#stacking and wrapping system

[nichromepackaging]

From Fill to Finish: Mastering Packaging with Nichrome’s Integrated Systems

In a rapidly evolving manufacturing sector where every minute of downtime is a deal-breaker and manual processes are considered a thing of the past, integrated packaging solutions are the new superstars of the modern production line. Whether it is bottling honey, pharma-grade filling in jars or cartoning pouches for FMCG, efficiency is not just an option anymore, it is a…

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Neighborly

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.

He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.

The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.

“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”

You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.

Then the first snow fell.

You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.

But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.

As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.

You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.

When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.

You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.

Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.

You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.

When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.

He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.

“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.

Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.

“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”

That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Did you get all that?”

He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.

“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”

Good enough.

“Okay.”

The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”

He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.

The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.

Ah, well. They were replaceable.

Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.

It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.

You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.

The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.

His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.

His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.

When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.

He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.

He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.

(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)

He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.

And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.

He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.

What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.

He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.

A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.

A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.

The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.

Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.

You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.

Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.

You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.

“You the neighbor?”

He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?

Your neighbor never had guests before.

It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.

You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.

And – well – manners.

Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”

“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”

He closed the door and that was that.

Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…

It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.

You waited.

But he didn’t.

The absolute fuck?

Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.

You must’ve done something wrong.

Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.

Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).

Two gallons of milk.

Wait.

No.

You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.

You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.

Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.

The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.

Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?

His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.

Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.

You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.

But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.

Convenient.

Until his real friend joined him.

You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.

When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.

If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.

You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.

It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.

Alright. Fine.

You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…

Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.

The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.

You drove home.

Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.

At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.

The flour hadn’t been on your list.

And there was no room for it.

Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.

It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.

You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.

There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.

As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.

The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.

A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.

MacTavish.

The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).

Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.

Relief. Hope. Dread.

He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.

“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”

Friend? What flavor of friend?

“I know. We met this morning.”

“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”

“If you say so.”

You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.

“His name’s Ghost.”

Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.

Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”

“Hard to predict the next big snow.”

“Aye. He said that, too.”

If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.

And it did.

Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.

For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.

His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.

It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.

A bad day instantly became your worst in years.

It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.

Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.

The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.

It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.

There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.

“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”

You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.

A pretty crier you were not.

And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”

“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.

“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”

His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.

“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”

“I know.”

Finally, he left.

You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.

-----------------------

He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.

You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.

Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.

They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.

So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.

The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.

You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.

Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.

Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.  

The little shits had siphoned your tank.

You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.

So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.

But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.

Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.

The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.

The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.

You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.

When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…

An I.O.U. was taped to the back.

You knew the handwriting all too well.

That shitting little…

The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.

You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.

You had made a mistake.

You made your neighbor chicken soup.

Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.

Fuck Johnny MacTavish.

Fuck Ghost.

Fuck your life.

[bitchface24-7]

COYOTE UGLY - VIKTOR X READER

synopsis: When you’re not at the lab researching and developing Hextech, you’re in Zaun at the BDSM club Coyote Ugly as the bartender. Having this job ensures your team has enough money to continue working without any headaches. Well you’re in for a massive migraine since the man you’ve been in love with since you were kids is gonna find out about your dirty little secret.

warnings: secrets, bdsm etiquette, dom!viktor, love confessions, abelist comments (Viktor refers to himself in a negative light twice, referencing what others have called him) traffic light system, spanking, afab terms used for the smut section, dirty talk, vaginal sex, unsafe sex (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, squirting, I’m gonna write this as a 5 + 1 kinda deal. Ok? Ok. Grammarly is my beta

genre: m/f

p.s. This fic very obviously references Coyote Ugly (2000), and I know it is a bar in the movie but I didn't want to do a whole plotline on The Last Drop vs Coyote Ugly; and I didn't have the energy to write and characterize Silco LMAO. So I hope none of y'all are mad I tweaked it to be a BDSM club/bar instead. I've loved this movie ever since I was a kid. Now I'm tempted to do a Practical Magic (1998) fic too 😭😭

The Five Times Viktor Gets a Clue About You, and the One Time His Suspicions are Confirmed

One.

Viktor’s known you for almost two decades by this point. You’re well into your twenties and can do whatever you please. But Viktor’s got suspicions regarding you. Your excuses, your secrets. He knows you better than he knows himself.

So when you walk into the lab one day with a stack of cash, both Jayce and Viktor can’t help but look at you as if you were a project they were working on. You’ve peaked their curiosity and suspicion.

“So,” Viktor starts as you give the money to Jayce, and walk back to your desk, “Where did that money come from?”

You lightly scoff, “Don’t worry about it, V.”

“Of course I’m going to worry about it! That’s a lot of money miláček! Please tell me you got it legally.”

You whip around with a snort, “Don’t worry Viktor, it’s all legal. I just got paid from my second job. I already took a cut for myself; the rest I’m donating to the lab for our research.”

Viktor’s lips thin at that. You already took a cut for yourself and still had that much money to just… give away?

“Whatever you say, miláček.”

You’re gonna regret that. You’ve just peaked Viktor’s curiosity; and what’s the saying?

Curiosity killed the cat… but satisfaction brought it back.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Two.

Viktor’s curiosity is peaked once more when he sees a glimmer of sparkle at your navel as your shirt rises, as you try to get something off the shelf for him.

Viktor hums as he puts his pen on the hem of your shirt to lift it a bit more. You gasp as a fresh breeze brushes against your abdomen.

“Whats this, hmm?”

You sputter a bit before dropping your arms and tugging your shirt down quickly, “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Your belly button is magical and shimmers on its own?”

You sarcastically hum, “How’d you know?” you add a dramatic gasp, just because you can. Viktor quirks an eyebrow at you, “You can just admit you got a piercing. Its quite common down in Zaun.”

“Whats the fun in that.” You pout, “I got it forever ago, a bit before we left for the Academy actually.”

“You got your navel pierced when you were seventeen, and I never found out about it until you were twenty-six and I was twenty-eight?”

You playfully shrug, “Guess you aren't as observant as you think you are.”

Viktor clenches his jaw, “Don’t tease me miláček. You won't like where you end up.”

“Try me.”

With that, you walk away with a sway to your hips as Viktor's grip on his pen tightens to the point he thinks it's going to snap in half.

You're going to regret that.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Three.

“What is that?!” Jayce exclaims as you lounge on the couch, taking a small nap. “What? What! What're you screeching about Jayce?”

“That!” he squeaks, “On your lower back! Is that a…”

Viktor finishes the thought, “A tattoo?”

You twist your torso and look down. There's the perpetrator, a small tramp stamp that kind of looks like the Hexcores magic, and in the centre is a heart.

“Yeah.” you casually state as you go back to nap.

“Why does it look like the Hexcore?”

You take a quick peek over to Viktor before muttering, “Why not? I care about you guys and decided to get a tattoo to commemorate it.”

Jayce awes a bit but Viktor just narrows his eyes at you. There's more to it than just that. Because if not, then why did you put it in such a… risque place? Unless you wear low-rise pants or extremely cropped shirts; no one would ever see it.

Unless you're completely naked.

Viktor rubs his nose as you reposition yourself, your hip jutting out as your top rises even farther.

Viktor casually stands up and walks over to where you're resting on the labs couch. Lightly touching your lower back, he feels you flinch as he presses his hand harder onto the fully healed tattoo, “You must be cold, here. Let me fix that.”

And with that, Viktor pulls up the fleece blanket to cover your torso.

You look to Viktor and your eyes have darkened, your lids slightly narrowed. Your lips are lightly pursed as you examine Viktor. Viktor just smirks at you.

The longer this goes on, the more clues Viktor gets.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Four.

Jayce keeps pacing in the lab. Back and forth, back and forth. Viktor is worried Jayce is going to wear the floor down to the baseboards.

“Are you okay?” Viktor quietly asks, looking at Jayce in concern. He's never seen him so… frazzled before.

“No. There's a small gathering happening later today with the council members and high-level individuals. There was supposed to be a bartender to make the meeting not as mind numbing but the one Mel booked previously is sick. Now we need to find a replacement for…”

Jayce looks at his watch and runs a hand through his hair, “Three hours from now.”

Before Viktor can put his two cents in, you pipe in, “I can do it.”

Jayce whips around to look at you, a manic gleam in his eyes, “You’re not joking, right? You can actually bartend.”

You nod once, “I can actually bartend.”

“Shes not lying Jayce. She was a part-time bartender at the Last Drop when… when Vander was the owner.

Both you and Viktor look down, Vander was a good man. He took care of everyone as if they were his own kids.

Jayce clears his throat, trying to dissipate the mournful aura in the lab, “Wow, you're like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Many hidden talents.”

You snort, “More like a coyote prowling in the forest. Challenge brings mastery, dear Jayce.”

Viktor quirks an eyebrow at you. That's an… odd choice of words. No one ever refers to themselves as a coyote unless they frequent…

Oh.

Oh.

Everything is slowly piecing together, he just needs one more piece of proof before he pounces. Viktor almost feels like he's insane; he's a frequent member of the well-established BDSM club down in Zaun; Coyote Ugly. He's sure he would’ve seen you before. But there's the off chance you work when he's not there. He only goes on Saturdays, on a bi-weekly schedule.

Maybe you knew that and planned your schedule around Viktor's desires.

For this last bit of proof, Viktor’s gonna bring his attitude from Coyote Ugly to the lab. Hopefully, he doesn't traumatize Jayce (or you if he's wrong.)

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Five.

Viktor is good at what he does. Many people look at him and assume he's a virgin due to his disabilities. They think he's submissive due to the fact he's more lean and lithe as a man.

He's not.

He can get anyone down to their knees. He can get anyone to listen to him. He doesn't typically use this power in his day-to-day life, but he's going to bring it to the lab today. Luckily for him, Jayce had a mandated meeting to go to and couldn't weasel his way out of it.

He sees his target in the corner of his eye.

You.

You're standing by the blackboard, wobbling in place. Viktor isn't sure how well you've slept, if you've eaten anything today, or if you've even taken a break.

Viktor gets up from his own spot, and makes his way to the small kitchenette in the lab and prepares a basic sandwich and sweet milk for you. He places the items onto your desk and you're none the wiser.

Its not until Viktor clears his throat do you look away from the blackboard.

“You can barely stand straight. Here, come take a small break. Eat something.”

You smile lightly at the care, “Oh Viktor, I’d love to but I can't. I'm on the verge of a breakthrough; I can feel it! If I stop now, I wont ever complete this runic sequence!”

“I insist.”

“No, I really can't—”

“Sit.”

With that, you sat down at your desk immediately. You've never heard Viktor's voice go like that. So dark, so commanding, so… sensual.

You feel almost ashamed. Here Viktor is, making you food, a drink, and worrying about your health. And you were too much of a brat to see it.

You take half the sandwich and bite into it as your stomach growls at you. Shit, he's right. You haven't eaten in several hours and now your body’s catching up to you.

Viktor tilts his head, observing you.

“You were right, thank you.”

Viktor puts his hand on the nape of your neck and squeezes. You shiver and lean into the touch.

“You’re welcome. Don't make me have to do that again.”

You look up at him, your eyes wide and glossy. Your lips pouted lightly. Viktor's grip tightens on your nape and you somewhat successfully suppress a whine.

That's the final puzzle piece.

“I wont.”

“Good girl.”

And with that, Viktor can see you blue screen.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Plus One.

Viktor's changing up his routine, visiting Coyote Ugly on a Friday rather than his usual Saturday. The trek down to Zaun wasn't too bad, but the difference is air quality was highly noticeable.

Slowly but surely, Viktor makes his way to the club. He's in his usual outfit for this scene, an all-black ensemble with the buttons of his shirt undone almost dangerously low. He can feel the looks of desire shot his way. He's always on the top of the submissive’s lists at Coyote Ugly. And every coyote he's taken has been incredibly satisfied.

But ever since this theory of his sprouted, he's been hyper-focusing on it. On you. So he hasn't been able to take any of the coyotes to bed. They're desperate.

But there's a certain coyote that's already caught his eye.

He sees you working the bar as if it were second nature. Mixing drinks, pouring shots, opening beers, and chatting up the patrons. You seem so at home here.

Viktor gets a lovely eyeful of your outfit when you hope up on the bar with a megaphone, “Same shit, new day! We follow the rules and—”

All the patrons echo your words back to you, “We don't touch your girls!”

You smirk, “And with that, let the party begin!” a bell is heard ringing in the background but all Viktor can do is appreciate your sexiness.

You're in an all-black outfit as well, but its all leather. Your top is closed by a single button, so Viktor damn near gets an eyeful of your breasts. He can see your abdomen down to the top of your navel, your belly button piercing glittering in the club's lights.

Your leather pants are skin tight and low enough that Viktor's worried you can't bend over in them without flashing someone. He sees you turn around to hop off the bar and there it is. Your hexcore inspired tattoo.

Viktor feels his pants tighten at that. Its almost like a branding in his mind. Look at that. She's mine.

A few girls get up onto the bar and dance to the songs playing on the jukebox. With a distraction in place, he makes his way to the bar to order a drink.

Your back is to the bar as you clean some glasses, “What can I getcha?”

Viktor ensures his voice is loud enough so that you can hear him, “A whiskey sour, miláček.”

The sounds of cups almost breaking puts a smile on Viktor’s face. He's got you just where he wants you. You whip around with a deer-in-the-headlights look, “Vi—Viktor! What're you doing here?! You usually come on—”

“Saturdays. Yes, I know. But I've heard wonderful things about a certain bartender and wanted to see her for myself. The only bartender I've ever met is Thomas.”

You inhale sharply, “What gave me away?”

“Little things. The money, your body modifications, referring to yourself as a coyote.”

You hit your forehead with the palm of your hand, “I'm an idiot.”

Viktor shakes his head, “No, you just got too comfortable. Besides how you reacted a few days ago when given an order sealed the deal.”

Your face feels hot, almost unbearably so. Goddamn it.

“Does this… ruin anything between us?”

Viktor scoffs, “Absolutely not! Do you know how long I've fantasized about a scenario like this happening?”

“I have an idea…” your tone is breathless as your eyes are as wide as saucers. No way is this happening. No way are your dreams coming true.

Before anything else can happen, you do a special knock on the bar. Thomas whips his head over to look at you and seems shocked.

“This is officially a Code V. I need you to man the bar tonight.”

Thomas just smiles and takes over no problem, you hop over the bar and stand next to Viktor, a beaming smile on your face.

“A Code V?”

“When I officially get the man of my dreams, I get to have a shift off. No ifs, ands, or buts!”

Viktor smiles sweetly at that.

“So…” you add before your confidence dissipates, “Wanna go upstairs?”

Viktor knows that private rooms are located upstairs if you want to… have some fun. He just nods, a sly smirk on his face, “Lead the way, miláček.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You and Viktor rush up as best you can to one of the private rooms. Before anything happens, Viktor enquires if you know about the stoplight system. You do. And with that, you two touch each other in a way you’ve been dreaming about since you both started puberty.

A bit of kissing here, a bit of groping there. Before you know it, Viktor’s fingering open your pussy as you whine and pant at the pleasure Viktor is presenting your body with.

It’s wet, slick, and so hot. Viktor’s hand is slapping against your clit, causing a loud schlick sound that makes your ears burn in embarrassment. Viktor just revels in the sounds and faces you make; he never thought you could get any prettier. Looks like he was wrong.

“Please… Please… Put it in.” You beg, your eyes watery at the constant assault Viktor is giving your g-spot. Viktor kisses his teeth, “Put what in?” He cockily asks.

“Y-your cock. I want your cock in me. I want to fuck you into the bed. Please Viktor, please? I want it so bad�� I need it…” You beg, your voice wobbly in your desire. Viktor growls low in his chest as removes his fingers from your pussy. “You're such a good girl, begging for me. C'mon sweetheart, I'm all yours.” With that, you ensure Viktor is comfortable as he sits up against the headboard, you saddle him and slowly sink onto his wonderful cock.

You gasp out a long drown out moan at the feeling. Viktor’s pushed right up against your g-spot, he’s stretching you out. Your pussy is moulding itself to Viktors cock, nothing else in this world will satisfy you now. One hand holds your waist as the other rubs your back.

“C’mon.” In a low, throaty voice, you moan. As if you had to use additional effort to get the words past your parted lips. Your voice is whiney and breathy. As if putting Viktors cock in you knocked all the air out of your lungs. When you lower yourself more, Viktor, who is rubbing your back with his free hand, feels something deep inside his gut tighten up a little more as you persistently try to fit the final few inches of his cock inside. You feel dizzy at that, you're so stuffed… and there’s a few inches more.

Needy. You're so fucking needy; and Viktor loves it.

He squeezes, quickly prickling your flesh beneath his fingertips into a supple hue. Viktor wishes he could mark you like that for good, wishes that squeezing hard enough would leave bruises and indents to last a lifetime. Last several lifetimes. Even if you aren't aware of it, you still attract admiring looks from other people, which irritates Viktor. Ever since you two were teens, people would look lecherously at you. And you never noticed. But at the mere thought of everyone seeing you so marked up, something wild, primal, and almost startlingly possessive gets hold of him. Even though Viktor would know who did it, they wouldn't.

They would question who defiled you so throughly; and not once in their tiny minds would they think Viktor “The Cripple” “The Weirdo” fucked you so good you're bow-legged for days. With a trail of hickeys down your neck and chest, red marks on your wrists and a glazed look in your eyes. Viktor needs to calm down, he’s getting ahead of himself.

Before he can stop himself, Viktor tangles his fingers into your sweaty, untidy hair. You shiver at the feeling. His hands are so strong, so beautiful to look at.

“Viktor! Please! Please let me move! I need it…”You beg. You've needed this since you were fifteen and you noticed how handsome Viktor was becoming.

You lean closer to Viktor, your tits close enough to his face he can easily suck a nipple into mouth. This small shift caused his cock to press even harder into your g-spot; making a long whine and a few tears to slip out of you. Seeing that causes Viktor to freeze a bit before asking, “Colour?” At that you desperately cry out a pathetic, “Green! Please!”

