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jays-after-hours-blog · 2 days ago

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Covetous Cravings - S. Reid x Reader

Spencer finds himself sulking around in jealously for the first time after you regrettably tell him you have plans for the night. When surprising him with your presence later, Spencer realizes just how badly he missed you while he was away.

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: Smuttttt...... (18+ pls pls) tags: Whiny & desperate Spencer, he's just very eager to please. virgin Spencer, munch!spencer, head (fem!receiving), coital takes place on Spencer's pretty Persian rug, jealous Spencer, fingering, heavy make out session, nipple play, handjob, panty sniffing, Spencer's POV! Dirty dirty dirty wc: 5.3k a/n: I've written "Spencer" so many times it doesn't sound like a name anymore. I saw this tweet and was inspired to write something related to the carpet picture. That's all. I don't even think of you that often.

Cold water washes over Spencer's tired eyes and rolls slowly down his wrists to the bottoms of his sleeves (that he rolled up to avoid getting them wet, annoyingly) as he frantically tries to wash away a strange sour feeling in his gut.

Upon looking into his mirror he gazes over the 5 o’clock shadow he’s garnered over the few days spent away in a small town in Delaware. He pulls in his lips and rubs over it with his finger tips. He doesn’t have the energy to shave it right now.

Spencer is currently harbouring a bit of a sourpuss persona, he knows this well. The team had wrapped up the case quicker than expected, leading him to message you as soon as he could about heading back to D.C. and seeing you again.

To his dismay, when he got off the plane and checked his crummy silver Nokia, that you’ve giggled at a fair share of times, the response he receives from you is… that you’re… busy?

Something about a group of friends at a late night cafe/bar getting together, he didn’t read all of it, pouting so much that he just closed his phone. Spencer is aware you had these plans before he asked to see you. Spencer is aware that he’s back from Delaware earlier than expected. Yet he’s still over his sink, face wet and cold, grumbling about your social life.

The two of you have been together for a couple months now, it’s extremely new, he knows you wouldn’t drop everything upon his arrival, but the whole plane ride home he imagined your ideas around hanging out once he got back. He got his hopes up too high.

He begins to reflect a bit, maybe a better word would be spiral, as he wanders back into his bedroom and unpacks his go bag. I shouldn’t be feeling lousy right now, he thinks. We’ve been dating for 2 months and 3 days, he had missed your two month anniversary while he was away. He couldn’t even text you that day because he was too busy. Should he even text about anniversaries like that? He’s so new to this he has no clue.

Considering your dating timeline now he starts to worry. He’s inexperienced, almost completely… no, yeah, actually completely. He sighs.

You have been over twice, by all the beautiful luck he might have fostered in a past life, he has had the spine-tingling honor to have made out with you those two times as well. After a handful of museum and bookstore dates, even visiting your apartment once, the first time you shared a kiss was when he was showing you Jean-Pierre Melville’s Le Cercle Rouge, attesting it was substantial to the gangster film genre.

When he felt your eyes against the side of his face during the best part of the film, he took a double take at you, seeing an unreadable expression in your eyes. He cringes at the memory of his confusion.

“Th-this part is really good… Pierre’s use of cinematic synecdoche here is perfectly timed compared to–”

You had leaned in closely and started kissing along his jaw as he fumbled through the rest of his explanation till he tapered off into a whimper that was sealed with a kiss planted on his lips. He even reached to the coffee table in front of him while you were kissing to pause the movie, not wanting you to miss anything.

Spencer groans a bit at the memory, a little embarrassed, he now would recognize the signs you were displaying easier. He’s jealous of his past self, having you to himself so unabashedly. He’s jealous of his past time spent with you and he’s jealous of your friends right now who are hearing your laugh and smelling your perfume all night.

He sighs and flops down on his back to his bed. Spencer does not feel jealous often. He feels completely rotten and out of sorts. He thinks, maybe if he would’ve kissed you more suavely that first time you would’ve dropped your plans now. Maybe if he translated the French into English for you in a more sultry voice you’d skip out on a coffee with your friends. Maybe–

Spencer hears a faint knocking on his front door. He looks over at his alarm clock, 12:12 a.m., hm. He’s hallucinating for sure. Like a lonely old man who hears his late wife’s voice in the dark of his haunted halls–

Another tentative knock.

He leaps up from his bed and races over to the front door with his legs moving so fast he feels like he’s in Looney Tunes. His heart starts pounding as he looks through his peephole to see a small blurry version of you shifting on your feet. He scrambles to unlock his door and swing it open.

“Hi!” You smile at him, smelling like strong coffee mixed with whatever lactonic and spicy fragrance you usually wear that curls his toes. You step forward and give him a hug, your arms wrapping around his neck. This springs him into action, wrapping his arms around your waist he mutters out a “wow” against your shoulder. Like he just won a sweepstakes.

You pull away a bit, but Spencer's arms stay around you. “Is it okay I’m here? You never responded to my texts.” You give him a shy smile and he realizes as he was grovelling he didn’t open his phone again after you said you had plans for the night.

