no and he drives you home. Wouldn’t have to if your car wasn’t in the shop, low on Billy’s priority list so it’s been in there for about a month. Billy’s actually outside when Steve pulls up, carrying a bag of trash. He waves.

“Challenge him to plan a date. I bet he will,” Steve says, leaning back to look at you.

“Bite me, Harrington,” you roll your eyes, opening the door.

Steve gasps, playfully, “I’m sensing a certain kind of… frustration… I think actually you should beg him to take you out, or stay in and work out that frustra—“

“Have fun at the bar!” you interrupt him, slamming his door and walking around the front of his BMW to meet Billy ten feet away. You kiss his cheek and he turns to kiss you on the lips. Steve drives away and you walk with Billy to the dumpsters. You’re itching to get your heels off, but want to spend as much time with Billy as you can.

“How was work?” you ask him, watching as he lights up a smoke.

He shrugs, mouths around the Marlboro, “Same old. Your car’s going on the lift tomorrow.”

“Thank, God.”

Billy blinks at you, so you remedy it quickly with, “Well, thank you, actually. I miss my car.”

“Pretty Boy driving you crazy?” Billy asks with a smirk. You hate that that’s the nickname he’s given Steve. Because it’s a good one. And you like the idea of Billy thinking Steve is pretty. More than you’d like to admit. The fantasies you have always involve them… involved with each other.

“He’s fine in small doses,” you lie.

Billy cackles, pushing the lid of the dumpster up and tossing in the bag. He closes it and then opens his arms to you. Easily, you fall into him. He squeezes you and you squeeze him back, inhaling his cologne— spicy and musky.

He pulls away and starts walking, “What did you wanna do for dinner?”

The slice of romance gone in an instant.

—

The pair of you are laid up on the couch. Dishes done. Billy’s scrolling on his phone, you’re on the other side also aimlessly scrolling through your phone and occasionally texting Steve and some other friends while some reality show you used to care about plays on the TV.

Billy randomly asks, “Steve’s gay, right?”

The question catches you off guard, immediately you’re wondering why your boyfriend is asking that. Your face contorts from confusion and Billy must catch it because he further explains himself.

“I just, I don’t think I’ve seen him with a girl ever. And he’s only friends with women. Right? Like your whole friend group is like 5 girls and then Steve?”

“Steve is straight,” you reply slowly. “He’s the only guy at work so—“

“See, that too. How many straight guys work in a bougie ass women’s clothing store?” Billy sits up a bit.

You give him a wavering look, “These are a lot of stereotypes, Billy. Didn’t we talk about stereotypes?”

He rolls his eyes, “They’re stereotypes for a reason, but shit, maybe Steve’s out there proving them wrong.”

“Yeah, Bills. He’s as straight as they come,” you tell him before sitting up to reach for your wine glass. You immediately text Steve.

Billy just asked if you were gay.

He replies.

Why? Is he interested? ;-)

“So… does he hit on you?”

You reply to Steve.

Wait, lemme tell him you’re actually gay even though I just lectured him about stereotypes.

Then your eyes meet Billy’s, “You’ve never asked that before. What’s with the sudden jealousy?”

Your phone buzzes.

Is this because I work at a women’s clothing store and I have no male friends?

“Not jealous. Just curious. I thought he was gay. But ya know, if he’s not… you’re a smoke show, so obviously he has hit on you then,” Billy explains, sits up and grabs his beer. “Follow me. I need a smoke.”

You do, contemplating what to reply to Steve with.

“Steve is respectful. He knows I’m with you, so no, he doesn’t.” It’s a bold faced lie and you know that. But maybe it isn’t. Steve doesn’t push too far. He flirts but he’s never propositioned you.

Nailed it right on the head. Maybe you are smart.

Billy sits on the chair on the patio, you sit adjacent to him and sip on your wine. Billy lights a cigarette and turns to you, “Has he had a girlfriend since you’ve known him?”

“I kinda like when you’re jealous. Makes me feel wanted,” you tease, lifting your foot and running against his thigh.

He rolls his eyes but he grabs your foot, starts rubbing it and says, “I seriously thought he was gay this whole time.”

“You met one of his girlfriends, well… okay, not girlfriend? He’s never with them for long. More like flings,” you explain. “But like six months ago, at Francesca’s birthday. He brought one of them. She was blonde, kinda obnoxious. She was drunk when they got to the bar.”

Billy appears to think, but clearly can’t remember so he shrugs. Which you think he does remember. Because she blatantly hit on Billy and Steve got all butthurt about it. And you’d wanted to comfort Steve but the girls had it handled, and you had to assert dominance. Not because you thought Billy would cheat but because you were mad this girl hurt Steve.

Hey, I finished high school. That says something.

You leave Steve on read. You’ll see him tomorrow for brunch anyways. You leave your phone on the opposite chair and climb into Billy’s lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. And you hate that you take Steve’s advice.

“We should go on a date soon. It’s been a while,” you tell your boyfriend, playing with his grown out hair.

Billy takes a hit from his cigarette, sweet enough to exhale up into the air so he doesn’t blow it in your face. Which you wouldn’t hate, you’re sitting in his lap anyhow. He squeezes your side, gazing up at you with those pretty blue eyes.

“We can do that. Whatever you wanna do,” he says, smirking slightly.

You try not to sigh, and most importantly you don’t fully take Steve’s advice. You just nod, “I’ll plan something.”

But you can do some spontaneity, can’t you? So you sink to the floor, spreading Billy’s legs and hooking your fingers into his sweats. He looks at you with that gorgeous and cocky expression he’s known for. You pull the sweats down, Billy barely wears underwear so you’re not surprised when his cock springs up. You’re also full of excitement that you can still get Billy hard just by getting on your knees for him. Your hands find his erection, squeezing it at the base while Billy takes another drag from his cigarette. The fact that you’re outside on the balcony makes your center tingle. You feel sexy. Billy always makes you feel sexy. Even if he appears nonchalant with his cock in your hand as he continues puffing on his Marlboro. You gather salvia in your mouth, let it drip out onto his shaft and spread it around with your palm. Billy makes a pleased sound, pushes his hips up just an inch.

You take him in your mouth, lips wrapped around his thick girth. A buzz comes from the other chair, no doubt another text from Steve and suddenly you’re flooded with the idea of him watching, maybe with his own cock in his hand. It’s no secret that Steve has an impressive length, it’s hard to not notice in his tight jeans. Absolutely you feel some guilt thinking about Steve during this, but it excites you a little too much to stop. Perhaps you even imagine Steve’s hand on your head, guiding you as you swallow Billy’s cock down. Urging you to take as much as you can.

Billy brings you back to reality, moaning around his Marlboro as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and exposing his toned stomach for you. Your hands feel it, grazing the abs as you bob your head up and down on his length. You can feel his stomach tighten from the pleasure as you work up and down on his cock. The motions continue, Billy finishes his cigarette and drops it in his ashtray and then his hands knit into your hair. Pulling, guiding you how he wants it. You make yourself look at his pretty face so you can stop thinking about Steve. And it works, kind of. Still playing the fantasy of Steve watching in the back of your head.

All the way until Billy finishes in your mouth with your name spilling from his. And you swallow because you love to. Adjust his pants and he lets you kiss him, spanks your bum as you lean over him to do so.

Then the pair of you get ready for bed. Brushing your teeth and crawling into bed together. Where Billy returns the favor, and you feel sick because you’re seeing Steve’s face behind your closed lids.

[poisonsage808]

strange love

John Munch x Stripper!Reader

they think i’m insane, they think my lover is strange

• It really shouldn’t have panned out in his favor, considering he was an asshole on your first date.

"So what do you do?" He asked, struggling to keep boredom from his tone. He hates small talk.

"I'm an entertainer," your hands fidget nervously, "of sorts."

"Well, as long as you're not a stripper." He chuckles.

You, of course, do not.

• To his continued utter perplexity, the date concluded without you throwing insults or silverware at him. You suffered each and every question that you said no one had bothered to ask you before. The thought of dates prior ending abruptly after you'd surrendered the information, you alone with the check, made him more upset than you!

"The bad ones weed themselves out, right?" You joked bitterly, shrugging like you were unfazed but he saw the bleeding heart on your sleeve, "Anyways, I can't really blame them."

John tilts his head, "Why?"

"Would you wanna date someone you knew was ogled nightly by strangers, maybe a coworker or business partner? Everyone says it doesn't bother them until it does."

"That bothers you," he states like the fact that it is, "so why don't you stop? Do something else?"