If Viktor had shown even a tiny bit less restraint, the pitiful little "please" that slips from your mouth might have killed him right there.

You start to bounce, a nipple still firmly in Viktor's mouth. One hand stays on your hip as the other tweaks your other nipple. You use the headboard as support to ride Viktor to your heart's content. Fuck his cock is huge, you swear you feel it in your lungs. You could've been doing this for ages. You pitifully whine at that thought; so much time wasted.

“You look so pretty like this, you know,” Viktor mumbles appraisingly as he lets your nipple go, rocking back and forth at an almost painfully slow pace, trying to give you even more pleasure. Your thighs are trembling, splattered with lube, sweat, and an unprecedented amount of wetness from your arousal. You make a tiny, barely there noise in response, pushing weakly back against him. Viktor holds you still. “So fucked out, just for me. So cock-drunk aren’t you? My little fucktoy. My good girl. My prettiest girl” Viktor showers praise on you, who just groans at the sweet attack.

You pull up as far as you can against Viktor’s strength, the head of his cock catching on the entrance to your pussy, before dropping back down aggressively and picking up a steady rhythm. Viktor lets out an appreciative moan at that. Fuck you feel so good. He's gonna become obsessed with your pussy after this. Viktor's head tilts back to rest against the headboard as he moans, you pepper hickeys all across his pale neck. He's not the only one with possessive tendencies.

You go faster and faster, rougher and harder with each bounce, but you still take into account Viktors weaker leg. You're both moaning, yours goes up a pitch when Viktor starts to rub your clit.

Viktor whispers into your ear as he ravages your pussy, “You like that? You slut. Do you like having my big cock stretch you out? Do you like me abusing your g-spot, moulding your pussy into the shape of my dick? Nothing else will ever satisfy you again, will it Pretty Girl? No. It won’t. You’ll be desperate to have my dick rearranging your guts again.”

You just moan and starts to cry at the whispered words alongside the pounding your pussy is getting. The knot in your stomach is getting tighter and tighter, you instinctively know you can’t cum without permission. So you ask,

“Viktor… Can I cum? Please? Can I cum?

Viktor just snarls at that, nipping your ear and slapping your ass with a heavy groan, “Oh fuck… you’re such a good girl aren’t you? Asking for permission to cum without me even having to telling you. Cum. Cum right fucking now.”

And you do. With a gush of liquid, you cum hard. Your body jerking, eyes rolling into the back of your head, with your mouth ajar in a silent moan that trickles down to a pleased whine. Viktor starts to fuck into you, wanting to cum too. You start to overstimulate yourself, desperate to feel Viktor cum.

Little “Uhs.” are punched out of you at each thrust due to the painful pleasure. In no time, Viktor cums too. His hips pressed flush against yours; his sharp hipbones causing a nice bruise to form. You both simultaneously moan at the feeling of Viktor pumping you full of his cum. The two lose their strength and flop down onto the bed.

You're cuddled up, now efficiently cockwarming Viktor. You're both our of breath, and immensely pleased.

“We should clean up.” Viktor pants, you giggle breathlessly, “I don't think I can move.”

The silence is comfortable, enjoyable. You’ve almost fallen asleep when Viktor casually states, “I love you. I've loved you since I was sixteen.”

You look up at him and give him a sweet smile, before pressing your lips together in a loving, passionate kiss, “and I've loved you since I was thirteen. Looks like I've got you beat.”

Viktor just chuckles as he runs a hand through your hair, “I'm exhausted. We’ll get cleaned up when we wake up.”

“I couldn't agree more. But I want a round two before that.”

“Seriously?!”

You slap Viktor's chest playfully, “We could've been doing this for a little over a decade. I'm making up for lost time!”

Viktor kisses your forehead and contently sighs, “Can’t argue with that miláček. Can't argue with that.”

With how vigorously you two went, it’s no surprise you fell asleep in a few minutes. Wrapped up together, as content as can be.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

That's a wrap! Please be nice to me, I haven't written smut since like 2022-2023. Hope y'all liked it!

For the tattoo, search up “cybersigilism heart tramp stamp tattoo” on pinterest to see what kind of tramp stamp you got LMAO

[pathologicalreid]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGeTkmpNy/ SPENCER MF REID 🙏🙏 can I pretty please request a one shot based on that video ITS SO CUTE

dewey decimal system | S.R.

in which spencer does the most spencer activity first thing in the morning - reorganizing your bookshelves

(tiktok link)

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: i'm fairly certain there aren't any word count: 619 a/n: the beauty of this being my account is that, even though my requests are closed, i was able to exercise free will and write it anyway. because reorganizing your bookshelves unprompted is so something spencer would do.

The other side of the bed was cold when you woke up. Your desire to roll over into Spencer’s arms before getting ready for the day squashed by his absence. Aimlessly patting your bedside table for your phone, you checked your notifications.

You hadn’t received a text, there was no note left on his pillow.

Sitting up in bed, you frowned before climbing out of bed. Cringing at the cold laminate under your feet, you hugged your arms around yourself and mourned the feeling of your comforter over your skin.

To your surprise, Spencer was wide awake, standing in front of your bookshelf like he was an opponent ready to strike. Padding across the living room, you approached him from behind and wrapped your arms around his waist, depending heavily on his body heat to give you the courage not to run back to bed.

“Good morning love,” he murmured, voice gruff from lack of use. With a morning slowness, he skimmed his palms along your arms, swaying gently to the soft sounds of dawn. “Are you alright?” He asked you when you didn’t respond, too caught up in the feeling of him to speak.

Pressing your cheek to the fabric of his plain white t-shirt, you sighed, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of him, the scent of your laundry detergent on his clothes.

“What’s wrong, angel?” He whispered, softly squeezing your arms before turning himself around while trapped in your arms.

You didn’t let up, forcing him to twist himself within the circumference of your limbs just to see your face. The maneuver was so notably ungraceful that you couldn’t hold back your smile, “Nothing’s wrong,” you mumbled, now pressing your cheek to his chest while he tenderly cupped your head. “What are you doing up?”

Spencer dropped a kiss to the crown of your head, keeping his arms casually slung around you while he nodded at your bookshelves, “I was reorganizing your bookshelves.”

Furrowing your brows, you looked at your previously unruly shelves. They had now been adroitly redone, no longer having books stacked horizontally and being put off for another day, “What do you mean you were reorganizing my bookshelves?”

“Well, initially I had planned on using the Dewey decimal system, which is how my books are organized at home, but you had such an uneven ratio of each category that I ended up doing it alphabetically,” he explained to you, lazily using a hand to gesture to your collection.

Catching a glimpse of the titles, you asked, “By title?”

He shook his head, “Author’s last name,” he responded as if it should’ve been obvious to you. Spencer’s arms tightened around you as he craned his head to nestle his face in the crook of your neck, “Did you sleep well?”

You hummed contentedly at the proximity you had to him, “Right up until I woke up and you weren’t there.”

“I was reorganizing your books,” he emphasized, reminding you what he had spent his morning doing.

Nodding, you shut your eyes, savoring the feeling of his fingers as they now skated their way along your spine, “It looks nice, Spence.”

“Did you want to read a book together?” He asked you, continuing his ministrations on your back.

Pulling away slightly, you rested your palms on his shoulders as you looked up at him, “What?”

He jutted his chin in the direction of your shelves, “There are some books that I shelved, I think we could have a good time reading one together.”

You raised your eyebrows, “You’ll finish way before me though,” you hinted at his reading speed.

“Then I can read aloud to you,” he offered, beaming down at you.

[readwritealldayallnight]

Promises

Captain John Price x Reader

wc: 1.2k words

warnings/tags: fluff fluff fluff

“You’ll check the doors? Windows as well, aye?”

“Yes, John. I’ll make sure they’re locked before bed.” You reassure the man, holding the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you do exactly that, tugging on the window latches to ensure they’re shut properly, walking past each door to spy the locks are in fact in place. “No one will be coming in and touching your cigars, I can assure you of that.”

“Hm. Got precious cargo I’m more concerned about these days, than cigars.” He quips back, playing into your attempt to lighten the situation. John hasn’t been gone on deployment for a full 24 hours yet and already he’s finding himself missing you more than he thought possible. He knew being apart from you was going to be difficult, especially considering that this mission was likely to take a few months rather than a few weeks, but he hadn’t anticipated struggling so early on.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone touch your scotch either.” You say and he can just picture you adding a mischievous wink at the end. He finds himself suddenly wondering if he has any photos of you where you’re winking at him, and he feels regret creeping into his stomach at the realization that no, he probably doesn’t. Now he’s got nothing but his memory to rely on when he wants to imagine your playful expression.

It’s not as if John hadn’t made a point of taking more candid shots of you once he’d learned about how long this upcoming mission was to take. He wanted to have something tangible, something real he could wrap his fingers around, lay his weary gaze upon and be gifted with the sight of his beloved smiling back at him. And if a thick stack of Polaroids each adorned with varying expressions of your visage find themselves stuffed into the pocket of his tactical vest right above where his heart beats only for you, well then his men had best mind their business about it.

His last ditch effort to capture your beauty, to bring along with him a small fragment of the joy you bring to his life every day he spends by your side, had melted your heart thoroughly. It was sometimes hard to imagine your soft, loving teddy bear of a man, having to turn on his Captain persona and intimidate enemies on a battlefield. But then you’d hear him shouting at the television, going on about how some wanker was making a mockery of ‘The Price is Right’ (a show the two of you watched too often, if only so that John had more of an excuse to slip ‘well ya know, they do say Price is right, after all’ into arguments), or you’d catch him glaring at anyone he felt was looking at you the wrong way in public, and you couldn’t deny he was to be in a position of command.

“Don’t go answerin’ the door for anyone either, love. And make sure that the-”

“John, I’ll be okay. I promise, I’ll be careful.” You attempt to convince him before he spirals further. A man of action, John had been keeping busy in the time leading up to his departure. Trips to the hardware store to buy additional locks for the front door, jammers for the window panes, researching various brands of security systems, even going as far as speaking a little louder in the hallways outside your flat door, letting anyone who lived near enough know that a man lived here as well, not wanting anyone to know you’d be alone and vulnerable.

“I know, m’sorry to keep pestering you love.” The Captain sighs into the phone, running a hand down his phone before glancing back over his shoulder at the room. He knows he doesn’t have much more time to keep talking with you. Really, he shouldn’t have called at all, but John just couldn’t help himself. This is how he gets when it comes to you. Nothing else matters as much when it comes to you. And so yes, he admits he is being selfish by holding everyone else up in the briefing room as they wait for his return, but he doesn’t know when he’ll get to hear your voice again, and what’s the point of being Captain if you can’t pull strings when they matter? “Just wanna know you’ll be safe.”

“Now why do I feel as though I should be the one asking you that question, hm?” Your question brings a soft smile to his face. God, he misses you so much already. “You made it to- wherever you are- alright?”

“I did.” He confirms, casting another glance across the room. He can see them loading up trucks with supplies as you speak. He hates that he can’t ever tell you where he is. Can’t tell you that this base is just one of countless destinations where he’ll sleep in a bed that feels too empty without you by his side. Can’t tell you that each meal portion he eats tastes blander without you sitting across from him. “Though we’re not stayin’ here long. Flyin’ out early again in the mornin’.”

“Hm.” You hum along in response, knowing he can’t give you details, satisfied with any bit of information he can offer you in its place. “You promise me, you’ll be safe John Price. I don’t like those stories of Gaz falling out of helicopters.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing that’s the only story I’m ever lettin’ him tell you.” John can’t help but to laugh along with you, before falling more serious again, knowing he’ll have to hang up soon and leave you. “Trust me love. You don’t need to be worrying your pretty little head over me. There isn’t anythin’ that could keep me from comin’ home to you. Nothin’.”

His declaration has tears threatening to sting the corners of your eyes, treasuring this moment with him, even an unknown distance apart, knowing it’ll be some time until you can speak again. You can hear the background noise of wherever he is increasing in volume. You overhear someone shout his name, no doubt looking for him. You know your time is up for now, and that you’ll have to be the one to bite the bullet. He’s never the first one to hang up the phone with you, and this time is no different.

“I love you John. So much. I’ll see you soon.” You whisper into the receiver, hoping he can feel the love you speak into each word meant only for him.

“I love you, angel. So much. Be back before you know it.” He says, waiting to hear the ‘click’ on the other side of the line before stuffing his phone back into his slacks.

It’s true, what he said to you. There truly isn’t anything, so long as he can help it, that will keep him from coming back home to you. Not when he’s made a promise to do exactly that. Not when he’s got a small box stuffed into three pairs of socks hiding in his underwear drawer in your flat, hiding a shiny little ring he’s been holding on to since your second date. Not when he intends to make his biggest promise to you yet as soon as he’s home and holding you in his arms again, where you belong.

[waterdeepwife]

Gale Domestic Headcanons

Pairing: Gale x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Gale and Tav/Reader are married, both negative and positive headcanons of loving this nerd, typos, NSFW INCLUDED AT THE END, Gale loves you so very much, I think that’s all?

Living with Gale in his tower definitely takes some getting used to. Especially for him since he is so used to being alone, but he also has to help you adjust to him and his domestic habits.

Bossy- I can definitely see Gale being a little bossy when you first move in together, but only when it comes to where stuff goes. He has a chaotic system and he knows where everything goes, so why are you trying to move stuff around? No he doesn’t want all the potion bottles in the same section, they are separate based on size and what he uses them for.

He tells you where everything goes and expects you to just get used to his system. Even when it’s a mess and things are where they shouldn’t be. Which leads me to my next point…

Messy- Gale is messy. Books, potions and magical artifacts are everywhere. There’s a stack of books in the bathroom. Old potions sitting among the spices in the kitchen. A glowing, strange looking magical item sitting on the night stand. No, don’t move it he wants it there.

I can see him being the type of guy that leaves piles of clothes everywhere, he hates doing laundry and would rather magic them clean and away when it gets too much. Laundry would definitely be one of your chores in the tower.

I think dishes would be a shared chore. As he often has half empty cups of tea or water, and even glasses of wine EVERYWHERE. Especially stacked up in his study, if you just finished dishes and he brings more in. Gale will give you a sheepish look and says he will handle it.

Work Habits- Gale loves you and would never fully ignore you, but he can get wrapped up in his work. Both from research as a wizard and also papers to grade as a professor. All of these things can make him come to bet later then you’d like him too. I feel like this if the biggest ‘flaw’ he actively tried to change, or balance out. If Gale sees you sad or missing him he will find ways to fix the issue. Do you like to sleep in the mornings? He will get early get some work done, then go make breakfast for you to wake up to. If you are an early bird? He will wake up with you, spend all morning with you and giving you attention before going to work.

Cooking- I don’t think Gale would want to share the ‘chore’ of cooking. LET HIM COOK FOR YOU. I feel like this can go along with his bossy and pompous attitude, he knows what he is doing. He knows what he likes and what you like, so just let him pamper you. Feeding you is another one of Gale’s love languages. He thinks he is the best damn cook in the world, next to his mother of course. If you pout enough he will let you help him make dinner, but he still wants to do most of the work.

Provider- Gale is completely devoted to you, he loves you and wants to show you how much he loves you. Now this can come in different forms depending on the marriage you want with him. He can be the ‘breadwinner’ and you can stay home, or you can both be the breadwinner. I think Gale would favor being the breadwinner because he can spoil you and come home to you, but if you want something different he is happy to adjust. I don’t think he’d ever be the stay at home type, because he truly does love teaching the kiddos, and I think he’d get bored.

Gale was rich before you met him, so money will never be an issue for you guys. Which is why he offers to let you stay home if you wish, but he just wants you happy. He isn’t the type of man to be “this is my money!” No it’s money he is bringing home to you, to support and care for you. So he gives you free rein, unless you have spending problem (like me lmao), then he will be a bit more active in controlling finances.

He loves you, but do you really need three different versions of the same thing? (Like dresses, jewelry, or whatever you are into idk).

Affectionate- Gale is very affectionate, and that only amplifies when you two settle down. He always gives you kisses everywhere; lips, forehead, cheek, hand, and even neck when he tries to get you riled up. Hugs every time he sees you, even picking you up and spinning you around for a moment. Gale’s favorite thing is when you are in the sitting room, your legs in his lap as he reads to you with the fire crackling.

Obviously he will respect your personal space, whenever you need it. Especially if you need some time alone, he understands. Gale prefers to be together all the time, but he knows you need breaks sometimes.

Considerate- As soon as you accept his proposal he is already planning things back in Waterdeep. He wants to make sure you feel right at home as soon you walk in! As you two begin the journey to Waterdeep, Gale puts his plans in action without you even knowing! It’s supposed to be a surprise! When you finally get to his tower you find that some of things has been moved to make room for your things! In the closet in the bedroom is some dresses/clothes that is exactly your style. Gale knows you, what you like, and how you like to dress. He feels so proud of himself when he sees how happy you are! When you ask him how he did it he simply says “magic!” And refuses to explain further.

Spoiler alert: the visits from Tara weren’t just visits, Gale was asking her and his mother to help make preparations for you.

NSFW BELOW.

Sex is almost daily. Now that you are in the privacy of his tower he will have his fill of you every day. Gale wants to make you scream his name, since you had to be quiet back during your adventure.

He still takes his time, reminding you how beautiful you are, how much he loves you, and how lucky he is that you’re his wife now. Gale goes slow and passionate the first night in his tower, knowing there we a thousand more nights of love making to come.

Loves to have sleepy morning sex with you, but sometimes he also just loves to please you with his hands or tongue. I can see you two lying together cuddled up in bed, your hand slowly stroking his cock and his lazily pumps his long fingers in and out of your wet pussy.

You will always come before him, he refuses to let himself come until you do. You are his wife, his everything, your pleasure comes first.