Pausing while lifting a glass to your lips, you sit straighter and send a smile right to his heart, "You should know why; you're in the same boat as me, it's just named something else. Why don't you stop being a detective even though it's detrimental to your love life, hm? Because we don't believe we should live our lives for anyone other than ourselves."

• Your occupation didn't bother him half as much as his delusions did. He always attracted the wrong type of women, four failed marriages and a looong string of exes can attest to the fact, what business did he have dating a stripper thinking it would lead to what he really wanted? He didn't need another 'I told you so' from the universe

• He went home, alone, denying your comparison because it couldn't possibly be even remotely similar. Your words haunt him the entirety of the next day and later he calls to ask you out again, purely intending on picking your brain and, ideally, prove you wrong. He ends up stepping deeper into the trap you swore you didn't lay, so, maybe, there was a chance he willingly entered and couldn't bring himself to leave

• He’s an old fashioned man, he doesn’t fully get it. Like most, he wants to “save” you and get you out of this line of work. He tries to understand though and therein lies the difference. John still makes jokes about it, however knowledgeable he may be now, he feeds into it every time you complain about work and say you’re quitting,

“Oh no,” he says flatly, dropping his book and turning his attention to you. “Want me to check the classifieds for you? Or I have a buddy in hotel management that needs help manning the front desk, you can stand there and look pretty instead.”

“Don’t be a dick, babe.” You grin despite your irritation.

“I just called you pretty, how am I being a dick?”

• That's not to say you two don't have your fair share of arguments about your job— or his for that matter. There are times where your schedules don't line up or the stress of work gets to you both, resulting in a fight. It shocks him and you that neither of you takes the opportunity to cut losses and leave. It doesn't matter who started what, it always ends with a soft gesture that can only mean no one's going anywhere

• In the past, you’ve both been scorched badly enough to make you wary of a sudden flame. John’s (mostly) open and honest about everything on his mind but god forbid you ask him what his favorite color is. He’s slow to let you in all the way but when you manage to get there, close the door behind you because he doesn’t want out

• Fashion is a surprising forte of his and, wow, does he love shoes! Broke a heel? He has a shoe repair man that knows him by name. You need new pumps? He’ll come with you, have you test them out, holds your hand and says ‘give us a little twirl’. Don’t forget he’s still John Munch, he’ll let you know if he thinks a pair is ugly

“You look ravishing, sweetheart, an absolute dream… if you buy those abominations on your feet that dare call themselves as stilettos, I might accidentally throw them off the Empire State Building, though.”

• Far would it be from John to control your every move, he almost never even thinks of asking but sometimes the fear is unmanageable. John’s job is hard enough as it is only now he walks around seeing your face in every victim, terrified one day they’ll pull back the white sheet and that worry will become a reality. So can you blame him if he holds on too tight? If he asks you to call in sick because he has a bad feeling or demands you stay home because a freak is out there killing strippers? You try not to.

“Don’t argue with me on this, please, just lock the door and don’t answer it for anyone that’s not me. Please.”

• Being apart for days at a time makes phone calls very important… only John hates talking on the phone, keeping his replies shortened to “yeah” and “mhm”. Sometimes you can hear someone in the background and will take the conversation in a dirty direction to get him riled up. Other times you know the call is coming to an end and quickly say,

“I miss you, handsome.”

His voice quiets and turns impossibly soft, “I miss you too, beautiful.”

Laughter erupts close by him, the familiar voices of his infamous squad teasing him. You can’t help but grin as the line goes dead, feeling victorious that you won over the possibility of ridicule.

• Because he does miss you, terribly. You make him throw caution to the wind, you turn his brain to slush and have him forget how to tell himself no. He thought he got rid of this bad habit where he rushed in too quickly— then he asked you to move in with him. It was unceremonious and obviously not thought out, but you still said yes. Now, even though your schedules aren’t always on your sides, you two can at least take comfort in knowing the other will be coming home at some point

~

“Twelve bucks? I’m not paying twelve bucks for a spoonful of yuppie punch– I’d punch a yuppie for free, though. How the hell did these people get their liquor license? This is robbery.”

You’d know that sarcastic voice anywhere.

In a club packed like sardines and music blaring like a morning alarm– terrible combination, really– he shouldn’t have heard you the same way you shouldn’t have heard him. Still, you snorted, an unattractive sound, that you tried to mask with your hand. The second you did, he couldn’t take his eyes off you and was struggling to maintain a passive expression. You were willing to bet that if you went to the back and checked your phone there would be an SOS text from your boyfriend, trying to give you a heads up.

He looks pleased as punch to have caught you.

“Sounds like someone agrees with me.”

“Yeah right, you probably paid her to laugh.”

You turned with a shy grin, debating how you wanted to play this scene. Behind the darkened lenses of his glasses you could sense John studying you, wondering the same thing.

“So which is it, gorgeous, do you agree with me or did money jump out of my wallet and into your hand?”

You feel your cheeks warm while you attempt to stifle a laugh at his compliment. Hot and sexy you heard every day but the rare bouquet of praise John gave you was consistently refreshing, and he was a walking dictionary so the compliments were endless. His partner’s eyes go wide at your reaction. You’ve never met any of the detectives he worked with but from John’s stories, you gather it’s Fin.

“I’d report my boss for theft but that might make me a hypocrite.” Sweeping over your hips, you gesture to your outfit. Or lack thereof, your favorite piece was two zippers away from leaving you fully naked.

That gets a smirk out of him, “I dunno about that. You don’t look like a rip-off to me.”

You dare to step closer, wasps of coffee and leather hit your nose. Clearly enjoying the attention, John angled himself to block you from Fin and placed a hand on his hip. Like a bird, he preened when you took his tie in your hands, standing straighter and puffing out his chest. You lowered your voice and he chased after it, allowing you to gently pull the silk.

“You here for business or pleasure, handsome?”

“I’m—” You wouldn’t find out what he was going to say, there was a loud, fake cough behind him. John sighs, mouth pressed into a straight line and leaning back slightly, “Detective John Munch, a—”

“–And I’m Detective Tutuola. We need to speak to this boss of yours.” His partner chimed in, shoving his way back into view. The two shared a private conversation with their eyes that left them both glaring.

Jack, the bartender, set a tray with two martini glasses on the counter and whistled for your attention. Reluctantly, you allowed John’s tie to slip entirely from your fingers to grab the tray.

“Follow me.”

It wasn’t an offer. Taking John’s hand you began walking backwards, leading them to a booth. His fingers link with yours like it’s the most natural action in the world, leaving you on top of it. You had to bite your lip to contain your excitement.

“You’re not worried you’re gonna break an ankle?” He asks too seriously, quirking a worried brow at you.

“Haven’t yet.” Your reply isn’t reassuring him in the least. “Hey if I have to look for a new job you’d tell me, right?”

“Well I’ve only been asking you to for the past two years. Will me arresting your boss actually make you quit? I’ll feel really stupid if that’s all I had to do to keep you to myself.” He teases, winks, then turns your wrist over to place a delicate kiss to your knuckles.

John releases you to slide into the booth beside his partner, looking damn pleased with himself. Staring with narrowed eyes and a befuddled frown, Fin finally speaks his mind.

“…I’m missin’ something.”

“Gee, you’re quick today. Tutuola, meet my girlfriend. Ethereal light of my life, this is the infamous Fin.”

“How do you do?”

To you, the man smiles kindly, “Just fine, thanks, lovely to meet you. One second—“ The slap he gives John’s arm, however, is audibly loud and full of petty anger. “You have a woman!? And you never told me!? That’s messed up, Munch, I’m your partner.”

“First of all, ow. You can’t just hit people because you’re mad at them, didn’t they teach you this in grade school!? Keep your hands to yourself, you acrimonious oaf. Secondly, I did tell you— it’s not my fault you thought I was kidding. Thirdly, I told her about you which, if you think about it, is arguably more important.”

John leans back when he runs out of hot air, dramatically rubbing his arm. Already accustomed to your comforting weight around his shoulders, he doesn’t blink when you hug his neck in front of his partner.

“He says you’re the best partner he’s ever had.”

“I did pay her to say that.”

“Yeah, I bet you did.” Fin winks, like you’re sharing a secret, “I’ll keep his bony ass safe for you, mama.”

Tapping your arm, John turns his head so he doesn’t have to yell over the music anymore, “We really do need to talk to your boss now, sweetheart.”

"Duty calls, you answer." You hum, sliding your arms off him to release him from your embrace, "I'll get her for you. See you tonight, handsome."

Mindful of your lipstick, you lean in to ghost a kiss to his cheek but he discards your caution and steals a proper, quick peck. John grins at your surprise, feasting on it. Snickering, you playfully swat his arm before walking away. You can feel his reluctant eyes struggle to let you go. Fin smirks and jostles his partner as you depart, much to his provocation.

"You dog!"

Munch waits a moment to wipe the mark from his lips, grinning at your frame as it fades away.

"Woof."

[k4vehrtz]

STARBOY

-> Pairing: shōta aizawa / sub! (trans) male reader

-> Request: yes / no

-> Word Count: 1K (roughly)

➷...Summary: shō offers a helping hand (more like mouth) when you're in need.

-> Notes: not the fic that was meant to be posted this week but seeing as that one is yet to be completed i thought i would post this request in the meantime!

➷...Content Warnings: vaginal descriptions, use of the word cunt, mentions of testosterone, exhibition, age gap (though not specified, both are adults), coach/athlete trope(?), oral (reader receiving), squirting, being caught masturbating, biting, at some point it is implied that shō may have a negative reaction to the reader being trans but he does not. if i miss anything let me know.

“You've got to be—holy shit, this can’t be real.” He grunts, his voice a gravelly whisper amongst the sound of sneakers frantically shuffling across the court. Jesus. His free hand immediately goes to his mess of black hair, strumming his calloused fingers through the stray strands clinging to his sweaty forehead.

It’s a lost cause — it’s all a fucking lost cause. This team is the last nail in the coffin that was Shōta Aizawa’s career as an athlete.

The corners of his lips can’t help but curl upwards at that thought. An athlete? Maybe some ridiculously delusional part of himself still had a shred of his youthful shamelessness. He is, and has been, a disgrace for quite some time now.

His days of being a household name are long gone. You’ve taken his place now, haven’t you? You’re a good player, a team player, and not too hard on the eyes either.

Shō’s had his eyes on you for a while now. You’ve come a long way since he first saw you handing out water bottles to the members of your team. Now you’re destroying his team on the court. It takes every ounce of self-control in him to not laugh. Funny how the world works, right?

 Shōta Aizawa prides himself on how mature he is. He’s not going to pick a fight with you. You’re half his age for crying out loud. He’s above that because he’s incredibly mature; As most people his age would be.

So, it’s purely coincidental that he’s in the same locker room as you. He just happened to take a wrong turn when attempting to find his team. As their coach, it’s his duty to comfort them after such a…horrific loss. But accidents happen and he couldn’t just waltz in here without conversing with you. What if you misunderstood and painted him out to be some kind of pervert? It’s only right that he makes small talk.

But the words that were at the tip of his tongue disappeared in an instant. Perhaps his critical thinking skills have gone along with it. Well, this is quite the turn of events, isn’t it?

“…In all my years of playing this damn game,” He cocks his head sideways, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “I’ve never found it remotely arousing.” He says pointedly, clicking his tongue. Your skin warms.

You open and close your mouth once, twice, and then a third time but no words slide past those ridiculously beautiful lips of yours. Shō doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s staring. “Each to their own,” He shrugs and you want nothing more than the floor to swallow you whole.

“I…” You start, scrambling to find the right words to say. But in a situation like this, what could you say? The coach of the opposing team just walked in on you with your hands down your pants. Not a good look.

“Wh–What are you even doing in here, first of all?” You counter, fighting a heated blush as you not-so-discreetly pull your hand out of your shorts. Fingers coated in your arousal fluid.

Silence, then a moment later he deadpans, “Got lost, and then walked in on you…doing whatever it is that you were doing.” And before you can stop yourself, “It’s the testosterone, I can’t help it, alright?” you dig yourself into a deeper hole.

Shō blinks at you, once, twice, and then a third time. It’s like you’re taking turns leaving one another speechless. Before his mouth forms something of an ‘O’ shape. You grimace, bracing yourself for this embarrassing situation to take an even worse turn. But it doesn’t.

“Jesus,” He curses, more so to himself, and then takes a deep breath. “I can leave so you can finish—” He stops himself, sounding embarrassed, “…or I can help you with that problem of yours.”

“Go—You can go ahead,” you say, swallowing hard. Everyone has their needs, you remind yourself.

Shō’s gaze meets yours momentarily, silently requesting your approval once more. You nod, turning your head to the side as you lay on one of the benches, your legs spread. Dripping cunt on full display.

He lowers his face in between your legs without hesitation, warm breath tickling your sensitive thighs. As his teeth gently graze the fat of your thighs. He takes his time, gently nipping at your thighs before trailing light kisses up either one. Stopping just short of your drooling hole.

It’s torture, really. The way he alternates between light kisses, gentle nips, and then full-on sucking hickeys onto your inner thighs. Always stopping short of your cunt.

The rough pads of his fingers dig into the skin of your hips as he holds you in place. He’s a lot stronger than he looks. His tongue lapped at your thighs covered in arousal fluid. It’s like he’s never tasted anything sweeter and you squirm, utterly embarrassed. Embarrassed by how wet it makes you; Embarrassed by the sounds you’re both making.

After what felt like hours—You don’t know, you’ve lost track of time. His mouth moves from your thighs to your glistening labia. He presses a kiss to your outer lips, taking his time to spread them, before licking a fat stripe over your labia. You feel yourself tremble, biting down on your lower lip to stifle your moans. There are still people outside. But you’d be lying if you said that didn’t make it all the more exciting.

And then it happens without warning — his tongue breaches your entrance. Your eyes flutter closed, and you knit your brows together when you feel him squeezing your clit in between the rough pads of his fingers. It’s all so perfect. He’s dragged this out for far too long.

He’s so good to you. Your legs are shaking but he holds you in place with one hand as he laps at your sopping-wet cunt like it’s his last meal. You can feel your orgasm creep up on you and oh when it does, you’re squirting. Spraying your juices all over his face, and he doesn’t protest in the slightest. He pulls away, lips quirking, and licks what’s left on his face contently.

[perlukafarinn]

Usually when Claire works the closing shift at Rocky's, she and Dean will wind down with a couple of beers at the end of the night. It's a nice little ritual Claire looks forward to every time she comes around, though she'd never admit as much out loud.

Tonight, Dean has mixed up a batch of one of his specialty cocktails - The Queen of Moondoor. It's bright, a sort of red-orange color, and has a sweet and sour taste that makes Claire's jaw ache.

"Do you like it?" Dean asks, like Claire's opinion really matters.

She nods. "It's good."

She's not lying. Dean isn't really a cocktails kind of guy but he's put a lot of effort into every detail of Rocky's. From the various pride flags carefully hung behind the bar, to the salt painted into the windowsills, every inch of the place is meticulously planned out. Rocky's isn't officially a hunter's bar - though it is explicitly a gay bar - but it's become an unofficial gathering place of queer hunters across the continental US.

Even the cocktails on the menu are Dean's own invention. All of them have a backstory, some of which Claire isn't privy to. She knows enough to understand why the Queen of Moondoor is Dean's personal favorite, though.

It also packs a surprising punch. Two drinks in, and Claire already feels herself tilting from tipsy into full-on drunk. She slows down her pace.

"How long are you planning on sticking around now?" Dean asks, because free booze is never just free booze with him. There's always the interrogation. He's almost as much of a mom as Jody is.

"A few days," Claire answers vaguely. "Maybe longer, who knows. I don't have any hunts lined up right now and you pay pretty well."

She knows for a fact he pays her double what he does his other bartenders. Neither one of them ever mentions it, though.

"Weren't you heading back to Jody's?"

Claire shrugs, uncomfortable. She had been, before last night's call with Kaia. They're good most days, even with the strain of Claire being on the road half the time, but sometimes when they talk, they'll hit on a sore topic for one of them and things will get stilted.

The anniversary of Mom's death is coming up in a couple of weeks. Kaia wanted to join Claire for her visit to the cemetery.

"What's on your mind, Strawberry Shortcake?"

Claire is supposed to roll her eyes now. Tell Dean to fuck off and mind his own business.

She doesn't really want to do that. But she doesn't know how to explain to Dean what she's feeling, either.

"It's stupid," she says. "I'm being dramatic."

"You? Never."

Claire scoffs, and Dean's eyes soften.

"You can talk to me, you know."

"Yeah," Claire says, because she does. He gets her, weirdly enough. They get each other. It probably doesn't say great things about either of them. "I just... I feel like I'm making up problems."

Dean takes a sip of his drink. It's difficult to look dignified, drinking out of a straw, and he does not remotely manage it. "Let me be the judge of that."

"Kaia wants-" Claire stops herself, because that's not the point of it. "I - we're good. Me and Kaia. I don't feel ashamed about it."