Gale has fucked you everywhere in the tower in every position. Missionary in the bedroom, bent over his desk in the study, riding him in the bathtub, having duplicates of himself pleasuring you on the balcony. He’s dry humped you in the sitting room, you’ve palmed his clothed erection while he cooks dinner.

Begs to eat your pussy every night, even if you’re not up full blown loving making. Your sweet juice is his dessert. If you tell him no he will understand and not push it further, he is a respectful pussy addict.

[d-z20]

I'd Hit That (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: Being a professional wrestler means you're used to putting on an act, playing a part, and following a script. Surely, surely the tension you feel with Agatha is purely because you're rivals, right? Right??

-OR-

Staying at the same hotel after the fight can mean only one thing: it's time for a booty calllllll (but it's soft and sweet and stuff)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, switch Agatha, switch Reader, 'making love' sort of smut, very quick rivals to lovers if you squint, scissoring/tribbing, aftercare (from fight and sex), non accurate wrestling events

Words: 3.4k

A/N: Bruh the extent of my knowledge of wrestling before writing this fic was limited to the film 'Fighting with my family' and seeing people horny post about Rhea Ripley putting her opponents in a mating press 😅😂 Requested fic this request takes me back to one of the first I did :')

AO3 | Masterlist

The roar of the crowd was deafening, an electric pulse surging through the packed arena. The promo package had played moments ago, a dramatic montage of the months-long rivalry between you and Agatha—steel chair attacks, stolen victories, scathing words exchanged under the harsh glare of the cameras. Every segment, every promo, every carefully orchestrated brawl had led to this.

You stood in the ring, microphone in hand, pacing like a predator. The championship belt—your championship belt—rested snugly over your shoulder.

“Agatha Harkness,” you called out, your voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “You’ve spent months running your mouth, jumping me from behind, stacking the deck in your favour. But tonight? No more games. No more sneak attacks. Just you and me. And I promise you, when that bell rings, you’ll learn exactly why I’m the one holding this title.”

The crowd erupted, a symphony of cheers and jeers blending into a chaotic soundscape. Then, the familiar beat of Agatha’s entrance music thundered through the speakers, and the energy in the arena shifted.

She sauntered onto the stage, wrapped in a deep purple robe lined with silver, her signature smirk fixed firmly in place. She exuded confidence, but you knew her well enough to spot the flicker of something darker beneath it—excitement, hunger, the same fire that burnt in your own veins.

“Sweetheart,” she purred as she climbed into the ring, stepping dangerously close, “I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself. You may be carrying that belt now, but don’t get too attached. By the end of tonight, you’ll be looking up at the lights while the ref raises my hand.”

You scoffed, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. The fans screamed for a fight, for blood, for one last war before this feud reached its inevitable conclusion.

You wouldn’t let them down.

—

The moment the bell rang, Agatha struck first, catching you with a sharp elbow to the jaw. The impact rattled your skull, but you barely had time to register it before she followed up with a ruthless Irish whip, sending you crashing against the turnbuckle. The crowd gasped as she wasted no time, sprinting forward and driving her knee into your ribs with brutal precision.

Every strike and every manoeuvre was planned, but the force behind them was all too real. The pain was real. The sweat trickling down your spine, the adrenaline flooding your system—it was all real.

She hauled you up for a suplex, but you twisted mid-air, countering into a neckbreaker that sent her sprawling. The arena exploded with cheers as you pushed yourself to your feet, chest heaving.

“You’re slowing down mama,” you taunted, wiping the sweat from your brow.

Agatha smirked even as she winced, rolling her shoulders. “Keep talking, champ. Let’s see how cocky you are when I put you through that table.”

And she damn near did.

Minutes later, she lifted you onto her shoulders, positioning you dangerously close to the announcers table. The commentators shouted in alarm as she launched you forward, the wood splintering on impact as your body crashed through it.

White-hot pain exploded across your back, your breath leaving in a ragged gasp. Through blurry vision, you heard the count starting.

One…

Two…

Three…

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself onto your elbows. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you refused to stay down.

Four…

Five…

You dragged yourself toward the apron, using every ounce of strength left in your battered body.

Six…

Seven…

By eight, you were on your feet. By nine, you had slid under the ropes.

Agatha’s expression flickered with something dangerously close to admiration. You locked eyes across the ring. Both of you were battered, breathing hard, sweat slicking your bodies under the arena lights. The crowd was on their feet, screaming for the climax. Agatha grinned devilishly, wiping blood from her lip.

“Still standing?” she taunted.

You rolled your shoulders, feeling the bruises settle in. “You’re gonna wish I wasn’t.”

She stomped toward you, but this time, you were ready. You ducked her clothesline, spinning on your heel and catching her flush on the jaw with a devastating superkick. She crumpled, her head snapping back against the mat.

This was it. The moment the script demanded.

You climbed the ropes, every muscle burning, and launched yourself into the air. Your finisher connected squarely with her chest, driving the breath from her lungs.

The referee dropped to the mat.

One!

Two!

Three!

The bell rang, and the arena exploded.

You barely had the strength to lift your arms in victory, but the sight of Agatha sprawled beneath you, sent a different kind of thrill down your spine. She laid there, chest rising and falling rapidly. For a moment, just a moment, you thought she might actually be mad. But then—she laughed. A deep, breathless chuckle that sent a thrill down your spine.

“Damn,” she muttered, rolling onto her side, looking at you with something unreadable in her dark eyes. “Guess I’ll have to hit harder next time.”

—

The energy backstage was calmer, but the electricity of the match still crackled in the air. You sat on the bench in the locker room, a towel draped over your shoulders, the sting of sweat and lingering adrenaline keeping you wired. Your championship belt rested beside you, proof of your victory, but your body ached with the price you’d paid for it.

The door creaked open.

Agatha stepped inside, still in her ring gear, damp strands of hair curling against her flushed skin. Bruises had already begun to bloom along her ribs, dark and angry, a testament to every hit you’d landed. But she carried them with the same confidence she always did, like they were just another part of the game.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sweeping over you in that slow, unreadable way of hers.

“Made me work for that one,” she finally said, voice even but laced with something heavier.

You smirked, tilting your head. “Would’ve been too easy otherwise.”

She huffed a laugh, pushing off the door and striding toward you. “You’re lucky I like a challenge,” she grumbled, reaching out and grabbing the edge of your towel. She didn’t pull it away, just toyed with the fabric between her fingers, staring at the ground, like she was debating something.

Your body stayed still, but your pulse betrayed you, hammering beneath your skin.

Her gaze flicked up, sharp and knowing. “The fans are losing their minds right now,” she mused, voice lower now. “They think we despise each other.”

You exhaled through your nose, smirking despite yourself. “Let them think what they want.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Just heavy breaths, aching muscles, and something simmering beneath the surface—something neither of you ever acknowledged for long.

Her grip on the towel tightened for just a second. Then she let go.

She took a step back, that smirk curling at the edges of her lips. “Get some rest, champ. Wouldn’t want you falling apart before our rematch.”

You watched as she turned, as she left without another word.

You should’ve let her go. Should’ve focused on your title, on the next fight.

But instead, an hour later, you found yourself standing outside her hotel room.

The hallway was quiet this late at night, save for the distant hum of vending machines and the muffled voices of a television from a nearby room. You knocked once.

You didn’t have to wait long.

Agatha opened the door, already changed into something looser, her damp hair pushed back from her face. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“Figured I’d find you nursing your pride with a drink, not answering your door,” you teased, arching a brow.

Agatha leaned against the doorframe, eyes dark and knowing. “Why would I need to nurse my pride when you’re here, proving I still have something you want?”

The air between you was thick. The kind of thick that came after months of fights, of near misses, of every time you almost let yourself give in but didn’t.

But there were no cameras here. No crowds. No script.

She didn’t invite you in. She didn’t have to.

She just stepped back, leaving the door open.

And you followed.

—

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing you both inside the quiet dimness of the hotel room. The air-conditioning hummed softly, a sharp contrast to the raw heat still lingering between you from the match—and everything else unspoken.

Agatha moved first, stepping past you toward the mini-fridge. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was thick, charged. She pulled out a reusable ice pack, pressing it against her ribs with a small wince before tossing another onto the bed near you.

“You’re worse off than me,” she murmured, nodding toward the deepening bruise along your shoulder.

You scoffed. “You didn’t seem to feel that way when you were throwing me into barricades.”

Agatha smirked at that, but it was softer now—more knowing. She walked toward you, her fingers grazing the hem of your shirt. Not in invitation, not yet. Just testing.

You didn’t move, didn’t stop her when she carefully pushed the fabric upward. The motion was slow, almost methodical, revealing fresh bruises—some from the match, some from all the ones before.

She made a small sound in the back of her throat. Not quite regret, not quite apology. Just an acknowledgment.

Her fingers were warm, careful, as she traced the bruised skin along your ribs before pressing the ice pack against it. A sharp inhale left your lips. She didn’t tease you for it, just held it there, watching you.

“Sit,” she said, voice quieter now.

You obeyed, perching on the edge of the bed as she grabbed the small first-aid kit from her bag. She knelt in front of you, flipping the lid open with practiced ease.

Your fingers twitched when she uncapped a tube of ointment. You should’ve done something—said something—to break the moment, but the way she looked at you, focused and unwavering, well, it kept you still.

“This might sting,” she muttered, smoothing a layer of the cool gel over a scrape near your collarbone.

You didn’t flinch. Just exhaled slowly as her touch lingered, fingertips brushing against your skin longer than necessary.

Your eyes met hers, and for a moment, the tension that had been simmering for months threatened to snap.

But instead of acting on it, you reached for the ice pack still clutched in her other hand.

“Your turn.”

She arched a brow, like she was going to argue, but she didn’t. Just sighed and sat back as you took her wrist, gently guiding her onto the bed beside you.

You peeled back her shirt, moving slower than necessary, your fingers skimming over the bruises that lined her ribs.

The ice pack met her skin, and she hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. Your hand stayed steady, applying just enough pressure, your palm resting lightly against her side.

Neither of you dared to speak, afraid of breaking the moment.

Your fingers lingered against Agatha’s ribs, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your touch, the slight hitch in her breath as the ice pack warmed between you. The air between you was charged, and before you could stop yourself, you dipped your head and pressed a featherlight kiss to her bare shoulder.

It was soft. Fleeting almost.

But the way she inhaled sharply, the way her muscles tensed beneath your lips, made your stomach twist with something molten and dangerous.

You lifted your gaze, heart pounding, to find her already watching you.

Something unreadable flickered in her eyes. Not surprise—she’d felt this tension between you just as much as you had. No, this was something else. A quiet challenge. A question.

And then, as if pulled by gravity itself, your lips found hers.

The first kiss was slow—uncertain in a way that sent heat curling low in your stomach. Her lips were warm, softer than you expected, moving against yours with a hesitant deliberation, like neither of you were ready to cross this line but neither of you could stop.

Your hands found her waist, fingertips pressing into bare skin, feeling the taut muscle beneath. She sighed into your mouth, tilting her head, deepening it just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Then it shifted.

Hesitation gave way to hunger, slow to something deeper, something desperate. Agatha’s hands tangled in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp as she pulled you closer, as if the distance between you was unbearable.

Your breath stuttered as she pushed forward, guiding you onto your back against the mattress, her weight settling over yours in a way that made heat pool between your thighs.

You didn’t just let her take control. You met her movement for movement, rolling so you hovered over her instead, lips ghosting along her jaw, her throat. She arched into you, fingers gripping your hips, urging you closer, and the friction sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body.

You barely registered how your clothes disappeared or how you kept switching positions—only the feeling of her hands dragging fabric from your skin, the way your own fingers traced the newly exposed planes of her body, memorising every dip and curve.

She was breathtaking.

The air between you crackled with something electric as you moved together, lips seeking, hands exploring. Every touch was slow but deliberate, teasing but firm, each sensation unravelling the other piece by piece.

Agatha’s lips left yours, trailing a path of heat down your throat, each kiss softer, slower, as if savouring the way your breath hitched under her touch. Her mouth lingered at the base of your neck, a flicker of teeth sending a shiver down your spine before she continued lower.

She traced the curve of your collarbone, then lower still, her tongue flicking out just enough to tease. Her breath was warm against your skin, the contrast of her lips and the cool air leaving goosebumps in her wake.

When she reached just below your navel, she paused.

Your breath caught as she glanced up through dark lashes, her expression unreadable but undeniably smug, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

Before you could say anything, before you could even think, Agatha shifted, her body aligning with yours in a way that sent anticipation buzzing through your veins.

One of her legs slid over yours, while the other slipped beneath, her hand gripping your thigh and pulling it over her hip. The shift brought you flush together, her clit pressing into yours, her warmth, her weight, surrounding you completely.

Then she moved.

The first slow roll of her hips sent a shockwave through you, the friction delicious and unbearable all at once. A gasp left your lips at the sensation, sharp and involuntary, swallowed by Agatha’s low moan.

She did it again.

A deliberate, languid grind that had your fingers curling into her back, nails digging in as heat coiled low in your stomach.

Agatha’s movements grew more desperate, each grind of her hips sending sparks of heat pulsing through you. The rhythm was intoxicating—a perfect push and pull that had your breath catching with every press of her body against yours.

The friction was exquisite, every brush of her soaked pussy against yours sending a fresh wave of pleasure coursing through your veins. Your nails pressed into her back, searching for an anchor as the slick warmth of your mixed arousal between you made every movement impossibly pleasurable.

A breathy moan spilled from your lips as she rolled her hips just right, the pressure hitting where you needed it most. Agatha’s own gasp followed, her grip on your thigh tightening as her rhythm stuttered for a fraction of a second before she found it again, more determined now.

“Fuck you feel so good,” she groaned, voice rough with pleasure. “So warm—so perfect against me.”

You couldn’t answer—at least not with words. So instead, you tilted your hips up to meet her, pushing harder into the delicious friction between you. The reaction was instant—a sharp inhale from Agatha, a shudder that ran down her spine and into you.

The tension in your stomach coiled tighter, pleasure mounting with every slick roll of her hips against yours. It was maddening—teetering on the edge, neither of you willing to slow down, to let the other escape this unrelenting rhythm.

Agatha was unravelling just as much as you were. Her breaths turned ragged, her movements becoming more desperate, less controlled. She buried her face in the crook of your neck, her lips parting against your skin as a soft, broken moan escaped her.

The sound of it—the way she lost herself for just a moment—sent you spiralling.

Heat exploded through you, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your back arching as your body tightened around the feeling of your orgasm, chasing every last pulse of it. Your moan mixed with hers, tangled in the air between you, and Agatha wasn’t far behind—her rhythm stuttering, her breath shattering into something desperate as she ground into you one last time, biting harshly at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, before giving in completely.

The aftershocks left you both trembling, locked in each other’s arms, breathless and undone. Neither of you dared to speak again, but this time it was because a whole other reason, because this time you didn’t need to; not when every shiver, every lingering touch, said everything.

—

When the adrenaline had finally ebbed, leaving behind only exhaustion and the dull throb of bruises settling into your skin, the dim glow of the hotel room cast soft shadows over Agatha’s body as she stretched out beside you, her breathing still uneven, a quiet hiss slipping past her lips when she shifted the wrong way.

You smirked, propping yourself up on an elbow. “Still hurts, huh?”

Agatha huffed a laugh, rolling onto her side to face you. “Oh, don’t act like you’re any better, champ.” Her fingers ghosted over the mottled bruise forming along your ribs, her touch featherlight but knowing. “I’ll give you credit, though. You really made me work to cause each of these.”

You leaned into her touch, sighing as the tension in your muscles began to settle. “Oh please, it’s not like you could actually beat me anyway

Her smirk deepened. “Is that what you think?”

Before you could answer, she moved—quick as ever—rolling on top of you in one smooth motion. The sudden shift knocked the breath from your lungs, and before you could react, her hands found your wrists, pinning them against the mattress. The familiar press of her body against yours sent a thrill down your spine, though it was tempered by the playful glint in her eyes.

"One...” she purred, lips brushing your ear, her breath warm against your skin.

You arched a brow, amusement flickering beneath your exhaustion. “Really?”

“Two…” Her voice was silk, dripping with satisfaction as she pressed you further into the bed, her grip firm but teasing.

You weren’t about to let her finish, you shifted your weight, using the last of your strength to twist your bodies. In a blink, she was beneath you, wrists trapped against the sheets, your knees bracketing her hips. Her breath hitched, a flash of surprise flickering across her face before it melted into something reminiscent of pleasure.

“Not this time, sweetheart.” You grinned, leaning in until your noses almost brushed.

Agatha let out a breathy chuckle, her eyes half-lidded as she relaxed beneath you. “Damn. Can’t even let me have this one, can you?”

You smirked, leaning down just enough that your noses brushed. “What kind of champion would I be if I did?”

Her breath hitched again, and then she closed the distance, her lips pressing softly against yours. 

The fight, the aches, the exhaustion—it all melted away for a moment, leaving only the warmth of her mouth against yours, the slow, deliberate way she kissed you.

You let yourself sink into her, into the quiet intimacy, knowing that whatever came next would always bring you right back to this.

-----

'author doesn't know fuck about wrestling' probably should probably be a warning for this 😭 I'm so sorry for any inaccuracies they are all entirely my fault :P

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6stolenangel9 @jujuu23 @juls-stark

[eden031]

First meetings

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Pairing: Jack Abbot x intern!f!reader

Warnings: Jack POV, age gap, voilence against healthcare workers, violence against violent patients, talks of murder, trauma response, Jack is working through his emotional constipation, realisation of feelings, angst, Jack Abbot it down baaaaaad.

Summary: After his intern is attacked by a patient Jack Abbot has to face the fact that pushing people away might not always lead to the best outcome.

A/N: Okay, so this is lowkey a miracle…I don‘t know how I was able to write it this quickly, but here is the Jack POV companion chapter to Part 5, also we get some insight into things reader did not know about. Sooo, there will be two more chapters, mabye more, I don‘t know, I just love them your honor. Also I feel like I could also write this entire series from Jack‘s POV for a second time because it was so fun to work through how he feels about this situation and how he handles it. Hope you enjoy this :)

Shift change had gone smoothly for once, a relief if he was honest with himself. Though there was a small voice in the back of his head telling him not to trust the calm. Shaking his head he tried to get rid of the feeling that had attached itself to his mind like a tick, looking over at one of the work stations he saw his intern standing there. A chart clutched in her hands, her brows furrowed while she read through it.

Suppressing a smile at her expression he glanced at the chart in his hands. It was strangely empty for a Friday afternoon, usually it would be flooded with people that had done something stupid to start off the weekend. He hoped for the best regarding traumas, he was not sure if she could handle another day where people died like flies. The deaths had not hurt him, not really, he had gotten used to it by now, of course they stung, but that pain he had seen in her eyes was long gone from his mind. Still, when he had seen her empty stare and seen the tears he had felt so helpless. It was something he hated more than anything, he was usually in control, usually in charge of the situations he was in, but at that moment he felt like he had lost all sense of control.

He simply couldn’t resist anymore, comforting her, checking in on her, it had taken all the will he could gather in his bones not to call her back then. Too young, too bright, too much goodness ahead in her life to waste time and energy on someone like him. That was what he had told himself for almost a month, but the moment he had seen her in the Pitt it had started to crack, that wall he had built, the excuses stacked on top of each other began to fade away.

Every time half a granola bar was pressed in his hand by her his walls cracked further. There was no point in denying it anymore, especially not now.

In his peripheral he saw someone move, though did not think anything of it until a screech cut through the air. His head snapped up and he saw the figure of a large man shoving Princess to the ground, continuing his way towards someone, he started moving quickly. The only person that might have gone in that direction was his intern.

“YOU FUCKING BITCH!” The guy hollered at the person he seemed to be stalking towards, suddenly cold sweat began to trickle down his spine, he moved quicker, but it was already too late. The guy grabbed his intern, a hand around her throat was all he could see. “YOU FUCKING SLUT! YOU THINK YOU ARE BETTER THAN ME! I WILL KILL YOU!”

"Security!" he shouted as he moved in closer, terror pumping through his system like he was the one under attack, his movements seemed to slow down as his mind singled in on the image of the large hand wrapped around her throat. The shouting from security began, but he couldn’t reach her, it was too far, he was too slow. Suddenly a sharp movement, he had not seen what it had been, but the guy let go of her, stumbled backwards hollering in pain and then he saw her swing. Her fist connected with the guy’s face, an almost thundering crack sounded through the ED. He stumbled backwards, crumbling to the ground. Jack saw the way his head hit the ground, another cracking sound, blood began to pool underneath the man’s head.

Worry seeped into his mind as he moved quickly, he called her name, but her eyes were fixed on the crumpled form of the man on the ground. Again he called her name, this time she looked up at him.

“Are you okay? Can you take a deep breath for me?” he asked, still she simply stared at him, that empty look in her eyes he had seen countless times in the heat of battle.

Gently he said her name again, his hands twitched as he carefully took her face in his hands. Guilt and regret washing over him as he spoke again. He should have paid more attention, he should have been quicker.

“Hey,” he gently squeezed her face, “Are you okay?” he felt his brows furrowing, gentle relief came of him as he saw her eyes regain focus.

“What?” she whispered, hot tears running down her cheeks, brushing past his thumbs. His heart clenched, from the corner of his eye he could see a few nurses and Robby crouched around the man. Robby looked up at him, giving him a soft nod, telling him to take care of her. He could feel her trying to turn her head back towards where the man was laying, but he tightened his grip. It would only make things worse if she would panic about the asshole’s state of well being.

“Don’t look there,” he tried to be as gentle as possible while he spoke, still cradling her face in his hands like it was the most precious thing he had ever held. A few shuddering breaths came from her, with every single one he could feel his heart crack a little.

“I think I need to sit down,” she spoke so softly that it was almost impossible to hear her over the commotion, but he just nodded. Not wanting to let go he moved his hand between her shoulderblades, the other one he rested on her shoulder, gently guiding her towards the nearest chair in the nurses’ station. The empty look had returned to her eyes, a look he knew he never wanted to see again. He should have been quicker, shaking his head slightly he tried to get rid of those thoughts, he could sulk when she was alright. Crouching down in front of her he took her hand, first tapping it, though when her eyes did not seem to come into focus from that he tapped her thigh, his heart clenched as her eyes still did not come into focus. He repeated those actions, trying to get her attention, then finally her eyes seemed to focus and she looked down at him.

“Alright, listen,” he tapped her hand and thigh again, he did not know why, but it seemed like she could lose focus again at any given moment. “I am going to put you in line for an x-ray and a CT for now, just to make sure that nothing is broken or damaged otherwise.” he could barely hang on to his composure, feeling like he might snap at any given moment. His eyes found the bruise, the deep purple handprint around her neck, it made his stomach churn as he thought that this could have turned out so much worse. “While we wait for an x-ray we are going to ice your hand, okay?”

She nodded, slowly he got up from the awkward crouching position he had been sitting in. He was about to walk away to get the ice pack when he felt her grip on his hand tighten slightly. Stopping, he tilted his head in her direction, thinking that maybe she would want him to get something else along with the ice pack. Though then she looked up at him, her eyes red and puffy, lower lip trembling as she looked at him.

“Please don’t leave me,” her voice was so soft, a crack in her words. He felt his heart shatter, his sweet intern, she should never have had to experience this.

“Alright,” he nodded, stopping in his tracks, then looking around, spotting Mateo standing near them. Quickly he waved him over.

“Could you get her an ice pack? And call radiology for that x-ray and CT scan,” he had spoken softly to the nurse, but his focus was back on her quickly. Slowly crouching down again he felt her clinging to his hand like it was the only thing keeping her in the moment. He squeezed back, trying to give her some kind of comfort but that empty look on her face returned, the tear stains were enough to break his heart, to make him want to pull her close and tell her that everything would be okay.

“I treated him,” she whispered, her voice breaking again. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” This time her voice was shaking more violently. Tears began to run down her cheeks again. A quiet sob, then it happened quickly, loud sobs and more hot tears, quiet croaks. His heart shattered as he tried to comfort her. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” She repeated it like it was a mantra, like she was trying to find something that could explain what had happened. His stomach churned as she sobbed softly. Slowly he moved to stand, panic flashed over her face, but dissipated as he pulled her into a hug. It was an odd angle and his back would hate him for it the moment he was able to stand straight again, but right now it was what felt right. Not caring about the way Dana glanced over at him with an amused smile or how Mateo seemed mildly flustered as he brought him the ice pack, telling him that they had bumped her up as best as they could. He could feel the snot and tears seeping into his shirt as one hand found its way into her hair, gently brushing through it, his chin resting on top of her head.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, you did everything right,” he whispered, “You did so well,” he gently rubbed her scalp, trying to get her to calm down a little, “You did so well,”

He remained in that position for what felt like hours until Mateo came back to get her for the x-ray. As he pulled away he pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, her eyes were glazed over at this point and her hand easily slipped from his.

Nausea settled in his stomach as he helped Mateo transfer her into a wheelchair, she didn’t really protest as she was wheeled away. Though he could see her head twitching to look around. It was almost like she didn’t really realise what had happened right now, like her mind had gone into a complete shutdown.

Leaning against a table he pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, letting out a long sigh. Guilt and worry weighed heavy on him. He should have been faster, he should have reacted quicker, hell he should have known something was up the moment the damn shift transfer had gone without a hitch.

“You okay, brother?” Robby spoke softly from beside him. Crossing his arms over his chest he looked at his long time friend.

“Yeah,” he nodded, though his voice sounded rough, like he was about to start crying. He cleared his throat, trying to get his usual tone back.

“You sure about that?” Robby looked at him with that really worried expression, usually only reserved for when he was standing on the ledge of the roof.

“Fucking hell, Robby,” he muttered, looking around the nurses’ station was relatively empty, barely anyone there, “He attacked my intern,” it sounded a lot more possessive than he had wanted it to sound, though right now he did not really care.

“He did,” Robby nodded, “Though she got him pretty good,” Robby spoke softly, “Hit him so hard that some of the bone fragments were shoved towards his brain,” a moment of silence, “And he also has a skull fracture from falling,”

“Serves him right,” Jack spoke, the anger in his voice now less controlled than before, Robby glanced at him for a moment, worry evident in his eyes, but a certain curiosity seemed to linger there as well.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Robby sounded more concerned about his well being at the moment than the well being of his intern and for some reason that made him furious.

“I am not the one that needs to talk right now,” he snapped at Robby, which made a few people turn their heads. Robby raised an eyebrow, then his hands.

“Alright, if you say so,” he nodded, though their conversation was disturbed by Dana calling out.

“Gloria incoming,” the charge nurse sounded almost as pleased as if someone had told her that all of the staff had called in sick half an hour before shift started.

“Great,” Robby muttered, “I will do the talking,” he gave Jack a warning glare as he saw Gloria marching towards them.

“I heard an intern of yours punched a patient?” she sounded angry, which made Jack’s blood boil. As he was about to open his mouth Robby put a hand on his shoulder, giving him a warning glare.

“Yes, but it was in self defence. He was choking her and threatening to kill her,” Robby sounded so calm about this. Jack tried to see the rational side to this, tried to tell himself that yelling at Gloria was not going to change what had happened.

“If you wait another ten minutes you might see her and her neck with a bruise in the shape of a fucking hand on it,” Jack spoke in a tone as measured as he could. Though he was pretty sure that he still sounded very angry, especially since Gloria looked at him like he was insane.

“Alright,” she nodded, “Have you asked her if she wants to press charges?” she crossed her arms in front of her chest. A snort came from both Jack and Robby at the same time.

“She was practically catatonic when they took her up to radiology,” Robby said in a quiet tone.

“The only thing she said for the past,” Jack looked at his watch, “forty five minutes was various variations of ‘I didn’t do anything wrong’ and ‘He was just a mean patient’” Jack gave Gloria a long, hard stare. The anger slowly ebbing away again, it was replaced by worry again, the worry that she wouldn’t be okay again. That this incident would make her unable to work in this ED ever again.

“She treated him a few weeks ago,” Robby elaborated, “From what some other staff said he was being incredibly rude to the female workers,”

“Gosh,” Gloria rubbed her face, Jack suppressed a snarky comment about Robby having told her multiple times already that shit like this happens when she continues to cut budget on the ED.

“Radiology just called, Mateo is bringing her down again, results should be here within twenty minutes max, you want me to call Tommy to pick her up?” Dana chimed in from the side. Both Jack and Robby nodded at that.

——————

Tommy had picked her up shortly after the results from radiology had come in, nothing was broken, no serious tissue damage. She had still been in that state of dissociation when Tommy had taken her home with care instructions given by Jack and Robby.

He had stayed in the hospital for the rest of day shift, he couldn’t go home. It didn’t feel right, he just couldn’t bring himself to go home.

Leaning against the railing of the roof he looked down on the streets below, the buzz of people below making him less agitated. Still even as he looked down he was wondering what he could have done, if he could have been quicker. It felt like his brain was playing that moment in a loop, if he had looked up when he had seen the movement from the corner of his eye and realised that it was a patient he could have been fast enough. Though at that moment it had not seemed to be an issue.

He should have been quicker, he should have been able to do something, not just move too slowly when her life was in danger. That expression on her face haunted him, that emptiness, the usual kind and gentle features just completely blank. The way she had clung to him like he was the only thing keeping her in this reality had shattered something in him. Shattered these walls he had been trying to keep up. Hell he knew the moment that he wouldn’t be able to keep them up when he had felt that burning hot rage in his stomach when she had joked around with Tommy for the first time.

From the moment she had stumbled in the Pitt he knew that the work he had been putting in keeping away from her for over a month would be for nothing. If he had never seen her again it might have worked, but the moment she had looked at him, eyes wide with shock, he knew that he had already lost. Running his hands through his hair he let out a long sigh. Maybe he had been too pig headed to admit that to himself until now, he probably had been. It had been there from the moment they had first met. He still remembered her appearing beside him, ordering him a refill for his drink. He still remembered thinking that she would leave again if he acted grumpy enough, but he couldn’t, not with those eyes staring right into his very being.

“Not thinking of jumping today?” Robby’s voice sounded tight, he knew that his friend was trying to joke, but both of them knew that this was not why Robby was on the roof.

“No,” Jack paused, “Thinking about the least suspicious way to kill that guy,” he grumbled under his breath as he continued to wring his hands together, like it might give him some peace of mind.

“Don’t think you are the only one trying to figure that out. So, are you going to tell me what that was back down there?” Robby leaned against the railing beside him.

“What do you mean?” At least he could pretend to play dumb for a little while. He knew Robby had sniffed out something was wrong the second he had cradled her face in his hands like it was the most precious thing he had ever held.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Robby gave him that kind of look that he would give patients if he knew they were not telling the entire truth.

“Robby,” Jack sighed deeply, running a hand over his face, a low groan escaped his lips. He knew that he would have to come clean with someone at some point. He had heard the rumours, the bets, he knew that people suspected things about them and he had not made it any better with the way he had acted today. In his inner eye he could already see money being handed around.

“Fuck,” he drew out the u so long that it felt silly to some degree. He knew Robby was probably the safest person to talk to, but hell, he hadn’t even talked to his therapist about it. He hadn’t told anyone about it except for the ceiling of his bedroom.

“That does not sound good,” Robby sounded amused, like he was curious about the entire situation.

“Robby…” Jack turned his head to look at his friend, he was not even sure how to start explaining this, how does one tell another person that they met a subordinate at a bar before ever interacting with them in a professional setting and that said meeting did not only involve talking.

“I care about her,” was all that came out of his mouth. He knew that Robby would want more information than that, though he also knew that Robby would have to pry certain parts of his feelings out of his cold, dead hands if he wanted to have them.

“That much is obvious,” Robby sounded like he wanted to grab him by the scrubs and shake him.

“Jesus fucking christ, Robby,” Jack sighed, rubbing his face again. The guilt, anger, worry and all the emotions of the past day and weeks started to accumulate, they all started to build up and he knew that he needed to do something. He had wanted to keep her out, wanted to make sure that she didn’t get too close, but now he realised that it was too late, he really was a stubborn old man, just like she had said.

“I really got soft, didn’t I?” he laughed as he shook his head. He knew Robby would immediately pick up on the fact that he was trying to steer the conversation away from her. The next words coming from his friend’s mouth felt like a punch to the gut.

“No, you didn’t get soft.” there was a short pause, “You were always soft for her,”

He felt like a cornered animal, he knew he could just tell Robby everything, tell Robby the truth, but he knew that if he did, there was no coming back. It felt like it was the last piece of the wall that had been chipped away, like this would be the last stone that could fall before she could just step right into his most guarded of places. Shaking his head he realised that it had already happened, he just didn’t want to accept it. She had not taken that wall down bit by bit from the outside, no she had climbed over it the first time they had met and began to chip away at it from the inside.

“Yeah, you are right,” he nodded, wringing with his hands, “You know when I first saw her in the ED, I thought, what is she doing here?” a laugh escaped him. Taking a long breath he shook his head, he was really going to tell Robby about this. Though it felt right, to do it on the roof, it was almost like ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’.

“When we first met she told me that she just finished med school, but did you think in that first second of seeing her I connected the dots?” Robby didn’t say anything. He simply listened, Jack ran his hand over his face.

“It’s weird, you know, I was trying so hard to leave her behind, leave the memory of her in the past, but she haunted me, so when I saw her in the Pitt at first I thought I was slowly losing it. Not the war, not the pain and suffering I saw, no a woman was making me lose my mind,” a snort came from him.

“Oh, but she was real,” he shook his head, it was like all that what he had wanted to tell someone was now beginning to flow.

“I really thought I could avoid it. I really thought that pushing her away in the first place wasn’t going to come back to bite me in the ass down the road.”

At that comment Robby laughed.

“So what happened down there? I think I realised that trying to keep her out was pointless because she had slipped in far too long ago,”

He remembered her hand on his face when they laid in his bed, the blanket wrapped around them, their legs tangled together, how beautifully she had smiled at him and told him that she wanted to freeze the moment in time. At that moment he had wanted nothing else, he had wanted nothing more than to keep her there with him, never let her leave. He hadn’t known why exactly and even now he didn’t really understand it, but it had been so easy then and it still was.

Now it was all he craved, to have her by his side, never having to let go of her ever again. Being able to see that smile every time he went to bed and every time he woke up.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder, Robby gave him a smile, a smile that showed that he understood. Hell, Robby was probably the person that would understand this situation the most, the person that might actually be able to say something that made it less painful.

“I think I don’t have to tell you what you should do,” Robby simply patted him on the shoulder again, slowly walking away from the railing. Leaving him standing there, knowing that that he had lost the battle with himself long ago.

—————

Tags: @antisocialfiore @fudosl @smileykiddie08 @darksparklesficrecs @tommosgirl06 @rosieposie88

[pinksugarscrub]

Headcannons

Batboys x meta! Reader

Synopsis: I finished the main storyline for Gotham Knights and need some fluff in my life (Talia sucks). So here's Jason, Dick, and Tim with a bat mutant reader.

*Can be read as romantic or platonic, you be the judge.

Words: 700 +

Warnings: None

~

Jason Todd

In the beginning Jason tried really hard to dislike you, he did.

If he was seen being soft with you he’d never beat the allegations he was a bat through and through.

But then your ears were flopping as tears flooded your vision because someone called you a less than polite term for being a meta.

Yes he beat them up as a civilian and he’d do it again.

He likes your ears the most because they perfectly display your emotions.

Reading your expressions and attending to your needs makes him feel important.

His heart grows a little fuller everytime you say thank you and come to him for anything ranging from advice to a shoulder to cry on.