Dean waits for her continue.

"I'm a lesbian," Claire adds, even though, duh.

"Congrats," Dean says, and it feels like it could be sarcastic but it's not. He means it.

"I don't think -" no, that's not right. "I know my parents wouldn't be okay with that."

The statement lands heavily between them. It feels bitter on Claire's tongue, an ugly truth held at bay for far too long. She feels awful saying it, like she's failing her parents. Speaking ill of the dead. But it's the truth.

Mom and Dad would make these... comments. And Claire remembers each one with perfect clarity, because she's known something was different about her for a very long time. She knew those comments were aimed at her, even if her parents didn't.

They were wonderful parents in every other aspect. Up until they abandoned her, that is. Claire still can't help but feel like she's failing them, sometimes, being who she is.

"They might have changed their minds," Dean offers. "If they'd known. It's different when it's your own kid."

Claire eyes him, curious. "Was it different for your parents?"

Something crosses over Dean's expression, too quickly for Claire to catch it.

"No," he admits after a beat. He runs his hand over his face. "Maybe - Mom might have been fine with it. She didn't know."

Claire swallows. "But your dad did. And it wasn't different."

She feels cruel, pushing the topic. But there's some perverse part of her that needs the confirmation. Dean reminds her of herself, in a lot of ways. He'd say it was the other way around. If he experienced the rejection that Claire feared as a kid, the one that still scares her even if it's purely theoretical now, then that proves something.

"It wasn't," Dean admits. "But Jimmy Novak was no John Winchester."

Claire's chest aches. There's some hollow triumph at the abstract confirmation of her worst fears. Mostly, she just feels like shit.

"For what it's worth," Dean adds, "I think you're perfect. No notes."

Embarrassingly, Claire's lower lip wobbles. She clears her throat, looking off to the side as she tries to regain her composure.

"You think you're my dad or something?" she asks, voice rough.

Dean shrugs, looking embarrassed himself. "I kind of think of you as my kid, yeah. If that's okay."

Claire crosses her arms, feeling warm and aching and off-kilter. "I - yeah. Yeah, that's fine."

[asofspades]

Next post regarding the LU boy's adventure items

This time it's about shared items or items that are similar enough to lead to group "activities"

Okay, Pegasus boots, bothe Four and Legend have them, however Time might not have Pegasus boots but he has the rabbit hood, this has potential for them having races to see who's faster (and if Legend cheats a bit by using a Pegasus seed to run even faster no one will ever know), I can also see wind stealing the rabbit hood to race them.

The slingshot, I've noticed a lot of the Links have slingshots, Twilight has one, Sky has one that when upgraded shoots multiple seeds, Four has a slingshot (FSA), Time has a slingshot as well, Legend also has an upgraded slingshot (Hyper slingshot in OoS), potential for slingshot competitions, or their slingshots getting mixed up and due to being from different materials, sizes and qualities they have a hard time using the others slingshots. Twilight just casually pulls out the hawkeye to aim better and everyone laughs because he looks funny.

Magic boomerangs, basically most of them have regular boomerangs, however Legend (oracle games), Hyrule (Tloz 1), Four (MC) have a magic boomerang and Twilight has a magic wind boomerang (it has the wind fairy inside, why does no one ever talk about that).

Fishing rods, Time, Wind (Phantom Hourglass) and Twi can go regular fishing while Wild just bombs the hell out of the river.

Explosives, okay, hear me out, plenty of links have bombchus (Legend in OoA, Wind in PH, Time), Four has remote bombs (MC) like Wild, Twilight has bomblings (similar to bombchus but they're insect like) and underwater bombs, Time also has the Blast mask (MM) the destructive explosion potential of these guys (without counting the bombos medallion).

Arson gang, I know we usually think Wild and Wind are the arsonists, mainly because wind likes mischief and Wild is just Wild, and Four gets incorporated sometimes thanks to red and his fire rod (I'm just saying, I fully believe Four himself as a compound of the colours has potential to be a little shit and an arsonist, no red influence needed), but Legend has like 2 fire rods at least (alttp, albw), a magic rod that works like fire and the fire gloves, how is that dude not considered a part of the arsonist gang please, he's such a little shit as well no matter how much sarcasm and broodiness he's surrounded by, also, twilight literally blew up a bomb storage by setting fire to the place during his adventure, just saying... Hyrule can join with his own magic rod as a treat. And also, let Time join with Din's Fire, he was a menace in the war of ages, let him be a menace as a grown up. It turns out Warriors has a fire rod, he can join the arson activities to release stress. All links are arsonists confirmed.

Magnetism, hear me out, Wild has magnesis, Twi has the ball & chain (metal) and iron boots (magnetic), Time and Wind have iron boots as well (also magnetic), legend has his magnet gloves and Four has magnet gloves and in addition he IS magnetic (the logic behind that is besides me, maybe it's related to the elemental magic he has or something). The potential por Wild and/or Legend suddenly finding out Four is magnetic in the most anticlimactic and hilarious way (accidentally attracting him with their abilities). Wild using magnesis to mess around with Wind, Twi and Time when they have the boots on or using it to carry them around or get them places and obviously Wild using magnesis to steal the ball and chain from Twi. I've been told Warriors also has a chain & ball, wild definitely will mess with it when he fails at stealing it from Twi.

Legend and Four use flippers to swim and I think it's hilarious that Legend has apparently never learnt to swim because he used them in all his adventures, apparently Four can in fact swim in FS so he did learn how to swim in the end. Those two would drown without them. Also, I think Twi, Sky, Time and Wild are the only ones that know how to swim without any extra gear (they get things for breathing under water like the Zora armour or Water dragon Scale or Zora scale, or swim faster and climb up waterfalls in wild's case) wind knows how to swim but he gets no extra gear. Technically the only ones who can't swim and don't have gear to swim are Hyrule (yes, the guy who uses a raft to cross rivers) and Wars (I need people to not automatically give him swimming abilities unless I'm missing something from Hyrule Warriors).

Digging. There's Links who have used shovels, Legend has used one in the oracle games, Wind has one in Phantom hourglass and then two links have digging mitts with different capacities (Four and his mole mitts, Sky and his mogma mitts). Imagine you're just casually digging up something with a shovel meanwhile one buddy of yours is digging up a cave and the other one is digging tunnels underground, I particularly find it hilarious that it's both Links who have adventures above the clouds who have the best digging abilities. Four also has a shovel but the mitts are just superior.

And now, one of those things that further confirm the characters that can use light magic, Legend, Time, Wind and Four use light arrows in their adventures, in addition Legend, Time and Wind use fire and ice arrows. Hyrule just said "fuck you" and used silver arrows because he's just that cool.

I want Legend, Four and Sky to cause mayhem with their gust jars and gust bellows respectively, bonus points if Wind joins with his Deku leaf and Wild just pulls a deku leaf of his as well.

Hammer gang, Legend, Four, Wind and Time have hammers and Hyrule has a glove specifically for smashing blocks, they could be menaces. (Also, consider Four and even Legend have extra practice with hammers from being in the forge, they would be terrifying with a hammer). Bonus points for Time just casually lifting whole as columns and slamming them on the ground. It seems Warriors has a hammer as well, he can join the hammer gang.

Also, can you imagine the reaction of the guys who have a simple hookshot (Time, Wind, Legend, Warriors) to Twilight and Sky's double hook shots.

Final thing is, imagine in order to get up a ledge Hyrule casually pulls out the stepladder, wild starts climbing (they're used to that at least), and four makes a whole in the ground with a shovel and uses the cane of pacci to shoot himself upwards, then Legend says fuck it and pulls out the tornado rod. There's so much potential for fun moments in fics or full on crackfics.

[spaceagebachelormann]

Hello! If you’re taking headcanon requests, may I please request headcanons for what Count Dracula & Erik the Phantom would be like as husbands?

dracula and erik as husbands !

✧ warnings — some mentions of death and possible spoilers for dracula and phantom of the opera. also like 2 sexual jokes i think

✧ additional info — i got so so excited by this request omg <3 if u wanna id rlly appreciate it if u sent me more requests for phantom of the opera and classic monsters!! also not really specific versions of them but i mainly had the book versions in mind

✧ m.list — nav.