He makes fun of your poor eyesight despite your echolocation being an asset on missions.

You scare the crap out of him by hanging from the ceiling. He never hears you and you pop up seemingly from thin air.

Despite having a large wingspan and long pointed ears, Jason is still taller than you.

He makes sure your nutritional needs are met depending on the type of bat hybrid you are. Fruit, meat, etc.

He won’t admit it but every time you spread your wings to shield him either as a joke or on a mission he’s melting.

Jason’s used to being strong so having someone protect him on first instinct and actually be physically capable is mind boggling.

The Outlaws love you just as much if not more and it pisses Jason off when they hog you

Dick Grayson

Bat jokes. Bat puns. Lots of them.

He has some already in his arsenal because of Bruce but it’s just ten times worse.

When he looks at you with that grin and glint in his eyes you know you’re in for the cheesiest dad joke of your life.

He likes to tease you about being a vampire while pulling on your cheek to see your smile (canines).

Plays with your wings just like he did with Batman’s cape as Robin. He even deepens his voice.

He will not tolerate any slander about you in or out of costume.

People at galas and charities know to steer clear of any topic relating to you or metas unless they want an eight hour lecture and powerpoint presentation.

His nicknames or pet names are the worst. Usually a play on words or an outdated term from the eighteenth century.

Talks like he’s in a Shakespearean play when you’re in a sour mood because it makes you laugh.

He does not like to be flown around. None of the bats really do but on occasion he’ll let you parade him around.

He’s happy you and Garfield get along so well when he brings you with him on a visit to the Titans. Not to mention the rest of team.

Loves hugging you because your wings wrap around him like a blanket.

He will never forgive you and Wally for dragging him around like a ragdoll just prove who could get him to missons faster.

Tim Drake

You’re both on a separate time zone compared to the rest of the world.

3 AM snack trips are a must, especially on patrol.

You both buy each other energy drinks or coffee to get through the morning. Especially if you stayed up longer than usual.

Yes you’ve used your fangs to open a can when the tab was missing. It did not go well.

You’re the only one who understands his system of disorganization and commonly help him find things he’s lost in stacks of case files.

Studies you almost constantly because your abilities are so fascinating. There’s definitely a file on his computer dedicated to you. (*cough* Deku coded *cough*)

Insists on you getting glasses despite how well you maneuver throughout the manor and the world for that matter because you accidently walked into a wall once.

He has the most unhinged photos of you where the lense is .5 and your eyes are glowing. It’s his screensaver and the pictures change every few months.

Whenever he wants something from Bruce he sends you with the most heart wrenching puppy dog eyes because the old man has a soft spot for you.

Is always awestruck when he watches you fight. Then he’s got a smug grin on his face when he notices everyone else on the team is just as mesmerized.

You and Kon get along swimmingly.

One day you decided you wanted to get your ears pieced so you asked Kon for help. That was the most traumatizing experience for Tim.

He couldn't stand to see you in pain even if it was only for a moment.

After getting over the initial panic he thought you looked really nice with the new accesories.

[leighsartworks216]

Dragon's Treasure

dragon!Sylus x blind!oracle!Reader

Series Masterlist - Chapter One - Prev Chapter - Next Chapter

I have been SO SO SO excited for this chapter. I've had it written for so long and I've just been so excited to see y'all's reactions to it

Warnings: choking, fear, crying, blood, swearing, near death experience

Word Count: 1,697

Main Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Jewel provided what few soft things he had to be added to your “hoard”. It didn’t amount to much, but a couple pillows already made for a massive improvement compared to the hard stone.

Dissatisfied with how small your hoard is, he said he would go find you more. “Feel free to explore,” he’d said. “If you find something you like, it’s yours.”

So with him gone and you with nothing to do, you decide to take him up on his offer.

You feel around from one pile to the next, trying to make sense of his organization system. It’s rather chaotic. The piles melt and blend into each other, with no proper barriers separating one from the next. Coins seem to wind their way through every stack. You almost feel bad for how clumsy you must be, bumbling about, displacing the treasure, but surely he already thought about that. If he hadn’t… well, that’s on him.

You pause with interest as your hands come across something delicate. Fine chains linked together with small dangling teardrops. The teardrops feel different from the metal of the chain. Smoother, somehow softer. From the rest of your time exploring, you figure they must be some sort of gem. You wonder what kind they are.

Beside it is another delicate treasure, and another and another. It seems you found the jewelry. You feel along the chain of the first. It doesn’t seem wide enough to slip on over your head, but- aha! A clasp! You carefully unhook the ends from one another and wrap it around your neck. It takes a few tries, and your arms ache from holding them up so long, but you finally manage to get it on. The teardrop gems rest on your collarbones and chest, tickling your skin with the strange sensation. You’d never worn anything like it before, but it’s so lightweight it doesn’t bother you at all. You run your fingers along it, trying to picture what it looks like. You wonder what Jewel would think of it.

Spurred on by sheer delight, you dig back into the pile. You find more necklaces, bracelets, rings - even things you don’t know the purpose of. You slip some of them on, giggling to yourself at the way they twirl and dance on your skin with your movements.

Suddenly, you feel something more solid. It’s got more surface area than the necklaces and bracelets you’ve found so far, and it’s much larger than any of the rings, though it’s shaped like one. The top edge has protrusions stemming from it. The inside is plain, with little variation, but the outside is set with gems galore.

You place it experimentally on your head. It’s not as light as the necklace, but it’s not heavy enough to weigh you down too much. It feels… powerful.

You’re about to move on to the next pile when you hear footsteps. But they’re different - they scrape along the floor, move too uncertainly, too quickly. This isn’t Jewel.

What are you supposed to do in a situation like this? Logically, you should be running to meet them, begging them to get you out of here. But you don’t. Besides, even if they did get you out, where would they take you? You can’t go back to the city. You don’t want to go back to the city.

Torn with indecision, you’ve only just stepped away from the pile of treasure when the footsteps echo around the cavern.

“Wha- Are you the dragon?” The voice is masculine, but lighter than Jewel’s. Despite that, it doesn’t sound too young.

You shake your head. Your heart is racing. “No, I’m not. I’m-”

The man gasps. “The oracle!”

Fuck, this guy must be from the city if he can recognize you so easily.

“Wearing… the dragon’s treasure.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

You hold your hands out placatingly. “Sir, please, allow me a chance to explain.”

“Explain?! You- You fucking traitor! No wonder you predicted doomsday, you’re working with the fucking dragon to bring it about!” His footsteps stomp roughly on the stone floor, approaching you quickly. Each thud sends a pang of fear straight to your heart. He kicks away treasure in his path, goblets and coins that clink against each other and thunk against the ground. You back away as fast as you can.

“I’m not a traitor! Astra predicted it!” You stumble on something. You don’t try to guess what, you just keep going. You can hear the man’s angry breaths, huffing out of him like a bellows. He’s much closer now. “Please, I didn’t do anything! I’m just a messenger!”

Large hands grab you by the shoulders and shove you to the ground. The air is forced from your lungs as your back collides with solid rock. Your head spins as it hits next, less than a second after. The crown on your head clinks as it bounces off, rolling away before it tips and rolls on its edge, over and over again in a rapidly increasing crescendo. Legs cage you in. Hands grip you hard enough to bruise. They jostle and shove you against the floor.

“You want us to die! You fucking monster! You- You want to kill us all!”

You gasp for air. Your lungs fight against it. You try shoving at the man’s chest. Try squirming and kicking him off. Try clawing at his hands to let you go. “I don’t-”

The echo of a smack reverberates in the large hall. Your head is tossed to the side with the impact. Pain ripples through your jaw. You think you bit your tongue for all the blood pooling in your mouth. “Shut up!”

You think you’re crying. You can’t tell. All you do know is the all-consuming fear rising in your chest, burning you from the inside out, choking you. You want to scream, but who would hear you? All you can do is try fighting back again, but your hits are sloppy and too weak to get the brute off of you. And all it earns you is another punch.

“Where’s your partner in crime, huh?!” he screams in your face. Spit splatters over your cheeks. You recoil in disgust. “Where’s the dragon, huh?!”

“He’s not here!” you scream. The words grate at your throat. You don’t think to worry about how awful it sounds, as the hands lift from your shoulders to grab your neck. They squeeze tightly. You thrash even more as you take one last gasp of air, cut off as your windpipe closes.

He jostles you, shakes you, digs his nails into your skin. You try shoving at his face, but he just shakes you off each time. “We trusted you! All of us! You were supposed to keep us safe! Tell us how to prosper! And all you did was predict death and ruin! Well, no longer! I won’t let you speak your cursed prophecies into existence anymore!”

You can’t breathe. You can’t fucking breathe. Your mouth gapes open like a fish, but you can’t- Nothing is coming in. You can’t get anything out either. No cries, no pleas, no last prayers to Astra.

Your lungs ache. They scream. They burn in your chest alongside your fear.

Tears pour from your eyes with no resistance. Stream down your cheeks to the ground below. Drip onto loose coins. Gather on the man’s fingers as his thumbs dig into your pulse.

Your heart rampages against your ribcage. Pounds in your ears. Each beat sends a jolt of pain through your lungs as it begs for them to provide it oxygen.

Your head is fuzzy. Mind spinning. Sense becomes distant, blurring at the edges. Thinking becomes impossible. Only two words repeat themselves over and over as consciousness begins to falter:

Jewel…

Help…

Your hands fall limply to the ground. You can’t fight anymore. You can’t… can’t………

…

………

You see… a man. He’s dressed unusually. You can’t make out the surroundings, but you feel how warm and safe this place is. He looks like the fiend in your last prophecy. His hair is stark white. Eyes a bloody crimson. But he looks human.

Could it be…?

Air shocks back into your lungs. It hurts. You gasp desperately for oxygen, but you can’t get it inside of you quick enough. Can’t get enough in your lungs to satisfy your body’s needs. You choke on copper and spit. Something touches your shoulder, rolls you onto your side.

“Easy,” a familiar baritone soothes. You can make out the sharp ridges of a clawed hand holding your bicep. “You’re alright now.”

Splatters of blood and spit hit the floor as you cough. Your whole body shakes with the effort of breathing. Even once you manage to breathe normally once more, your throat hurts like hell and your head still spins.

“He-” You wince sharply. That one word alone was akin to scraping burning coals over the back of your throat, all the way down your esophagus and into your chest.

“Don’t speak,” Jewel says. Though, with the danger tinging his words, it sounds more like a command. “He’s dead. He won’t hurt you again.”

You reach out toward his voice. He helps you sit up. The world feels as though it’s tilting in an odd pattern on an ever-shifting axis. You grab onto him. You feel like your whole body is spinning, prone to falling into an abyss at any moment.

Jewel doesn’t complain, doesn’t pull back. Instead, he wraps a rough arm around your back to pull you against his chest. He’s firm and solid and here. His chest moves with steady breaths. Heart beats a rhythm like a war drum. It’s all you can focus on as your lungs relax, heart stablizes. All you care to think about as the pain in your neck persists, the ghosting weight of hands still threatening to press down and tighten once more.

Blood dribbles down your chin. Even more down your neck to your collarbones where the man’s nails dug in. It tickles. It stains the gold and gems you wear.

“That fool should know better than to touch a dragon’s treasure.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @leiakitty @loliesaregreat @seris-the-amious

[witherby]

Hey El! I’m back and god this place needs a clean! *Iooks in the booth and sees a man sleeping* is this one of your employees or not? Also with truceJuice how would Kon and the family react to an over worked mouse?

You leave that little guy alone! That's Blorbo, he's my emotional support loiterer! I give him some leftover drabbles and he scrapes all the gum off from underneath my tables and warns me when the Health Department is coming. We have a symbiotic relationship.

And, hmm. I like this question! Let's walk it through!

How does your family + Kon react to you overworking yourself at Truce Juice?

Masterlist is Here!

Bruce:

Can't say shit to you and he knows it. This man is THE overdoer of overdoing anything. Trained his body beyond typical and atypical human limits. Used to train himself to sleep in 20 minute bursts in his prime so he could spend the other 23 hours and 40 minutes a day working on bettering Gotham day and night. Made contingency plans for every single hero and villain and antihero known to him just in case he might need to put them down one day. Bruce has never done anything with less than 110% commitment. It's not a surprise you picked up that trait, as much as it makes him both proud and worried for you. So, like the hypocritical coward he is, Bruce says nothing.

To you. He's gonna lament about it to the others, though.

Hal:

Not happy about it. You're grown, and you can do what you want with your time as you see fit, but if you happen to be spending more time at your cafe and less time at home, that's when he's gonna crack his knuckles and start bugging you.

"Hey, kiddo! I think you've stocked up enough ingredients to keep this joint running for the next 6 months. Five if Killer Croc orders anything more than once a week. Don't you think you're going a little overboard? Come on home and take a rest; I'll give you a ride."

Dick:

He's gonna try to get legal about it. If you're in there working beyond your posted opening and closing times, he's threatening to fine your business. You wouldn't want that, would you? Just call it quits for the day and go lie down! Everything is fine!

(This does not work. You hand him a fat stack of cash to cover the fine, call your brother a Blüddy pig, and oink at him until he rushes out of the store, embarrassed.)

Jason:

Enforces the Weekly Family Nap Time when you don't. He calls or texts you and says you've got five minutes to wrap up the most important shit, then he's coming. It doesn't matter if you lock the doors, he's getting in the building, he's hoisting you over his shoulder, and he's taking you home and putting you and everybody else to bed. Shouldn't have skipped dinner, idiot. Now you're in a big cuddle puddle. If you use your shadows to slip away, he's threatening to cause property damage. He'll take the heat on that if it gets you to slow down.

Tim:

You're stubborn and bull-headed like the rest of your family. Once you focus on a task you're very unlikely to pull your attention away from it unless you're made to. So he makes you.

He locks down your POS system until you call him in frustration, then gets you to give it up and come home.

"It's eleven at night, M. The place closed at seven. Come back and I'll reactivate it tomorrow morning before it's supposed to open again, I promise. Whatever you're doing can wait."

Damian:

Similar to Jason, he's slipping into the cafe after hours and leveling you with a disappointed glare. Unlike Dick and Hal, his little guilt trips and speeches actually work.

"When you were six years old, I watched you flatline in a hospital bed because of your poor immune system. And you hadn't even done anything to get yourself sick back then." He leans against the counter and watches you painstakingly adjust and readjust and re-readjust all the furniture in preparation for the painting crew scheduled to arrive in the morning to give the place a fresh look. You refuse to turn around and face him. "Why are you purposely working yourself sick again? Are you going to make me sit at your bedside in the ICU while you fight for your life over something you couldn't leave to the other staff? To the contractors you hired to do this for you? Are you trying to frighten the people that love you, Flit?"

You leave the furniture where it's at and go hug your brother, then let him take you home.

+ Conner:

Sometimes you're overworked because there's too much to do, and not enough hours in the day. You aren't the kind of boss to ask your staff to stay longer than they've been scheduled for (not realizing that they happily would if you needed the help), so you take on the mundane, often laborious, after-closing duties yourself.

Conner is attuned to your needs and desires. He doesn't have to convince you to pack it up and go home. He knows that's what you want to do. But you also have to take care of your business, and sometimes that means staying for hours past closing to supervise a major renovation, or coming in so early the sun hasn't even risen to receive a shipment of baked goods from across the city.

Conner doesn't force you to abandon those tasks to go home. But he does stay to help them along. Need something moved from one end of the café to the other? He's on it. Need something dropped off at another store? Leave it to him. Need someone to prevent the creepy window washer from staring at your ass? He's already on it.

And when it's all said and done, and you can finally head out for the night, Conner will carry you home.

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 4 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW: All hail severely traumatized Reader, Part 2 (or is it 3? 4??)

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

On quiet evenings, after closing the shop, you’d sit in the dim light with your butterflies swirling around you, thinking of him. Jinwoo had grown older in these passing years, but he was still in the shadow of what was yet to come, the trials he’d face, the burdens he’d bear. You’d send a butterfly to always be with him, only occasionally checking in on him, respecting his boundaries even if he didn’t know it.

Just for a moment—a quick glance into his world was enough.

When Jinwoo first registered as a hunter, you had already braced yourself for this moment. The person you had watched in glimpses through the pages, from, the safety of your domain, and later from the shadows of Seoul, was finally stepping into a life that would soon be fraught with peril. You were determined to help him, even if only in ways that were subtle, hidden beneath the surface of his everyday struggles.

As long as the system did not forbid you, you would help him however you could. And perhaps, every small act was your rebellion.

---

It started with the hospital bills. You remembered the pitiful amount of money Jinwoo would scrape together after risking his life in dungeons, just to keep his mother’s medical care afloat. You couldn’t bear to watch it unfold like it did in the story, not when you had the means to help.

You watched him in the hallway of the hospital one day, standing before the reception desk with his head bowed, his fingers trembling as he pulled out a thin stack of cash.

“I-I’m sorry, Miss. This is all the money I can scrape by…” His voice was low, filled with both hope and shame.

The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, was holding back a sigh when suddenly, her computer pinged with a notification. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Good news, Hunter Sung!” she exclaimed, her tone brightening. “With this amount, plus some unexpected anonymous donations, yours and your mother’s hospital bills are covered for the time being.”

“What?” Jinwoo blinked, visibly stunned. “But I didn’t—”

“Oh! And I’m glad to inform you that your mother’s complexion has improved slightly in the last few weeks.” She smiled warmly. “The specialists believe it’s a good sign.”

Jinwoo’s mouth opened and closed, clearly bewildered. “Huh? No, wait, that’s… that’s great, but—”

In your hidden corner outside the hospital, you giggled softly to yourself, covering your mouth with a hand as you watched through your butterfly’s eyes. The tiny creature perched delicately on the windowsill, relaying every flicker of emotion on Jinwoo’s face back to you.

Perched on your shoulder was another small butterfly, its tiny wings beating quietly, the faint residual glow of it, the one you’d tasked with easing his mother’s pain whenever it could, flickered beside your ear.

“I hope you can feel a bit more at ease, Jinwoo,” you whispered to yourself. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

---

Later that week, you left another package at his door. It had become a small ritual of sorts—every now and then, you’d make a meal for him and his sister. The recipes were simple, but you took care with each one, carefully wrapping each dish to keep it warm.

“Brother, did you order takeout again?” Jinah’s voice carried through the door as she opened it, her face lighting up at the sight of the package. “Huh? No, I didn’t.”

“Whoa! This smells more delicious than the last one.” Jinah’s eyes sparkled as she inspected the food, excitement clear in her voice.

You smiled, pleased. This time, you’d made a little extra, something from your own world—a dish that you remembered from home, a comfort food you’d grown up with. For some reason, it felt right to share it with them, hoping it would bring a small sense of peace to Jinwoo’s chaotic life.

Jinwoo stepped closer, frowning slightly as he eyed the package. “Jinah, don’t open it! What if this is someone else’s—”

“Hmm? Jinwoo! Look at this!” Jinah held up the small card you’d tucked inside, her grin widening as she noticed the handwriting: For strength and courage. Keep going.

Jinwoo blinked, his eyes lingering on the card, and you felt your heart tighten. You’d also left something else this time—a pair of twin daggers, crafted with care, designed to suit his grip and his unique fighting style. You’d poured a bit of your magic into the blades, imbuing them with a subtle strength you hoped would last him longer in dungeons.

Carefully crafted, the daggers gleamed in the dim light, their handles a smooth black etched with faint traces of silver. It was subtle, but you’d placed a small sigil of protection on each blade—a silent promise to keep him safe, even from afar.

Jinah’s gaze darted between the food and the daggers, her expression one of confusion and awe. “Who keeps sending this stuff, Jinwoo? Are they some kind of guardian angel?”

Jinwoo shook his head, still staring at the daggers. “I… don’t know,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked at the card again, as if trying to piece together a puzzle that had no answer.

From where you watched, you pressed your fingers to your lips, hoping they’d never figure it out. The anonymity felt like a shield, keeping you from the vulnerability of facing him directly. It allowed you to be there for him without the risk of him ever seeing the scars that haunted you—the scars of the battles you hadn’t been able to fight for him.

---

But there were moments when you could not simply leave gifts behind. Moments where the stakes were far too high, and you found yourself breaking the rules you had set for yourself. One of those times was during a particularly dangerous raid where Jinwoo had been injured, caught off-guard by a sudden ambush.

You found him bleeding out in an abandoned corner of the dungeon, unconscious and pale, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Panic surged through you as you cloaked the area with your butterflies’ illusion magic, hiding you both from the other hunters scrambling to escape.

“Hey… Jinwoo…” Your voice trembled as you knelt beside him, your hands hovering uncertainly over his torn shirt, slick with blood. You could barely see through the tears blurring your vision. “Stay with me.”

You pressed your hands to his wound, feeling the warmth of his blood soak into your fingers. Healing him was a delicate balance; you had to hold back most of your power, keeping it just within the boundaries that the system would tolerate The warmth of your power seeped into his skin, mending the torn muscle and stitching the wounds closed.

“You’re going to be okay…” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

He grimaced slightly, even in his unconscious state, as though still fighting an invisible battle. His brows were furrowed, and you could see the remnants of pain etched into his expression.

Unable to stop yourself, you began to hum softly—a lullaby from your original world, a song you’d heard countless times. The sound filled the silence around you, mingling with the gentle flutter of your butterflies as they circled, their wings casting soft shadows over the two of you. You weren’t even sure if he could hear it, but you hoped it would bring some comfort. His pained expression gradually softened, his breathing steadying, his body growing still as he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

“You will be okay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the fluttering wings of your butterflies. Leaning forward, you pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to his forehead, ignoring the taste of sweat and blood on your lips. “I promise.”

You stayed there for as long as you dared, your butterflies encircling you both in a protective sphere. But eventually, the system's warnings began to flash, and you were forced to retreat. The moment you pulled back, you could feel the invisible barrier forcing you away, like a cruel reminder of your place. You were not meant to interfere directly, not in the way you so desperately wished.

As you vanished into the shadows, Jinwoo stirred, his eyelids fluttering open sleepily. A faint scent of flowers lingering in the air.

The soft glow of a single butterfly disappearing into the darkness.

---

You knew it was only a matter of time before Jinwoo’s sharp instincts would catch on. He had always been sharp, even before his strength grew. He had a way of noticing things, piecing together the small details others missed. Sometimes you wondered if he already suspected there was someone watching over him—a nameless guardian who left behind no trace.

For his sake, you hoped he wouldn’t. There was too much you couldn’t tell him, too many secrets that weighed heavy on your heart. You couldn’t let him find you. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. The scars left behind from your previous failures were still too fresh, too deep. You couldn't face him—not with the knowledge of everything you failed to prevent.

A red butterfly fluttered back to your shoulder, nestling close as if sensing your inner turmoil. You reached up, brushing a gentle finger over its wings, a silent promise.

For now, it was enough to watch him from afar, to slip into his life like a fleeting shadow, offering what little comfort and aid you could. For Sung Jinwoo, the lonely hero you once admired on the pages of a story, being beside him—even unseen, even in secret—was more than enough.

Because loving him like this, in silence and secrecy, was the only way you knew how.

-----

The dungeon gate loomed ominously in front of you, shrouded in an aura of terror. Every hunter that passed by gave it a wary glance, a sense of unease clinging to their skin. But for you, standing alone on the empty, desolate street outside the gate, it was more than just unease.

You knew what was happening on the other side of that barrier.

You knew exactly why Sung Jinwoo had gone in there, why he was fighting against forces he had no chance against, and, worse, you knew how the story was supposed to go.

Even if you wanted to save him, you couldn’t.

As you paced in the shadows, a biting frustration gnawed at you, tugging on your every nerve. The system had raised another invisible barrier around the gate, one specifically designed to keep you out. This was a repeat, you knew, yet you had tried pushing against it just like the first time, pounding your fists in desperation, hoping that it would somehow let you through if only you pleaded enough.

But like every single time, the system never relented. The message that flashed in front of your eyes had been clear, cold, and unyielding:

[Warning: You cannot interfere with the designated player’s progression.]

So all you could do was wait. Hours passed, the world seeming to stretch unbearably as you lingered on the edge, senses on high alert. Finally, when the gate shimmered and disappeared, you bolted forward, cloaking yourself with an illusory skill the moment you felt the barrier lift.

Without hesitation, you sprinted into the dungeon.

The first sight of the bloodstained stone walls, the broken weapons and armor littered across the ground, nearly brought bile to your throat. And at the center of it all, lying on the cold stone altar, was Jinwoo, blood pooling beneath him. His once gentle features were twisted with pain, his usually alert eyes closed, his breathing almost nonexistent.

Your heart pounded in your chest, raw terror surging through you as you stumbled forward, nearly dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands trembled as you summoned your healing power, a soft glow flickering to life in your palms as you placed them gently over his wounds.

“Jinwoo…” The name slipped from your lips, an agonized whisper.

It took every ounce of willpower not to let your emotions take control. You wanted nothing more than to pour every bit of your strength into him, to erase the pain and blood, to make him whole again. But something held you back—a quiet, persistent instinct that reminded you of your own limitations here. This was a pivotal moment in his story, the beginning of everything that was to come. If you pushed too far, you knew you’d be punished for it in ways you couldn’t predict.

Instead, you focused on his face, gently wiping away the blood from his brow as you healed the worst of his injuries. The faintest hint of warmth returned to his skin, his breathing evening out, and you felt a trickle of relief flow through you.

“You’ll be okay… Just a bit longer,” you murmured, hoping your words would somehow reach him, even in the unconsciousness of his slumber.

---

Hours later, you watched silently from afar as Jinwoo was admitted to the hospital. Nurses and doctors bustled around him, wheeling him through corridors and hooking him up to machines to monitor his vitals. You should have felt some sense of peace, of reassurance, knowing he was in good hands, but instead, a strange emptiness gnawed at you.

As soon as the doctors left his side, you sent one of your butterflies to hover just above him, invisible to any onlookers. Through its eyes, you watched him sleep, his face pale yet calm. If only he could see the world through your eyes, how much you wanted to protect him from every shadow and danger.

For days, you visited Jinwoo in the hospital, bringing supplies when the nurses weren’t looking, leaving small offerings—potions, enchanted items, all hidden from sight. You spent countless hours just sitting nearby, willing his pain away.

But after those days of endless vigil, your system did something you hadn’t expected: it simply… vanished. No messages, no reminders, no missions or updates. It was as if it had been swept away, a silent farewell. But somehow, you couldn’t believe that was all there was to it. The system you knew—the one that felt almost…alive—would have left something, some kind of parting message. But there was nothing.

Yet even as the ache in your heart grew sharper, you took comfort in the fact that your powers, and the tiny butterfly summons, your children, remained at your side. The system’s absence didn’t change the duty you felt in your heart.

---

Of course, the only thing the system left behind was the now near-permanent barrier.

You felt your own helplessness all over again when Jinwoo entered the penalty zone, struggling to survive against waves of merciless monsters. All you could do was watch, silently cheering him on as he fought his way through it, determination blazing in his eyes. You knew this was the beginning, the spark that would ignite his growth. But still, it was agonizing to stand by, unable to intervene, unable to help.

Days later, when he took on his first solo hunt in an instant dungeon, you lingered nearby. Observing every movement, every struggle, every victory. You smiled with pride as each time he struck down a monster.

And then there came the time he met Yoo Jinho. The memory of that dungeon still sent a chill down your spine. Jinwoo and Jinho, left for dead by Hwang Dongsok and his squad, and then watching the two of them nearly get slaughtered had you gripping the edges of your seat. You could feel admiration as much as your heart shatter as Jinwoo stood over the bodies, his gaze cold and unyielding. The spark of his innocence was dimming, replaced by a hardened resolve.

“Jinwoo…” You whispered his name as you watched him, clutching your chest as a wave of sadness washed over you. He was changing, evolving, becoming stronger, but at what cost? Each time Jinwoo took a life or fought in the dungeons, you felt your heart ache for him. He was growing stronger, yes, but he was also losing pieces of himself along the way.

You mourned for the innocence he left behind. Yet, you knew this was necessary. You reminded yourself of this, over and over.

---

Every time he stepped into danger, every time he took a blow, you felt the echo of his pain in your own chest. You watched him fight Kerberos, your hands clenched into fists as he took hit after hit, barely surviving. And yet, through it all, he pushed forward, as relentless as ever, Each injury he sustained sent you pacing around the Gardens, your butterflies fluttering around you, trying in vain to calm your worry.

Even when Jinwoo joined Jinho to clear various C-rank gates, you remained his unseen guardian, watching from afar with a bittersweet smile. He was getting stronger. He was closer to becoming the hero you admired—no, loved—from the pages of your old world.

---

And then, the job change quest arrived.

You watched with anticipation as he ventured into the ancient halls, his eyes sharp, his movements cautious. The moment he met Igris, you had been waiting for this moment for what felt like lifetimes. You watched him take on Igris with every ounce of power he possessed, watching with bated breath as Jinwoo faced the trials set before him.

And finally, the words you had been waiting for echoed through the temple, sending shivers down your spine.

“Arise.”

The power resonated in his voice, a command filled with strength and authority. You nearly squealed, couldn’t hold back the grin that spread across your face as you watched the first shadow rise at his command.

Watching him gain his Shadow Extraction skill felt like watching a dream come to life. This was the moment you had waited for, the turning point that would set Jinwoo on the path to becoming the Shadow Monarch. He had come so far, and you had seen every step of his journey unfold before your eyes.

As you gazed at him from afar, smile still tugging at your lips. This, you thought, is enough.

Being able to watch him grow, to see him become the hero you admired, was enough. Just knowing that he was okay—that he was stronger than ever—was all you needed.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [010/10/2024] - Goodbye

[snail-day]

I can only imagine how much mind-numbing paperwork comes with being a sorcerer. Endless expense reports, tedious travel logs, and the dreaded damage assessments. If a building collapses mid-battle, who even handles that? There are probably only one or two people meticulous enough to do it right (and fewer who don't cheat the system), and naturally, one of them is Nanami.

Right now, he’s perched at his desk in the soft glow of his home office lamp, golden light casting a warm cast over his neatly organized stacks of documents. His broad shoulders are slightly hunched, tension lingering in every movement as he flips through pages, pen scratching diligently across the paper. But the moment you step inside, his focus shifts. His tired eyes lift to meet yours, and despite the exhaustion weighing on him, his lips curl into the gentlest, most affectionate smile.

“You should be in bed,” he murmurs, voice thick with quiet fondness. Wedding ring glinting from the glow of his desk lamp as he taps his pen “I told you not to wait up.”

And yet, without a second thought, he’s already opening his arms for you, inviting you into the safest place you know. You waste no time, slipping onto his lap, pressing yourself against the solid warmth of his chest. The steady rise and fall of his breath soothes you as you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, sighing happily at the familiar scent of his cologne, an earthy, rich scent with a hint of coffee clinging to his skin.

His stubble brushes against your cheeks, the ticklish sensation making you giggle softly before melting further into him. His big, strong arms wrap around you, holding you tightly against him. One of his hands settles to your back rub slow, lazy up and down movements. You shift, nestling closer, enveloped in his warmth, the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. He presses a chaste kiss against your temple before returning to his work. Even as he writes, one hand remains against you.

And as sleep finally pulls you under, wrapped in the comforting embrace of the man who loves you, you let yourself believe - just for a moment - that this warmth will last forever. That no matter how many nights like this you share, no matter how many battles he fights, he will always find his way back to you.

[attapullman]

Silver Screen, Make Me Scream | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: The world is used to seeing Robert Floyd as a Navy admiral on a screen thirty feet tall. You're used to seeing him as the man who spoils you rotten, in and out of the bedroom.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: f!reader, 18+ ONLY, older boyfriend AU, movie star AU, daddy k!nk, unprotected pinv, older bf Bob eats it from behind, cowgirl position, age gap, no y/n

A Note from Mo: Uh...this is porn without plot disguised as a filthy, flirty AU and I am waving from the bars of horny jail. Fellow old man fuckers, this one is for you.

It’s his cold pillow that wakes you. 

No deep breaths or soft snores echoing around the vaulted ceiling. The absurdly expensive bedding all yours to take. Your late night should keep you asleep until noon, but it feels wrong to be in bed when you don’t have your lover’s solid warmth against your skin.

You pad down the terracotta-tiled hall and take in the views of the Pacific, the only artwork needed on this side of the house. Stormy blue and glass-riddled sandy white, the picturesque view sells itself. The waves crash on the beach below, their mellow sound seeping into the Mediterranean revival from the open patio doors. 

He’s sitting outside in just his sweatpants, coffee in hand, as he watches the water while flicking through a thick stack of pages. The grey at his temples is bright under the early San Diego sun. You know he’s reading something important because he has those horn-rimmed glasses on, the ones he repeatedly complains are too tight around his ears. Won’t even waste a minute to go grab his preferred wire frames. 

Robert Floyd may be retired from show business, but he’s hotter than the first day he graced screens.

Eyes lifting from the pages, he catches you staring from your spot by the French doors, negligee skimming your body in the soft ocean breeze. The lids of your eyes are still a little heavy with sleep.

“You need something, baby?” He pats his broad thigh and you assume your perch, snuggling against his sun-warmed skin as you shake your head. How is he always the perfect temperature? The chill from the ocean wafts over you as he wraps his arm around your waist.

Your lips part in a contented smile. “Just checking in on you, Daddy. Missed you in bed.”

“Sorry, baby,” he coos, brushing his lips against your temple. His thick pointer taps against the stack of pages that arrived by messenger at sunrise. “Agent asked me to give this a look over, see if I’d be interested.”

You tilt your head to see the title. “Is that-”

“Yes, baby girl. They’re asking me to come back. Just a few scenes with the new regime, but get to wear that admirals uniform one more time.” Despite him saying it so matter of factly, you can detect his giddiness at wearing those pins once again. “Not sure if it’s the right move though.”

You trail your finger along his pectoral, imagining the ironed uniform underneath your touch. 

Robert Floyd had made a career of Naval action films, starting out as a fresh faced Weapons Systems Officer in his debut, to gracing the screen one last time as an Admiral in the franchise’s original conclusion. He’d won over hearts with his steely blue gaze and soft smile, never one for breaking the rules. Yet always the one who celebrated the hardest when his squadron completed a mission.

For military propaganda, he made a compelling poster boy.

Your entire childhood he had been on posters in the mall, trailers on the television during commercial breaks. Those bright sapphire eyes and gleaming pins burnt into your vision, uncontrollably charmed by the strong, silent type. 

And now here he was, putty under your palms as you asked if he wanted more coffee.

Without a doubt he’d take the appearance, spend a day or two on set with the next generation of Naval action stars. The next year he’d appear on every talk show and repeat his modesty over his fifteen minutes on camera. Your Bobby would balk at the attention, but glow with pride as the host played his cameo for the audience. 

Watching him flip through a few pages, you could already see the shy smile he would win the crowd over as he insisted the revival’s cast members were the real stars.

“What’cha thinking about, sweet girl?” You were so lost in your daydream that you missed his attention turning to you, warm palm running over your hip under your thin robe. 

You stroke his jaw, fingers curling into the regulation-cut greying hair. The cut he’s kept since he was first cast in his early twenties. “You should take the role. You look handsome as an admiral.” You peck a light kiss to his lips. “Dashing, really.”

His blush is striking against the ocean sky. As you get up to go make you both breakfast, you can feel his eyes on you; an extra sway in your hips for his enjoyment. Bob lounges back on the outdoor set and looks between the breaking waves and the now slightly rumpled script. 

He’s coming back.