ೃ༄ erik destler

he wouldn’t wait to marry you

like at all

the second you show him you’re willing to be in a relationship with him and he’s sure you won’t leave him he’s already planning your wedding

of course if you wanted to take it more slowly he might be a little impatient but he’d try his best for you :)

but he’d be so happy if u were ready to get married as soon as possible

the sad thing is he’d get so stressed while trying to plan it because he’d want it to be absolutely perfect because that’s what he didn’t get with christine

and he’d try to convince you not to worry about it or help plan the wedding becaus he wants it to be a surprise for you

however he’d talk to you about what you want <3

so unfortunately he doesn’t know a lot of people 😭 so your wedding audience consists of daroga, mme giry, and maybe christine and raoul if ur lucky and manage to convince them (but they’ll be a little on edge)

and u can invite ur family if they’d be accepting of erik!

once y’all are married it’s so sweet and romantic ohmygod

he’d make u breakfast and dinner every single day, even if he’s had a particularly bad day

he just loves doing things for you

he’d also love writing even more songs and sometimes even entire operas for you or about you, you’re his muse

before he was able to take breaks from bis work to focus on you for awhile

but now you’re married he just can’t be away from you for two minutes

will sit on the floor and talk to u while u shower

or he showers with u

his love language is spontaneously twirling u around and redoing ur wedding dance in the most random places

also carrying u to ur bed if u fall asleep on him or somewhere else, before marriage he’d just let u sleep there and make sure he doesn’t wake u up

such a sweetheart <3

ೃ༄ count dracula

takes his time to marry you

but that’s only because he takes a lot of time working out when and where to propose and shit

and then probably has the wedding planned before you even say yes

which obviously you do

he’d be a little cocky abt u saying yes ngl cause he already knew u would

but the wedding itself obviously takes place at night and mainly other vampires will show up, but he won’t let them remotely near you assuming he hasn’t turned you yet

if he has then go talk to them!! there’s no risk of u dying or getting turned by someone else!!

he’d also rlly like cooking for u and shit since he canonically had to sprint around his castle to make it seem like he had butlers or whatever 😭😭

how good is fucking amazing btw

like god damn

and obviously he has a comfortable ass vampire bed that he’d let u put 60 pillows on if u want

he’d also like have a thing for ur hair no matter how short or long it is

he likes standing behind u and running his hands through it when u do literally anything for funsies

and his fingers are really pretty and long and cold so they feel nice

he also brushes it a lot esp in the mornings

he also doesn’t even look another persons way when he’s with u

ever.

and his brides are now just. draculas sisters or wtv 😭

unless u want them to be ur wives too he won’t complain

as much as he loves you there’s time where he js like. wants personal time to go kill people think

id also imagine ur very close with renfield

like draculas kinda mean to him but ur rlly nice to him <3

like for example waving at him when u see him or just going “hi renfield!!”

renfields probably the one who found u ngl

i can’t think of anything else for him mb pookie 😔 i’ll add to this later

[tikosblogg]

BESTFRIENDS pt 2..

Summary: Noah comes home from a bad day at the studio. You decide to help him take out his frustrations.

Warning: oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v sex, virginity loss. Let me know if there is anything else.

A/N: you guys asked for it and I delivered!!! I really hope you guys enjoy it!!❤️

I laid across the couch watching my show, when the front door slammed open then shut causing me to jump out of my skin. I quickly sat up seeing Noah barge in, and stomp up the stairs to his room, clearly pissed. Noah and the guys were at the studio today, recording a song. They weren’t supposed to be home for another two hours. Confused, I stood from my seat, grabbing the remote and cutting off the tv. The front door opened again, and the rest of the guys walked in.

“What’s going on? Is he okay?” They all turned to me, jolly being the first to speak. “He sounded a tiny bit hoarse today, and he’s pissed off. You know how he is. Everything has to be perfect.” I nodded my head, looking back towards the stairs. Noah is always so hard on himself for no reason. “Poor guy….” I frowned, thinking about all negative thoughts probably racing through his head right now.

I crossed my arms over my chest, walking over to them as Nick spoke up. “Yea we’ll give him some space. Let him cool off.” I nodded in agreement. Noah and I haven’t really talked much since the other night. It’s not that it’s awkward or anything. He’s just been so busy with meetings, and going to the studio. We haven’t really had time. Jolly nodded towards the front door, breaking me from my thoughts. “We’re gonna head out, maybe grab some food and hangout. Wanna come?” They all turned towards me awaiting my response.

I smiled before politely declining. “Thanks for the invite, but I gotta shower and get to sleep. I have work in the morning. You guys have fun.” I gave them each a hug as they walked out the door. Locking up and heading upstairs, I stopped midway into my room looking over at Noah’s door. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just check on him? I walked over, knocking twice. After a few seconds his door swung open.

“Jolly I told you I don’t-“ he stopped mid sentence, realizing it was me. “Oh hey, sorry.” He moved back, silently welcoming me into his room. I walked in, walking straight to his bed taking a seat. “What’s going on Noah?” He huffed plopping down into his computer chair, resting his face in his hands. “I sounded awful today. My throat is hoarse, and couldn’t find the right pitch.”

“Noah you couldn’t sound awful if you tried. You have an amazing voice. Even if it’s a little hoarse.” I gave him a small reassuring smile, as he sat up meeting my eyes. “Thanks sweetheart ….I just hate when things don’t go right. I’m so frustrated.” An idea instantly popped in my mind. Was it a good one? Maybe not. But it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try.

I slowly slid off the bed onto my knees, crawling the short distance between us to right between his thighs. He froze, as his eyes widened. My hands running up each of his thighs, giving them a light squeeze. “What are you doing y/n?” He made no move to stop me, so I continued. “Well you helped me when I was frustrated…I feel it’s only right I return the favor.”

I softly rubbed my hands up down his thighs, waiting for his response. “Baby you don’t have to-“ I quickly cut him off with a smile. “I want to.” He slowly nodded his head, as I went straight for his belt. His dick was already stiff, growing more the closer I got to it. I pulled the belt open, unbuttoning his jeans and finally pulling him out.

I’ve never seen a dick in real life, but I can guarantee his is this most beautiful one I’ll ever see. He’s also huge. He gasped as I finally wrapped my fingers around it. He was so thick my fingertips barely touched. I slowly pumped him a few times looking up at him. He threw his back against the chair releasing a moan. His tip was angry red, and already leaking.

I bent down, and gave it a few kitten licks. He groaned bucking his hips up. “Fuck..” I felt my stomach erupt in butterflies. I parted my lips finally wrapping them around him, taking him in as far as I could. I instantly gagged, pulling back up. His hand flew to my cheek, lifting my face to his. “Don’t force it baby…take your time.”

I nodded my head, pumping him a few more times before taking him back into my mouth. I sucked the tip, and his hand flew to my hair tangling it into his fist. I moaned around him, as he softly tugged it. I could feel my shorts getting soaked. I decided to forego panties tonight, since I planned on showering anyways. Looks like it worked in my favor.

I slid my hand down into my shorts, applying pressure to my aching clit. I took him further into my mouth, until he hit the back of my throat. I fought hard not to gag again, and bobbed my head up and down. The sinful noises leaving Noah’s mouth, only made me wetter. I rubbed my clit faster, moaning around him.

Noah grabbed my arm, removing my hand from my shorts, and pulling me up to him. “Is sucking my cock making you wet baby?” His voice just above a whisper. I whined at his filthy words, nodding my head yes. He stuck his tongue out, running it slowly across my lips. I whimpered leaning in, finally pressing our mouths together.

We shared a heated wet kiss. He shoves his tongue in my mouth, and I softly sucked on it causing a grown to leave his throat. He took my bottom lip between his teeth, softly biting down. My breath hitched, as he released it pulling me to my feet. “C’mon.” He walked us to his bed, pulling me onto it with him. He laid back, making me kneel on the bed beside him,

I leaned down, quickly taking him back into my mouth. “Fuck baby…your mouth feels amazing.” He groaned, running his hand through my hair. I gripped the base with my hand, taking the rest of him in my mouth. He placed his other hand on my ass, gently rubbing and squeezing it. I moaned around his dick, bobbing my head faster.

He bucked his hips up, his tip meeting the back of my throat each time. He moved my shorts aside, running his fingers up and down my slit. “Fuck baby, you’re so wet…you love my cock in your mouth don’t you?” I pulled off of him, continuing to pump his dick. “Fuck Noah….yes.”

He finally slid his two middle fingers into my soaked pussy, slowly pumping them in and out. I whined, arching my ass higher in the air, his fingers hitting deeper. He grabbed my throat gently, pulling me into another searing kiss. I was panting at this point. I needed more. “Please Noah…I want you.” His fingers halted, directing my eyes to his.

“Y/n we don’t have to do this….I don’t want you to feel pressured.” I felt my heart flutter, as I pecked his lips softly. “I don’t….please Noah.” We continued staring at each until I tried again. “Noah…I need you.” His eyes were almost black, as he quickly pulled his fingers out of me, flipping us over.