The view of the ocean as you zip up I-5 is breathtaking, a gorgeous Southern California day. The early call time was less than ideal, but the energy in the car is electric. Bob’s hand wanders into the passenger seat to wrap around your bare knee, thumb tapping out an unknown rhythm as he navigates traffic. 

He looks the vision of wealth and importance sitting in the front seat of his pewter grey Porsche 911 - a sleek upgrade for his 40th from the battered truck he’d been driving since he arrived in Hollywood. The car is understated in its elegance, like its owner. You admire his graceful lines of a life well lived, the pokes of silver woven through his hair. And yet his eyes carry that intelligent, sassy energy that keeps you on your toes, ready for the next challenge he brings you. 

“You’re looking at me.” His eyes don’t leave the road, but the smile on the corner of his thin lips is playful.

You fiddle with his fingers, admiring the large dexterous digits. “Just so handsome, how can I not?”

Bob lifts your hand with his, allowing the platinum and diamonds of your bracelet to catch the morning sun - nearly blinding with their sparkle. He brings your interlocked fingers to his lips, pressing a loving kiss to the skin as he finally looks at you. His eyes are the same striking blue as the ocean behind him. 

“Perfect girl, what did I do to deserve you?”

You’re wondering the same when he enters the studio lot, passing through security and finding your way to the set. There’s a bustle of commotion as the two of you join the crowd, everyone immediately hushing their voices as the talent arrives. Bob’s chest swells with power as everyone immediately caters to him before noticing you.

“That must be his assistant?” Rumors spread through the crew like wildfire, watching you prance behind film legend Robert Floyd like an excitable puppy. Eyebrows shooting up when he turns back and rests a hand on the back of your bare thigh, leaning close to ask if you want anything from craft. 

You slide your diamond-covered wrist around his neck and peck his cheek. Definitely not an assistant.

Since the day he’d made his name on marquees, Bob had been surrounded by women. A tall man in Navy blues with the golden touch of Hollywood? His fellow cast joked more than once that tag chasers didn’t care whether you served the country or just did it on screen. Eventually he’d done the responsible thing and tried marriage, settling down with a woman who cared more about his flashy lifestyle than the quiet man behind the lights. Divorce was swift and the introvert reverted inside his shell, his film career quiet as the next generation of aviators took the screen. 

And then you entered his life, with your open face and bright smile. A coffee shop in Coronado he frequented that you happened to pass. A bump of elbows over the creamer, his amused grin when you accidentally grabbed his drink in your fluster. You were so excited to meet a real movie star, a dream come true. And he looked so much bigger than his character - those shoulders brawnier, that jaw sharper. Yet the smile he gave you was heart-melting as you handed him your own coffee cup to sign, nothing else available.

It wasn’t until that afternoon you noticed he’d written his number in neat penmanship. You had to wait until that next night to know you were falling inexplicably in love with a man who the rest of the world already adored. He was bigger than life, your everything.

And for all of your affection, he spoiled you. Dates to restaurants you couldn’t pronounce in Liberty Station, private events with tickets you couldn’t afford. Every week a new trinket left at your bedside, sparkling in the low light while he hummed in the bathroom excited for you to notice. Few things brought him joy at this stage in life, but you traipsing in with nothing on but the latest diamanté left him positively enraptured.

People could stare and point and judge all they wanted. It was love, and it was all yours.

You’ve raided the mini bar and read through the call sheet when Bob finally comes back to his trailer. He strikes a bold figure in his Navy blacks - pins gleaming, white cap under his arm. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” he greets you, swooping to kiss your cheek. But your breath is already stolen. You’d seen pictures, caught his movies at the old matinee in Balboa Park. But standing in front of you is the sexiest man you’ve ever seen. He looks so…official.

Bob was already feeling good in the wardrobe trailer, the crew he’d worked with for years stroking his ego as they put the final touches to his starched uniform. He’d be on screen for a total of eight minutes and he was going to look important every single second. 

But with your eyes trained on him, pupils wide and mesmerized, it’s the only compliment he needs. 

“They look good on you again,” you coo, tracing your fingertips over the sterling silver insignia pins. It’s hard to quell the rising heat as you look at him, standing tall in this uniform - his uniform - just like the posters and movie trailers of your youth. 

He rubs his temples and grabs his wire frames from the counter, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he straightens up. “Feels good to wear them, baby. Not sure who I am if not in the ‘Navy’.” He chuckles around air quotes, morphing into a moan as you run your nails down his torso. 

Even though he’s not in character, the suit transforms him. 

He’s not your Bob, the man who walks around his big ol’ house in band shirts he got in the 80s and his worn shearling slippers. Squinting through his glasses while trying to read fine print for instruction manuals for more Lego sets than he needs, peppering your head with kisses as you sit between his knees. Your Bobby is always goofy and smiling when you come through the door, eager to wrap his arms around you as he patiently listens to all the friend updates from brunch. He’s warmth and safety, that side of middle age where you have to explain internet fads with a playful eye roll.

But this man…this man in front of you is stern and mighty, seizing the room with his intensity. He’s commanding in his own silent way, back straight and shoulders taught. No nonsense, just like the admiral he plays for screens around the world. His presence is intoxicating. You can’t decide if you want to dominate him or be putty in his hands. 

You twist in his arms, pressing your chest to his as you smooth the lapels of his suit. It’s only natural that those big, practiced hands of his immediately slip to your legs. Two magnets drawn by the promise of touch. But once he’s inches from your pretty face, ready to ask you to help him read over lines, that gleam in your eyes has other plans.

His girl wants him.

“Babygirl, I’m in wardrobe.” His words say no, but the fervent way he’s stroking the skin under your hem says differently. He’s not immune to a tiny dress and puppy eyes. You watch his hand reach up to drag through greying roots before he remembers it’s styled, redirecting his frustration by slipping rough fingers around the nape of your neck. Holding your head still while he fights his sense of responsibility.

It doesn’t matter that you’re in a tin can trailer with no sound proofing. You lick your glossy lips and give him the most innocent smile. “Please? We can be super careful.”

He eyes you warily. The two of you together is messy.

“Please, Daddy?” You rub yourself against him, feeling the way he shivers underneath his stiff uniform. “I wanna know what it’s like to fuck an admiral. Please?”

He’s powerless against you when you’re like this. Needy and heavy-lidded, unsatisfied until you’ve had your fair share of him and then some. It’s only when you’re a panting mess full of his spend that he can regain any control against you.  The age gap is exhilarating and exhausting.

His face dips to rest against your temple, the floral scent of your perfume clouding his senses. So sweet, so soft. You feel his groan against your cheek before he straightens up to his full height, towering over you with a stern expression on his face. Those elegant, practiced fingers tuck under your chin.

“Attention.” Your spine straightens, your breath deepens. “Let’s see if you’re up to regulation, lieutenant.”

A warm gush of excitement floods your body, soaking in your flimsy excuse for underwear. You watch your big, broad, authoritative boyfriend sink down into the plush trailer sofa, knees spread. Patting his thigh with an unamused brow quirk. 

Exhilaration races through your veins as you eagerly straddle his lap, sundress sliding up your thighs as you perch prettily on his thighs. The vision of youthful glow, hoping to impress.

Bob traces your heated skin with callused fingers, lips pursed, before sliding a hand firmly up your back. The world spins as he flips you over his lap, your rounded ass exposed to his eyes, modesty barely covered by a scrap of lace.

“Uniform panty inspection,” Bob huffs out, fingers ghosting over the fabric. His voice is restrained, clipped. You stay as still as possible as you hold your breath. You want to pass this inspection so bad.

The firm touch of his ring finger to your clothed sex forces a moan to slip through your clamped lips. So close to giving you what you want. But he remains diligent, stroking your pussy through the fabric until he’s satisfied with the wet patch he created. “Perfectly up to code.”

His finger wraps around the strap of the thong and yanks it down, forcing you to further immodestly part your knees as he discards the sexy - yet unnecessary - piece of fabric.

Your mind is heavy with lust as you turn your head, trying to understand. Normally he’s between your thighs teasing the fabric for longer than you can handle. Your lips are still dry. But before your eyes and brain connect with the visual, film legend Robert Floyd has a rounded cheek in each hand and his tongue plunged deep in your pretty pink pussy.

Blunt nails dig into the soft skin of your ass as he re-acquaints himself with your taste. Sliding his thick muscle along the velveteen walls of your cunt, lapping up the addicting taste of your lust. Your head is empty as he forces you to take it, to enjoy the way he worships the very core of your being. 

Saliva and arousal mix on his clean shaven face as he presses deeper, moaning as he feels you clench around him. His own pride growing as you wail with only his tongue fucking you. It’s wet and dirty, the heat along your skin eating you alive as you succumb to your pleasure. 

These are the benefits of dating a man with experience.

His tongue retreats, laving over your folds with practiced precision. You bury your head in the rough sofa fabric, muffling the depraved sounds crossing your lips. Your fingers reach up and wrap around his thick wrist, needing a tether to reality. His free hand travels to his belt, loosening the leather and freeing his erection to the humid trailer.

He knows you and your tells. Dragging that wicked tongue back, he corners your little neglected clit. Sucks it into his mouth like an after dinner mint, savoring the tangy sweetness of you. Your hips thrust back at him, desperate for more as you begin your hedonistic descent. 

Time and space lose all meaning as Bob goes in for the kill, switching between the heavy pulls on your clit and the slippery licks along your core. Blowing cool air where you’re most sensitive before sweeping in with his burning tongue. The combination of his stiff muscle fucked into your depths and his thumb bumping your swollen clit finally send you over the edge, a white light overtaking your body as you scream into the plush cushion below.

Film legend Robert Floyd cleans your juices from your shaking thighs thoroughly.

Begrudgingly, your limbs are jelly as you bring yourself to his level. Bob’s hands continue their ministrations to the globes of your ass, squeezing and groping the soft skin. When you finally find yourself sitting upright, his thick cock nestled between the soft lips of your cunt, he gives into his desires and draws his hand up, only to bring it down with a slap! The sound rings through the room and his cheeks tinge pink with arousal and embarrassment.

“Admiral!” you giggle as he repeats the harsh slap on the other cheek. 

While you have the devastatingly sexy view of a sweaty admiral beneath you, his eyes are glued to the mirror across the trailer that captures the dark red handprint he wishes he could tattoo on your perfect ass. 

Lips descend upon his and the trailer is filled with the slick sounds of tongues and moans, four hands grasping with the need to touch. But where to touch? His burning skin? The cool pins of his jacket? It’s almost too easy a choice to wrap your fingers around the bulbous head of his cock while he swallows your desperate little tongue.

“That’s it, feel how hard Daddy is for you.”

He finally pulls himself from your kiss-bitten lips as his hands tug down the neckline of your filmy dress, exposing your heaving breasts to the room. Lips dipping down to wrap around your hardened nipple, leaving teeth marks and wet kisses on tender flesh. Your moans egging him on to bite deeper, suck harder.

The world knows the reserved man who waits to speak, level-headed in the most dire situations. And yet here he is, the remnants of your orgasm staining his chin as he closes his eyes to better enjoy the peaked bud he’s devouring. 

He’s delicious and all yours.

Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck, grasping the short strands with all your might as you pull him off your chest with an audible pop. Those impossibly blue eyes look at you reverently, letting you call the shots so he can continue to enjoy your body as it deserves. You drag your shared gaze to where your bodies meet and a grunt involuntarily leaves him. Finally.

The first touch is a puzzle piece falling into place. The thick head of him asking for entrance, slick with your desire. 

Those unbelievably large hands hold themselves delicately at your waist, assisting your descent. His eyes flicker between yours and the welcoming entrance of your cunt. Your commanding admiral - your sweet Bobby - grasps you securely as you try to sink further on his swollen cock.

“Daddy, it’s too big.” Your voice is pained, teary eyes struggling to hold his gaze just as he likes. His size splitting you open like his own personal cock sleeve.

“You can take it, baby, just breathe.” His heart threatens to beat out of his chest as your impossibly tight cunt squeezes around him. “There’s my good girl, gonna fit all of Daddy, aren’t you?”

Hesitantly lifting your hips, muscle memory takes over as you adjust. The ease of taking his thick cock coming back to you as your breasts bounce with your fervent movement. The lapel of his jacket wrinkles as you hold it, lip between your teeth as he grazes that spongy spot only he can reach.

He guides you in your pursuit of pleasure, admiring the way you thrust you chest out as you clench around him. One hand on his lapel, the other grasping his knee. Truly using his body to get yourself off. So unbelievably sexy.

Your admiral’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing persistent slow circles over the sensitive, swollen bud. Times a hard press with when you are completely full of him, your senses overwhelmed. Bob. Bob. Bob. His balls ache with the need to claim you as his.

Impatient, knowing call time is mere moments away, Bob lifts his hips to yours. Pumping his erection deep, all the way to the hilt as his balls brush your ass. He’s so deep, so perfectly deep. A guttural moan leaves your spit-slicked lips, begging for your orgasm. 

“Are you going to cum for your admiral?” His deep voice rings through your ears as you chase your high, the world clouding as only his cock becomes your reality. Your fingers card through his hair, silver and golden brown weaving together to keep you grounded in your pleasure. “I said, are you going to cum for your admiral?”

“Yes!” The next lot over could probably hear you shout to the heavens, plunging yourself down on Bob’s thick cock as your orgasm plunges you over the cliff. Sweet relief flooding your senses as your pussy pulses around him as a thank you.

Your lips find his neck as you nuzzle in, hips still sunk low on his throbbing erection. You need to be filled with Daddy’s cum.

The stiff fabric of his uniform jacket rubs your bare skin as he holds you close, pressing your nipples to his insignia pins as he strongly thrusts those last few times. Grunting into your cooing mouth as he finally lets go, cock pulsing as thick white jets of his cum coat your walls. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper in his ear when you carefully pull off, barely enough energy to keep your thighs closed for the sake of his uniform. He gently guides you onto your back, ever the gentleman. 

You stretch your sore limbs and relax into the plushness of his trailer sofa, hands wrapping behind your head as you smile, satiated, while Bob’s creamy cum runs past your thighs to pool on the fabric. Your graying lover gives you a wry smile as he regains his breath against the back the couch, uniform crumpled and bearing a stain a little too close to his zipper. 

Always so messy. But so worth it.

There’s a rap at the door, three quick knocks that shake you both from your orgasmic haze. Bob rushes to cover your modesty, fiddling with the hems of your dress with clumsy fingers. Wishing you were home so he could wrap you in his robe and run a bath before watching the ocean from the terrace instead of praying there’s wipes in this shoddy trailer. 

“Mr. Floyd? We’re ready for you,” comes through the door. The PA who whispered you were an assistant, now only steps away from your bare breasts and dirty thighs.

You wiggle your eyebrows at Bob as you fix your own appearance, amused as the bigger than life Robert Floyd shuffles around the room, tucking in his button up and wiping sweat from his collar. Blush in full force as he hands you the thong resting on the kitchenette. He shakes his head at you, mirth softening the edges of his hard gaze. There’s another knock at the door.

Uniform fully back in place, Bob takes a moment to admire you before an afternoon in front of cameras. Enjoying this last moment before he gets into character. Hands on your soft hips, sated cerulean eyes appreciating the curves of your mischievous lips. “Be a good girl for me today and Daddy will give you a reward later. Deal?”

You bite your lip and nod with a smirk, opening the door of the trailer so he’s not later than he already is. Today you get to watch him do the thing he loves, that in itself is already a reward. The crowd outside the trailer watches you turn back and leave one last kiss to his lips.

“Yes…Admiral.”

Bob can’t wait to surprise you with the South Sea pearl and diamond earrings he’s saved for this day. It’s his baby girl’s first day on set, only the best to commemorate the occasion.

join the taglist for any fic

taglist: @bella-maria2018 @berryvanille @bobfloydsbabe @bobgasm @bradshawsbaby @cosmoeticss @creatchie8 @desert-fern @drxgxnslxyer @hangmanapologist @hiireadstuff @himbos-on-ice on-ice @jaguarthecat @jessicab1991 @just-in-case-iloveyou @kmc1989 @littlemsbumblebee @mariaenchanted @maryelizabeth13 @midnightmagpiemama @nerdgirljen @nouis-bum @petersunderoos96 @roosterforme @seitmai @senawashere @sometimesanalice @sorchathered @sweetwhispersofchaos @sydsommersss @topherwrites @xoxabs88xox @yuckosworld

[pathologicalreid]

first snow | s.r.

in which you and Spencer experience the first snow in your new apartment together

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff. the kind that rots your teeth. content warnings: snow? ❄️ ❄️ ❄️ ❄️ word count: 954 a/n: so! not margovember! but i've been saving this one for a special occasion (my first snow came!!!!!) and i hope you enjoy it!!!!

“Why are we doing this now?” You asked, cocking your head at your boyfriend after you finished hauling a stack of books off of the shelves.

He was sitting on the floor, dozens of stacks of books surrounding him, so each step you took was precarious. Spencer’s self-appointed job was to sort through the books, but you weren’t getting rid of any of them. No. He’d decided to reorganize them, influenced by an influx of new language books, according to the Dewey decimal system—a phrase you hadn’t heard since grade school.

You hoisted another stack of books from the shelves, thankfully built into the walls, and set them on the ground. “We can never move out of this apartment,” you told him, flipping through an early edition Proust, likely from his mom’s collection.

That got his attention, “Why not?” His legs were crisscrossed beneath him, his hair freshly washed, and glasses perched on his face. Spencer’s flannel pajama pants were likely warmer than your cotton ones, but you felt as though your hoodie had an advantage over his crewneck.

Gesturing your hands out to the piles of books, you raised your eyebrows, “We’d have to move all of the books again.” The two of you had moved into the apartment near the beginning of the summer, right before Spencer started his training at the Academy, and the heat had ended up being more than you bargained for.

Spencer smiled fondly at you, “I like this apartment,” he reminded you, turning his attention back to his philosophy books, “It suits us.”