He hovered over me, planting his lips on mine. He sat up straddling my thighs, quickly tugging my oversized shirt, and shorts off of me. He shoved his face into my neck, licking and sucking as many marks as could onto it. “Oh fuck Noah.” He peppered kisses down my neck, until he reached my tits. He sucked my nipple into his mouth, pinching and pulling on my other one with his fingers.

I arched my chest into his face, clawing my nails down his back under his shirt. He released my nipple with a pop, groaning at my nails digging into his skin. “Fuck baby keep doing that.” He sat up, pulling off his shirt. I spread my thighs as far as they’d go, as he laid between them. “Tell me if it’s too much, and I’ll stop.”

I cupped his cheeks in my hands, pecking his nose. “I will, I promise.” He lined himself up with my entrance looking at me one more time, before slowly pushing in. I gasped loudly at the big stretch, the air leaving my lungs. Noah stopped, turning my head towards his, with a worried expression. “Talk to me baby..” it didn’t even really hurt, it was just a dull ache.

But the new feeling was almost overwhelming. “Keep going.” My strained voice was just above a whisper. He nodded his head, and continued slowly pushing in. When he was fully in, I felt so fucking full. He gave me a few seconds, before slowly thrusting his hips. In a matter of minutes, I was moaning whimpering mess.

I’ve never felt this amount of pleasure in my life. He kept his slow pace, grunting in my ear until I wrapped my legs around his waist. “Faster Noah, please. I can take it.” He captured my lips in a sweet kiss, moving his hips faster and harder. “Oh fuck yes.” I gasped, shoving my face into his neck. “Shit baby, your pussy is so fucking tight.” I felt his dick twitch inside of me, as I was so close to finishing.

“I’m….Im gonna cum.” I whimpered, as pounded into me harder. “Go ahead babygirl, cum on my cock.” That was all I needed, as my orgasm crashed over me. “Just like that, good girl.” He pounded faster, until he pulled out. He stroked his dick a couple times, before releasing all over my chest and stomach. “Fuck.” He dropped his head down, before leaning forward placing a kiss to my forehead and getting up. “I’ll be right back.”

He walked over into his bathroom, coming back out with a wet washcloth. I laid there my body spent, feeling like jello. He wiped the remaining mess, and threw the rag into his hamper. He crawled back onto the bed settling down beside me. “How was it sweetheart?” His voice sounded so small. Almost like he was afraid of my response.

I looked over at him, the biggest smile on my face. “Fucking amazing.”

QA/N: sorry to kind of leave you with a cliff hanger, but I’m almost tempted to turn this into a mini series….or at least do a part 3. Idk what do you guys think???

[b3ach-bunn7]

Saw your request for story ideas!

Jason with a fibromyalgic reader. He really never has to fear them they will never have the strength to over power him. Only if you want to and are comfortable

(Pinky promise this is sent in by a fibromyalgic)

Hey, I really hope I wrote this as you hoped for! I tried my best to read up on the condition before, and I hope I did you justice!

DEPOLLUTE ME

You’re weaker than Jason, but it just makes him love you even more

—————————————————————————-

Jason Todd is a man of principles. Doing what he does, a vigilante, he has to be. Dick had told him when he'd emerged as Redhood, that it didn’t work to do what you want. That, despite what he’d like to believe, Jason was privileged to have the strength and talent that he did, and it was people like them who abused it, that were the reason they were doing this in the first place.

Whatever. Dick always wants to be the smartest guy in the room, Jason thinks. These principles, though, are why he was so scared of you at first. Maybe not of you, but to be with you.

Because the problem with you is that he’s completely not scared of you. And it's all because of your condition, which makes him feel even shittier than he already does about jt.

Fibromyalgia. That’s what it’s called, the condition he’d stayed up two nights in a row reading all he could about. Books and NHS information pages. Anything to learn everything about you. You’d told him about it on your fifth date, the one he’d planned to ask you to be his girlfriend. A chronic illness, that caused pain, fatigue, headaches.

“I just- It doesn’t hinder me much. I just need you to know before this gets serious. That you’ll probably be looking after me more than the average girlfriend.” You’d said, eyes cast down to the half eaten food on your plate.

“That doesn’t bother me. It- I’ve got some mobility issues too, in my arm. Got shot once.” Jason winces at the repsponse he’d given you. Like the two were even remotely similar.

You’d smiled slightly. “It’s a little worse than that. It’s a chronic illness. It’s sort of like.. constant pain in my body? Makes my muscles stiffer, amongst other things. And it makes me sort of.. weaker, I guess. Physically.”

The two of you had talked about it for a while, before you’d changed the subject. He’d asked you to be his girlfriend still, under the porch light at your doorway, and you said yes.

It’s why he’s in your apartment right now. You’d given him a key (despite him being perfectly capable of using the window) and never seem phased in the slightest when he’s sprawled on your couch reading when you’re not there. He loves those things the most about his relationship with you. You’d carved a place for him in your life and it felt so effortless. Like you didn’t even need to think about making an extra portion at dinner or leaving a change of clothes out even after you fall asleep, because you know he always finishes his work late.

Weaker. That’s the word you used to describe yourself. And in a way, Jason loves it.

It’s only something he’d admit to you, or maybe months into forced therapy sessions, but Jason Todd is scared. He’s scared of a lot of things, contrary to what he lets other people see. He’s scared he’ll lose the handful of people he’s come to love. He’s scared that one day he’ll fight another fight he won’t win. He’s scared that one day he might wake up and he’s back there, Arkham Asylum, with that sorry excuse of a human being with him. But worst of all, he’s scared of people. Not an overwhelming fear, nothing he can’t fight through in an instance, but. He just never knows who he can trust. Who he can be vulnerable around.

And Jason isn’t weak by any means. Not that he likes to brag, but most of his body mass is muscle, ones you’ve seen, abs you’d run your hands across under his bedsheets. He can defend himself, he knows he can. He just doesn’t want to have that fear looming over his head all the time. Because it can happen. It happened once.

It had already taken so long for him to even let you in. And it was so easy. You were so perfect. So pretty, so sweet. Jason was half sure you were lying about your condition, because there was no way somebody in constant pain, 24/7, was so kind. So nice. Had patience for how long it took him to warm up to you, to let you touch him without him breaking your hands.

It was like a miracle. One he was so cruelly happy for. It was like somebody had taken all the fears he had in every relationship and eradicated them. There was no world where you could hurt him like so many others had done before. You were incapable of it. He could let his guard down completely and he’d be fine.

And he felt guilty for it at first. Of course he did. Like he was benefiting from something that caused you pain. He’d told you, but like with everything, you were perfect. You’d only laughed,

“It’s okay.” You’d snorted, amused at his apologetic face. It had been uttered in the dark of your bedroom, his arms wrapped around your waist, your back pressed into his chest.

“I don’t really mind.” You fiddled absentmindedly with his fingers, traced the calluses on his palms. “Kinda like it, actually. Most people use it as an excuse to like me less. You’re doing the opposite.”

So he doesn’t feel guilty anymore. Maybe slightly, but that little smile you give him, he hates to say it melts him enough that he doesn’t care.

The sound of the door creaking open drags his attention away from his thoughts. He looks up and there you are. Bundled in a scarf and gloves and a hat. You told him that the cold sometimes made it worse, and the winter weather was cruel. Your eyes light up when you see him sitting on the couch. You bound over, throwing the discarded book on his lap away, and sitting down.

“Hey.” You grin.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You lay down next to him and Jason moves, let you settle slowly down next to him, a hand carding through your hair. You ramble about your day and he listens.

[luimagines]

Out of all the links that don't really like humans, how would they react if they found out their soulmate was a human? Would any of them try to deny it, or would they try to learn to accept it and move past their dislike for humans for their soulmates sake? The idea of a hylian that hates humans, and a human that doesn't trust hylians very much because of their obvious dislike of humans, going through enemies to lovers is so interesting to me. And it has the potential for some hilarious moments I think 😆

You. You get the potential.

Warrior, Legend, Hyrule and Four are the ones that are the most "skeptical", to put it nicely. Time is a pure middle ground.

Time would likely need little convincing but he's incredibly apathetic, not wanting to get too close for personal reasons. I mean he's had to say goodbye to everyone who was ever important to him. It's not even about Reader being human. His issues are more about being soulmates tbh.

Four is the runner up. His soulmate would need to put in a little work (whether they know it or not), but it'll be fairly easy to get past his defenses afterward. Humans, with the superior weaponry and craftmanship, would be able to garner the respect and admiration of the blacksmith once they start talking shop. All Four needs is a little time to get used to the idea and eventually grow to not care about what they are and begin to care about who they are.