Looking around, you had also fallen in love with the apartment rather quickly, and you didn’t have much room to complain, knowing that Spencer had sacrificed having a short commute so you could be close to work. The two of you moved in together after you finished school in Pasadena, and he wrapped up classes at MIT, closing the distance and starting the rest of your lives together.

The two of you repainted together, abandoning the miserable taupe that had been on the walls in favor of a dark green; you worked together to make it home, even if you were here more often than him.

Stepping over a teetering pile of novels, you held your arms out for balance as you tried to get to the kitchen, yelping when your foot caught on a book, sending you falling to the ground. You groaned as the corner of a book dug into your side; the blow softened by the cotton of your sweatshirt as you rolled off of the collapsed stack.

“Are you alright?” Spencer asked as you rolled over to a safe area. His hand settled on your side, stopping you from rolling onto your back.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you nodded, “Yeah.” You frowned at the books that were left in your wake, “Oh, Spence. Your books,” you sighed, sticking out your bottom lip sadly.

He shook his head, “They’re just books, lovely.” Despite his reassurance, you caught his brown eyes flickering over the fallen novels. At a glance, it didn’t seem like any damage was incurred, but Spencer held his books to a very high standard. You knew he’d be checking them over as soon as you turned your head.

Sitting all the way up, you giggled softly at the way his concern split between you and the books; you thought about pressing your lips to his, but something moving outside the window caught your eye instead.

You squinted out the window, trying to ascertain what was going on, when your mouth gaped in surprise, “Spencer!” You scrambled to your feet, trying to drag your boyfriend to his, “Come on!”

His brows pinched in confusion. He looked around the living room, trying to find what had gotten you so excited, but you were already shoving your fuzzy sock-covered feet into your sneakers. Spencer had no choice but to follow.

Not even minding that you’d folded over the heels of your shoes, you were shuffling down the stairs and making your way to the street. Spencer lagged behind you, and you had already thrown your arms out in excitement by the time he made it outside. “It’s snowing,” You said giddily, bouncing on the balls of your feet and spinning on the pavement.

Spencer grabbed one of your hands, stopping you from moving while he draped your jacket over your shoulders, having been too driven to get to the snowflakes to think about staying warm. His eyes were filled with love, leaving no room for judgment.

Sticking your tongue in an attempt to catch a snowflake, you didn’t even care that you were acting like a child. You’d never lived anywhere that got real snow like this before, “Oh, I love snow.”

“Your scarf is in tatters,” Spencer observed, holding the threadbare fabric at arm’s length.

You shrugged, breathing in and letting the cold air nip at your nose, “I haven’t had any use for it. It’s been in storage for ages,” you reminded him, closing your eyes and basking in the snow.

Instead of placing the hole-ridden scarf around your neck, Spencer loops his purple one over your shoulders. “I’ll have to knit you a new one. They’re predicting above-average snowfall this winter.”

Beaming at Spencer, you held out your hand for him to take, and he pulled you closer to him so your back was flush with his chest, the two of you watching the flurries as the lamplight refracted off the tiny ice crystals. “Happy first snow, Spencer Reid,” you told him, leaning your head back on his shoulder so the two of you could share a kiss.

He hummed affectionately, “Happy first snow, my love.”

[spencerreidenjoyer]

stress relief | spencer reid x reader

wc: 3k, rating: explicit/18+

warning/tags: established relationship, face fucking, blowjobs, vaginal sex, submissive!spencer, whiny!spencer, insecure!spencer (just a little, more like awkward lol), confident (and insanely horny) fem!reader

a/n: i'm back with more pwp!! surprise!!! i have no excuse. i wrote this in about 2 days. i needed to get it out of my system i think this spencer (s3-4) is crazy and perfect and i need him. also thank you for 100 followers on this little reid blog of mine! i hope to keep writing more on here <3

(p.s: you can find this fic on ao3!)

When you get on your knees between Spencer’s legs, looking up at him with wide eyes that spell sin, Spencer knows he’s in for a wild ride.

“You’ve been working too hard, Spence,” you say, shaking your head, speaking like you’re talking about the weather and not like you have a hand on his crotch, steadily stiffening under your touch.

You watch Spencer’s throat bob as he gulps. He blinks quickly, once, twice. “Yeah? You think so?”

“I know so,” you hum, fingers already toying with the button of his work slacks. Spencer had gotten home late from work tonight, but was still fretting over the stacks of reports on his desk in his home office in the apartment you share. After dinner, you’d convinced him to lounge on the couch for a bit, instead of getting back to work – leading you to where you are right now. “I think you need to relieve some of your stress.”

Almost like he’s nervous, his tongue darts out to lick his lips. “What are you thinking?”

“Orgasms release endorphins which contribute to stress relief, no?” You parrot the fun fact Spencer’s told you countless times, a small smirk on your face. As if your hand gently palming his cock hasn’t made your intentions more than obvious.

His eyebrows raise. “Oh. Yeah. Okay.”

“Wow, you could at least sound a little more enthusiastic about your girlfriend giving you head.” You deadpan, but you pop the button of his slacks anyway.

Spencer squeaks. “Sorry. I– I really want you to blow me.”

“I know, darling,” you coo, pulling down the zipper of his fly slowly, feeling the hardness of his cock pressed against it. His underwear is a bright pink when it gets exposed. You chuckle to yourself. “Cute."

Spencer flusters, laughing nervously. “Oh my God. I kind of forgot I was wearing those. Haha. Sorry."

“Baby,” you frown slightly. You’re not mad, not in the slightest, just amused with how he’s acting. You place your hands on his thighs, pausing with any of the action. “Why are you sorry? I think you’re so cute, you know.”

“My head isn’t on straight right now,” Spencer sighs, shaking his head. “I just want– Like, it’s going to be good for me, obviously, because you’re so good at this. I don’t need to want anything. I just– Want this to be good for you too.”

“It’ll be good for me if you stop overthinking it, Spence.” You smile. “It’s chill. Also, when do I not enjoy sucking your cock?”

Spencer covers his face with his hand, but you see him smile, laughing to himself. “You’re so crude, y’know? But I suppose you do really enjoy sucking me off.”

“I know.” You chirp. “And I do."

Your hand is down Spencer’s pants before he can even tell you to go ahead, but he knows that you know he wants it. Spencer hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, taking them off. His cock jumps up and you watch, fascinated with the obscenity of it all. Spencer’s cock curves up towards his stomach, reddening at the tip already.

You wrap your hand around his hardening cock, as you start to jerk him off. He lets out a high-pitched whimper, like he can’t control himself, and he cups a hand over his mouth. His eyes are wide as he stares down at you. You giggle, “It’s cute.”

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” Spencer says, his face a little red already.

You pout. “Come on, Spence. It’s really hot.”

His hand falls from his face to his lap, coming up to cup your cheek gently. “You like it?”

“You’re so sexy.” You nod. “Of course I like it. Now, make those noises for me again, pretty boy.”

Spencer squeaks as you tighten your grip around his cock, eyes fluttering shut as you stroke him. You work him up to full hardness – not that it takes very long for him to get there. You flick your thumb over the head of Spencer’s cock, tease into his slit where he’s steadily leaking already. His precome makes everything slick and sticky, easing the slide of your fist over his length.

Your eyes flit between Spencer’s face and his cock, marvelling at the growing mess in your hand and how his face is slowly but surely revealing his pleasure. He’s flushed, lower lip pulled in between his teeth, as you watch his chest rise and fall. His gaze pierces you, the intensity of how he looks sending shivers down your spine.

Knowing Spencer’s looking down at you, you open your mouth and stick your tongue out, pressing it flat against the tip of his cock. Spencer lets out a strangled breath, eyes bugging out at the erotic sight of you between his legs. You wrap your lips around him, suckling gently on the head of his cock. You hope to make Spencer lose his mind like this. With the way he’s breathing heavily, lips parted as he takes in all of you, you think it’s working.

His whines are more frequent, accenting his hard breaths. You see how Spencer doesn’t know what to do with his hands, watch as he digs his nails into the flesh of his palms, and you instead hold him by his wrists to put his hands in your hair. The weight is comforting, and encourages you to sink down on his cock more. You take more than half of him into your mouth, but Spencer being… well-endowed meant that you often never were able to fit all of him in, unless you were in a particular mood.

The tip of Spencer’s cock hits the back of your throat, once it’s slid in. You gag at the intrusion, and Spencer lifts you off of him, slightly freaked out. “Are- Are you okay?”

“Baby, please,” you sigh, endeared but annoyed at the fact that he’s getting in the way of his own pleasure. “Trust me with this. Just focus on feeling good?”

Spencer’s brows furrow slightly, lips drawn into a little pout, but you nod to soothe his concerns. “Spencer, I want you to use me–” You stick your tongue out to lick at his length again, making him shudder. “–Just like this.”

“You want– You want me to…?” Spencer trails off, unsure if he’s picking up what you’re putting down.

“Fuck my face, Spencer,” you say bluntly, tired of flirting in circles. It’s fun flirting with Spencer, because it’s fun to fluster him when he isn’t expecting it, but right now, when he isn’t getting the hint, you need to lay it all out for him. “Use my mouth like a fleshlight. Whatever you want to do. Please.”

He inhales sharply, stunned at your explicitness. He pushes his hair back, out of his face, taking the time to process… everything. His gaze is tender, though, as he gently cups your cheek. “Okay. Yeah. I can do that. But if you don’t want it anymore, you– You have to let me know, okay?”

You smile up at him, pleased that he’s finally letting some of his inhibitions go, even if he still seems hesitant. You pat the side of his thigh thrice. “I’ll do that if it’s too much.”

“I love you.” Spencer says softly.

“I love you too, Spence.” You hum. “Now hurry up and fuck my face.”

“Jesus, you’re so crude,” Spencer laughs. He leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead. Pulling back, he guides his cock to your mouth, the head of his cock pressing against the plush of your lips. His mouth is open when he looks at you like this. He whispers, “Fuck.”

You open your mouth to take him in, like you were before, sinking down inch by inch, until he’s comfortably settled in the back of your throat. Spencer doesn’t move to fuck your face yet, so you make the first move. You bob your head up and down on his length, making sure your mouth is wet and slick as you suck him off. He lets out a moan, hand fisted in your hair.

And here’s where it starts: You slow on his cock, and Spencer, finally taking what he wants, pushes your head down onto his cock for more. You gag slightly. Spencer pulls your head back up, pushes you back down. While you appreciate how much he cares about you, him putting his pleasure first in using you like this makes your toes curl.

Spencer’s cock in the back of your throat is not uncomfortable, not yet, but Spencer steels himself to fuck your mouth and you find your veins thrumming with adrenaline. Spencer’s first thrust is exploratory, cautious. He’s nervous, or it at least feels like it when he fucks into your mouth. You would tell him off, but your mouth is kind of occupied right now. Instead, you glance up at him, and hope that your gaze tells him to just fuck me.

One arm against the backrest of the couch, Spencer thrusts into your mouth again. He gasps. Chasing his own pleasure, his eyes flutter shut as he fucks your mouth. His thrusts are shallow, desperate, hurried, but his mouth falls open in stuttered, eager moans. He’s so gorgeous.

You’ve never heard anything so perfect, the way Spencer moans, the way he cries out your name. You press your legs together to stave off the arousal building between them. You feel like a mess, Spencer’s hand making a mess of your hair, Spencer’s cock making a mess of your mouth. You think spit is probably all over your chin right now, but he’d probably think you still look great anyway.

Spencer gasps, out of breath as he whimpers, “I’m– I’m close, I can’t–”

He fucks into your mouth once, twice more, before slumping back down onto the couch. There’s a slick, wet ‘pop’ as you pull off of Spencer, pouting slightly. “You know I’m happy to swallow, Spence.”

Spencer laughs, tired, and explains, “I know you do, dear. I just don’t think I have it in me to come more than once. And I really want to come inside of you.”

His words make you blush. Spencer doesn’t get too explicit too often, so hearing him say dirty things always turns you on. You reach up to wipe yourself clean, but Spencer’s already ahead of you with a tissue pressed to your face, gentle as he wipes your mouth and chin.

After cleaning you up, he helps you up off your knees and onto the couch. You’re both still clothed, sure, but Spencer’s boxers and pants have been pushed down to reveal his cock; you must be even more of a mess, hair rustled and face messy, and the desperation that makes itself clear at the sight of the both of you makes you giggle.

Spencer smiles at you. “What are you laughing about?”

“We must look insane right now,” you laugh. “We’re not even naked yet and we’re like this.”

“Well, I think you look beautiful,” Spencer says earnestly in a quiet voice, his hand tucking your hair behind your ear. Spencer’s touch is gentle, it always is, and especially in stark contrast to the way he’d fucked your face, just like you told him to. “My lovely girl.”

“Spence,” you purr, nuzzling into his hand as he cradles your face. “Love you.”

“I love you too.” Spencer’s answer is immediate, certain, and it makes you acutely aware of how turned on you are.

“I love you so much, and I really need you to fuck me right now.” You look up at him, watch as his face warms from serious to amused. You shift away from him slightly on the couch, but use the extra space to spread your legs. “Use this pussy, baby.”

Now, he presses his finger to his temple, shaking his head playfully. “Your mouth is filthy. You’re filthy.”

You grin. “Aww, Spence, at least tell me you like it!”

He leans forward to kiss you, hard and eager and desperate. You moan into the kiss, as his hand is pressed into the small of your back. You run your hand through his hair, where it’s starting to curl past the nape of his neck. When he pulls away, he says, looking deep into your eyes: “I like you. And your filthy mouth. Now let me fuck you.”

You giggle, wildly turned on as his long, deft fingers push your shorts and panties off. He kisses along your neck as he does so, then lays you back on the couch, and his thumb rubs circles into your inner thigh softly as he regards you, admires you. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

“You are too,” you say, awed, as Spencer takes off his nerdy little button-up. His body is perfect – not skin-and-bones skinny, but there’s a healthy litheness to him that you appreciate, especially when you’re grabbing at him while he fucks you. “Want you right now.”

“I know,” Spencer hums soothingly, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. “Come on, love.”

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watch, slack-jawed, as he wraps a hand around himself. His eyes flutter shut as he strokes himself, but he quickly snaps himself back to reality: guiding his cock in between your legs. He presses the tip to your clit, messy and glistening with your slick, and rubs against you in circles. You moan, feeling a little pathetic as you rut your hips forward to find any more pleasure like this.

Now, he presses the head of his cock to your hole, teasing, pushing it in slightly before it slips back out and spreads more of your slick across the rest of your cunt. You whine, pouting up at Spencer. He coos at you, “Okay, okay.”

Finally, he’s settled against your hole, the blunt head of his cock pressing into you excruciatingly slowly. It’s exhilarating, feeling him feed his cock into your hole, feeling him stretch you open, feeling like you were made for each other. He holds your leg up so he can press up closer to you, feeling so full as he puts his cock inside of you.

“Spencer,” you moan when he stops moving. “Fuck me. Just like earlier.”

”Okay, love.” Spencer nods, trails his hand down your waist and hips, down your thighs. “My gorgeous girl.”

Spencer thrusts into you, the first one sending electric pleasure through your body. He always loves to do it like this, make love to you slowly, intensely rocking into you until you feel all his love. You always do, but you don’t want that tonight. He knows that’s not what you want tonight.

When Spencer starts fucking you, his hips have gained a steady rhythm, your skin slapping together obscenely. It’s so wet between you two, where he’s pressed inside you. He fucks you hard and fast, eyebrows furrowed as he chases his own high. He’s so fucking cute, even while naked and trying his best to make you feel just as good as he does. He’s panting and groaning, your own moans mixing in with his. He knows you want him like this, hard and fast and messy.

You can’t form a coherent sentence, only able to babble and cry out for Spencer, for more, and you cling onto his arms as he pounds into you. You’ve never felt Spencer like this before. Sure, he’s always eager to please, doing whatever makes you feel good, but him going so hard, just like this, just the way you want makes you feel so needy, the both of you feeding off of each other’s desperation. All you can focus on is Spencer’s skin touching yours, the in-out slide of his cock, the slapping of skin on skin, the wet, slick noises of his cock fucking in and out of you.

“Cumming, Spence, I’m cumming,” You cry out needily, desperately, and you moan when he presses his thumb to your clit. He flicks at your clit in rough, hurried little circles. The pressure is cruel but just what you need for your release, and your whole body shakes as you orgasm. The high is so good, a different type of pleasure coursing through your veins.

You clench around Spencer, your cunt like a vice grip on him. Moaning loudly, his hips are stuttering as he comes inside of you too. He fucks out whatever momentum’s left in him, but pulls out quickly and gently, because he knows how fast you get overstimulated afterward.

He kisses your cheek, the corner of your mouth, then presses his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, sweet, tame, unlike the depravity you were engaged in before, and the juxtaposition makes your head spin. Spencer, who is usually such a sweet, soft guy, being able to fuck you so hard and fast until the couch was creaking underneath you. You suppose that’s what he’s capable of when you ask. You like it. You wonder what else you can ask him to do. You think he’d do it in a heartbeat, knowing him.

“That was amazing,” you giggle breathlessly. “Spence, you’re a madman.”

”For you, my dear,” Spencer smiles. “Anything for you.”

You snuggle into his side, resting your head on his chest as you lay on the couch. You’re both sticky and gross, but you’re sure Spencer will be more than happy to clean up later. Right now, you’re just pleased to be cuddling your boyfriend.

”So, do you feel less stressed out about work now?” You ask, after a moment of comfortable silence.

”Well, I certainly wasn’t thinking about work,” Spencer laughs. “You know, some sociologists believe stress can be caused by positive events too? I think you cause me stress, but it’s good stress.”

”Watch your mouth, genius,” you snark playfully. “You’re lucky you’re cute enough that I’d take being called a stressor a compliment.”

“I love you,” Spencer sing-songs.

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the stupid grin that forms on your face. “Yeah, yeah.”