Legend is all snark and attitude and it'll take something literally hitting him in the head to get him to consider Reader as potential. It sound like I'm trying to be metaphorical. Nah. Legend is gonna have to be in a life or death situation where Reader save his hide before he's going to admit to anything, let alone start to open up to them.

Hyrule is worse believe it or not. He won't be snarky, but he'll avoid Reader like the plague purely on principle. It's not even actively being disrespectful, he's just got Reader on the peripheral if they ever decide to act up. He's got zero reason to trust them and doesn't want to give them any opportunity to prove him right. He'll be civil.... on good days. But good luck getting him to even look in Reader's direction. And add soulmates on top of that? Hyrule is gonna just ignore it all together. Because- no. It can't be. He refuses. And if he believes hard enough, maybe it'll manifest into reality.

Warrior takes the cakes. Good luck, Reader. You'll need all the help you can get. Fervently thinks of Reader as an enemy even if they have never met before that. In fact, being his soulmate makes him hate them more. Because of course they are his soulmate. Just his luck. Surrounded by traitors and sketchy people just like before. Now, we know he has no reason to think this way, but he's not afraid of voicing his "distaste", for the lack of better words. He's like Legend in which he's going to need a life or death situation for Reader to gain his respect. and he's like Hyrule in which he'll avoid Reader at all costs. But to be his soulmate? He's gonna need even more time than Four. He's got ideas and they run deep. You'll the patience and determination of Frisk from Undertale just to even remotely be considered on good terms with this guy. Of course, there's potential for him to come around- just like all the other boys. But he's quite literally worse case scenario.

[otherworldseekers]

OC x Canon Week Day 6

Excerpt from a scene in between Delta and Sigmascape.

“All right, Arenvald! It’s a date! See you then.”

The words sent a harsh spike of jealousy through him. Quickly closing the distance between them, Nero reached out and grabbed Severia’s wrist, pulling her along with him around the side of the building. 

“Nero! What are you doing?” she cried, but she didn’t make much of an effort to pull away from him. 

Nero took that as a good sign. He found a secluded corner in the architecture and pushed her into it, blocking her exit and leaning over her with his hands on either side of her head. They stood there staring at each other for several seconds while Nero collected his thoughts. But his thoughts refused to coalesce into anything remotely intelligent. He blurted out the first words that came to mind.

“Don’t go on that date.”

Severia’s eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

“I heard you just now. Talking about a date. Don’t. Don’t go on it.”

She peered up at him curiously and crossed her arms over her chest. “Nero Scaeva, are you jealous?”

Visions of Severia talking and laughing with some mystery person, maybe even kissing them goodnight, stripped all his clever words away. “Yes.” 

“Why?” Her lips twitched slightly. 

Nero gritted his teeth. She was asking why? After the things they had said to each other, the things they did together, just a few nights ago? Had it meant nothing to her? No, that wasn’t possible. It wasn’t the kind of woman she was. 

“You know why.”

She leaned back against the wall, looking perfectly relaxed, and smiled at him with a spark of mischief in her eye. “Maybe I want to hear you say it.”

So she was going to be coy with him. Very well. He would play along. His hands yearned to grab her and shake her and demand that she be his, only his. But he knew that would never work with her. He had seen the strength of her will all too often. Only bold sincerity would make an impression on her. 

Nero leaned in closer to her, resting his elbows on either side of her head, not allowing her to look at anything but him. “It drives me crazy to think that someone else might win you when I’ve only had the briefest taste of your charms. You must know, Severia.” He spoke now with his lips nearly touching her horn. “I want you all for myself.”

He was pleased to see her cheeks become tinged with pink. But when he pulled back he saw that she was laughing. 

“What’s so funny?”

“There is no date,” Severia said, vibrating with amusement. 

“No date?” he repeated stupidly. 

“No,” Severia laughed. “It’s just an expression. I am meeting with Arenvald, but we’re just going to go explore some old ruins. Alphinaud is even coming along. It’s isn’t a date.”

For a moment, Nero had trouble parsing this amazing statement. He, of all people, couldn’t have got it so wrong. Not with his prodigious brain. It was impossible that she had so taken advantage of the situation as to make him look like an utter idiot. Nero suddenly felt extremely put upon. 

“But perhaps we can continue this fascinating discussion when we’re back at the Yawn. Alone.” Severia put a single finger on his chest and pushed him back. Back he went, his body not quite ready to confront the current circumstances. She slipped out from the corner and began walking away. 

Nero’s mind and body snapped back into working order. He wasn’t about to let her have the last word. He turned and grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, placing his lips against her horn. “You little vixen, I am going to do the most wicked things to you the next time we are alone.” She shuddered and whimpered against him and he decided that it was his victory. “Now you go play with your little friends.”

He gave her a light smack on the ass that sent her reeling forward a few steps. She turned and gave him a look part confident grin, part knowing smirk and one hundred percent lust. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Nero groaned as he watched her walk away. Severia Zetsuen was surely going to be his downfall.

Prompts: Hug from behind / "Jealous much?"

I didn't use the exact phrase cause I couldn't imagine either of them saying it just like that. But the inspiration is still there.

Thanks for reading!

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

What Happens At Home: Final Part

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.3k

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Summary: A new team member joins due to her traumatic past, hoping that she can give some insight before more people are killed. Meanwhile, you get the house ready for Spencer's mother on Christmas weekend.

Season Six Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them.

x

"Agent Hotchner. You should see this." Felix moves a small TV to face Hotch. It's an interrogation tape of one of the sixty-four suspects. "This guy is Frank Morris."

"I do? How do I know that?" Felix asks.

"I run the damn neighborhood watch," Frank glares.

"That means you're walking around at night."

"You said the profile could include somebody in the neighborhood watch, right?"

"That's where Agent Y/N comes in."

"I know the unsub's energy. I can match it to whoever is in the crowd."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm a psychic. I see energies. Everyone has a different base energy, and the unsub left a lot of it behind at the crime scene."

"That's not possible."

"She's the real deal, and we trust her wholeheartedly. Let us focus on scanning the crowd, you focus on bringing Frank in." Hotch doesn't give him time to question you. "We're going to try something else. Can you make some officers available to run a sign-in table at a community meeting tonight? One of the things we're going to be examining is body language in a group environment."

"Body language?"

"It's something that the unsub won't be able to control even if he were to try to."

"Right. Okay, I'll have some uniforms detailed for the meeting."

"Will you also tell Brinkman that the unsub will display something that he can't control?"

"Sure," Felix nods and leaves.

"Do you think they'll be able to keep that to themselves?"

"Let's hope not."

"Hotch, Might be able to point out the unsub but you told me that I have to have facts and evidence to back up my claim. Is this going to happen tonight or will you arrest whoever I say to?"

Hotch sighs and takes you off to the side.

"We can only hold someone for forty-eight hours without cause. If we get him now, we have a clock running. If you point him out, we can be better prepared and gather evidence before bringing him in."

"Yeah, you're right."

"Don't think I don't trust you. I do. I take everything you say into consideration."

"Thanks, Hotch," you smile.

At the most recent crime scene, Derek and Emily found a laptop owned by the latest victim. Once Derek brought it back to the model home, he hooked it up for Penelope to sift through. Aubrey was a writer so you're hoping she kept some kind of journal. Maybe she noticed someone following her or she felt weird about something. It's a stretch but you have no doubt if there is anything to find, Penelope is going to find it.

With the suspects who are left, Penelope looks to see if any of them have a tech background that would allow them to modify a remote control of a garage. It might be how the unsub is letting himself into the houses.

Marjorie's family was out of town. Jill was strangled in her laundry room while her family was camping outside. The unsub was able to get through the entire house only to find a room where someone was awake. That doesn't sound like someone just randomly checking garage doors to see if one will open. This unsub stalked his victims and reprogrammed a garage door opener to work on his victim's doors.

As soon as six rolls around, you're in the back which has a great view of the entire church. People are filtering in, but none of them are the unsub yet. Derek and Emily show up after looking at each of the crime scenes.

"We just came from the last victim's house. The unsub used the garage as access. Maybe a remote door opener made to be universal. The police are saying it's random, but how could you randomly find a woman so vulnerable? Garcia's going over backgrounds again, trying to highlight anyone with tech experience," Derek explains.

"She's also doing a full workup on Brinkman and Ruiz. They had that kind of access. Has anyone seen Ruiz?"

"I saw him a while ago," Rossi answers Hotch.

"He set up everyone filling out forms, but I haven't seen him since," Spencer says.

"We need to ask for help in a different way. Tell people that we're looking for someone who might have seensomething rather than someone who did something. No one thinks that their friends or neighbors are capable of this. We should get started."

Hotch walks to the altar to address everyone inside the church while you stay in the back. The unsub has not entered the building. You didn't even have to go inside the crime scenes to see his energy. It was pouring out of it like a disease. Hotch gives a brief overview of what's going on in a calm manner so that no one panics.

"We're hoping that someone may have seen something and not even realized it. Maybe you have a neighbor who takes his trash out late, works on his car in his garage, or anything that might put someone outside at an odd hour and allow them to see something."

"Is there anything we can help you look for?" Emily asks Ashley.

"It won't be overt. The kids probably won't be afraid of their dad."

"They won't? These guys have explosive tempers, don't they?"

Your dad did.

"Definitely. Anger wasn't normal at my house. Usually, when it happened, when he exploded, it was an anomaly. A surprise. If anything, my father was overly solicitous. Too nice. If I wanted anything like bicycles, toys, and dolls, all I had to do was ask. In groups, he always held my hand. Always. Sometimes so tight, it almost cut off the circulation. I can never remember him putting me on his lap or holding me in any way."

You look away from her as you think about your own dynamic with your dad. You had the complete opposite experience with him. He was scary when he was angry. When he punished, he punished. Afterward, he'd feel so bad about how he reacted that he'd give you anything you asked for. He was overly affectionate for you and loved to hold you as a kid. It stopped when you got too old for it, but he always loved hugging you. You never saw an issue with it. You still don't, but you're confused why dread and doubt are creeping up your back when you think back on it.

"Are you okay?" Derek asks and nudges you.

"My dad did that stuff for me."

"Your dad isn't a killer."

"Yeah, I know," you whisper.

"He'd always have these talks with me. He was terrified someone would take me," Ashley continues. "He knew what was out there. Men like him. Maybe this unsub recently bought gifts for his kids. My dad used to buy me things all the time."

"What kind of gifts?"

"Anything. Everything. I told you, there was nothing... My whole life, there's only one thing I wanted that I couldn't have."

"What was it?"

"A pet."

After Hotch is done talking to the crowd, he walks over to your group, and you shake your head at his questioning look.

"He wasn't here, Hotch. I didn't see his energy anywhere. I don't think he's here but he could have blended in. There's a lot of people here. Energies tend to mush together in large crowds.

"We're gonna start with the people who didn't show and cross-reference with families with no pets," Emily explains.

"No pets?"

"I remembered I wasn't allowed to have a dog or a pet of any kind. It was more than a rule. It was a big problem for us," Ash says.

"That could be something."

"I'm sorry I couldn't point him out."

"We don't expect you to point him out. We're hoping you can help us once we have things narrowed down. Plus, I believe Y/N. If she says he wasn't here, he's probably not here."

Spencer returns with a list in his hands. "Out of the sixty-four suspects, eighteen of them didn't show up."

"Okay. Prentiss, take Ashley back to the model home, go through the eighteen names, and add the pet information." Emily nods, and the two women leave. "Is Garcia's working on technical backgrounds?"

"Yes," Derek nods.

"Okay, get her the eighteen names. Did Ruiz ever get here?"

"No. Neither did the security chief."

"As far as I'm concerned, we have twenty no-shows."

An officer walks into the church and over to your group.

"Agent Hotchner? Detective Ruiz would like you to meet him at Main and Oak. There's been another murder."

You immediately head over to the house to see Felix talking with the distraught husband of the victim. He is sitting on the front porch steps with his head in his hands, crying his eyes out.

"I know, Mike. I'm sorry. We're doing everything we can," Felix sighs.

"The unsub's killed two nights in a row. It's a major escalation."

"We need to start over," Hotch says. "I think we go back to the beginning. Local PD gave us a list of sixty-four out of the seventy-one possible males. I think we throw that out and start with the original seventy-one."

"What about Ruiz?" Spencer asks.

"He's definitely on the list."

"He didn't do it but that doesn't mean he doesn't know who did it or isn't covering for him," you whisper.

You head back to the model home but Emily and Ashley aren't there.

"Hey, Reid, where's the list of people that didn't make the meeting?" Derek asks.

He hands the list to him. "Right here."

"We need to look at all seventy-one files. We need to eliminate suspects our way, not theirs."

The files of everyone are on the dining room table, and you grab a handful of them to look through. Spencer drums his fingers down the sides of the folders and frowns in thought.

Derek takes out his phone and dials Penelope, putting her on speakerphone.

"Garcia, are you ready?"

"Yes. What do you got?"

The front door opens and Detective Ruiz walks in. Everyone looks at him like he's the suspect, and he senses the hostility.

"What's up?"

"There are only sixty-seven files here. Where are the other four?"

"One of them is mine, and the other three are the victims' husbands."

"Why would they automatically be cleared?" Derek asks.

"Wouldn't they? I mean, if you're gonna check them, you might as well check me."

"We are," Rossi states. "Detective, where are the missing files?"

"Right over here."

Felix grabs the files and hands them over to Hotch.

"Garcia, we need you to run a few more names. Phillip Long."

"Long has no suspicions on his record, no arrests, and no technology either."

"Drew Jacobs."

"Drew had a couple of arrests for assault when he was younger. I'll give you more details on that in a second. Is this the husband of the woman whose computer I went through?"

"Yeah."

"She was really unhappy with him. She said he was distant and he left her alone at night."

"He was wandering outside," Felix says. "As a matter of fact, before his wife was killed, he was my top suspect."

"He's an IT expert who travels around the world," Penelope says.

"He's a tech. Thanks, baby girl."

Emily and the Chief of Security walk through the door just now. "What's going on?"

"There was another murder during the meeting."

"Where's Seaver?"

"I thought she was with you," you say.

"No. I left her here."

Hotch takes out his phone and calls Ashley who picks up immediately. He places her on speakerphone so everyone can hear her.

"Agent Seaver," she answers.

"Ashley, where are you?"

"Without a doubt, sir."

"Where are you?"

"Yes, sir."

A look of realization falls over Hotch's face.

"Can you get out of there?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't do that. Mr. Jacobs told me that his daughter was frightened, and as soon as I can make her feel better, I'll come back."

She hangs up and you look at Hotch who is worried for her.

"Jacobs has her. She has no gun. Let's go."

"Son of a bitch," Felix curses.

You rush over to Drew's house. Based on the energy you can see floating out of the house, there is a child inside. It's like Ashley's childhood all over again.

"Prentiss and Morgan, take the back. Make noise. Let him know he's caught. It may be the only chance she's got."

You go with Htoch through the front door, and you keep your gun aimed in front of you.

"FBI!"

You make your way upstairs to see a little girl with tears streaming down her face and Drew standing behind Ashley with a knife to her throat.

"Drop the knife," Hotch demands.

"Daddy!"

You walk over to the little girl and pull her into you to keep her from running to her dad.

"Drop the knife!" Rossi yells.

You turn Drew's daughter toward you so she doesn't have to see what happens next. Drew pushes Ashley to the side and lunges at Hotch with the knife. You cover the girl's eyes just as her dad is shot twice in the chest. You don't waste any time in getting the girl downstairs so that she can't see her dad's dead body lying on the ground.

Case closed.

Spencer stayed true to his word and flew to Las Vegas to pick up his mom while you went back home and got the guest room ready for her. She's been having more good days so her doctor allowed her to take Christmas weekend away from the facility. Spencer texted when they landed in Virginia and once again when they were pulling up. You open the front door and smile when you see Diana.

"Diana! I'm so happy to see you! Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, dear," she smiles back.

"Why don't you two sit down and I'll make some tea for you two," Spencer offers.

You lead Diana to the living room and sit with her on the couch. You wanted to wait until Christmas morning to tell her the news but you can't contain your excitement much longer.

"We have some news, Diana."

"What is it?"

You hold out your left hand to show off the beautiful diamond ring. "Spencer and I are getting married. We're engaged." She gasps happily and grabs your hand to inspect the ring further. "We'd like you to be there."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," she grins.

"Would you like to watch some Christmas movies?" She nods and leans back in her seat. "Great. I'll be right back."

You walk into the kitchen where Spencer is and slink up to his side.

"I like how happy you make my mom."

"She makes me happy, too. Afterall, she gave birth to you."

Spencer leans down and kisses you, utterly and completely in love with you.

"Children begin by loving their parents. As they grow older they judge them, sometimes they forgive them." – Oscar Wilde

x

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