“Yes! Yes,” he clears his throat… be suave. “Of course. Um. Was just thinking about you, ha. Come over whenever. Yea. Even if I say I’m busy, come over still, haha.” Shit.

“Ah. Okay, noted. I missed you too, Spencer.” You giggle a little at him and walk into the apartment, leaving him to shut the door behind you. “What were you thinking about?” You muse.

“Ummmm. Le Cercle Rouge.” Spencer clears his throat again. IQ slashed to 60.

“The Le Cercle Rouge incident, right.” You laugh again and look over at where he’s standing with a blank face. “Oh. Are you sure it’s okay that I'm here? I know I said I was busy, so I’m sure you’re ready for bed now, especially after the case. Did that go well?” His blank expression has made you nervous, he notices, though he was just considering again the feeling of his neck being kissed for the first time in 24 years.

“Please stay. A while, too. I’m not tired.” A pause with long eye contact. “The case went surprisingly well, hence the early arrival.”

The curve of your lip pulls up in a smirk and he sees he’s convinced you fully now. You bend down and unzip the sides of your brown high rise boots, leaving you in your black tank top, skirt, and now kneehigh socks that create a monochromatic wet dream for Spencer. Though this isn’t a dream, he shakes his head from side to side to get rid of the distracting thoughts.

“Good.” You sit down fully on his red carpet now, trying to pull your last boot off. “You know, you were a really short walk from the coffee shop, I’m surprised you’ve never been. As soon as you texted you were back I kept trying to slip away as politely as possible.” You talk while struggling with the shoe.

Spencer takes a deep breath in and meets you on his carpet, sitting on his knees to pull the boot off of you, which was incredibly easy. You were pretending to struggle with it on purpose. Once removed, he sits back against his heels and pushes your knees together by your ankles.

“You walked?” He mumbled back. He would’ve picked you up. He should’ve just checked his phone, told you to have a good night like a proper boyfriend.

“Mm, like five minutes. No worries.”

“Its midnight- I. I can always pick you up.”

You whined your response, “But you weren’t answering your phoneeee.”

Spencer rubs his face with his hands, covering his smile a bit and feeling his skin heating up. “I’m very glad you showed up anyway. Even if it scares me you walked alone this late,” he glances at you leaning back against your hands, knees still pulled together. “You look very pretty.”

“Really? Thanks. I thought so too. About you, I mean. You’ve got a little 5 o’clock shadow right now, you look really handsome.” You smile and let out an airy laugh. Spencer subconsciously rubs his face again. He’s not sure when these jittery feelings will go away, if they ever will. One compliment from you and he’s feeling a blush coming from inside of him stretch over to his skin.

He remembers his petulance earlier, his flair for the dramatics. Whining over people other than him seeing you, cursing his past self for awkward conversations, so he leans over onto his hands and knees and kisses your lips.

You hum against his lips, knees together against one of his sides, happy at Spencer's first time initiating a kiss between you. You sit up off of your hands now so they can cup his face and pull him firmer against you. Taking one of his wrists from where he’s planted on the floor to the other side of you, you guide him to slowly hover over you.

Spencer can’t help but let out a tiny noise, a moan, against you as his palms dig uncomfortably into his carpet. He feels you lean back against your elbows and swing one of your legs to the other side of him. Now, you are pressed flat against the carpet, legs on either side of his waist. Spencer slowly moves so he’s on top of your frame, elbows crowning your head.

Both times Spencer has had the pleasure of tasting you like this you have been straddling him on his couch. This is the first time that he’s been able to lay on top of you and feel his hip bones dig into you and your legs around him.

Woah. Your legs are wrapped around him, just like how he’s dreamed of having you in his bed. Legs squeezing helplessly around him as he buries himself in you. Feeling your chest against his as you arch up into him. He lowers one hand to trail it up from your shins covered in your knee highs that make him faint to your hip.

He pushes his crotch down a bit from where it was against yours, making it so the hard-on he’s now sporting is against the floor now. He remembers the visceral feeling of you kissing his neck. Immediately he’s moving down to return the favor. What starts in soft kisses escalates quickly to sucking and laving against your skin, face buried into the source of his wildest dreams, your perfume.

Your hands are carding through his hair right now, nails scratching at him softly and he has to position himself a bit closer to the ground now to rub off some built up tension his cock is begging for. This is usually where you part.

Face buried in your neck he’s smelling your intoxicating scent and moaning against the skin. He feels like a wild animal smelling a pheromone filled scent gland. Spencer realizes briefly where he is and pulls up from your neck to stare down at your face.

Hair haloing around you, you’re feverish and pressed against the Persian rug he spent his first big paycheck on. You have a bit of mascara smudged under your eyes and the lamps scattered around his living room are highlighting you in a way so beautiful he moans out again softly. No friction, no kissing, just by looking at you.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he traces the line of your neck up and down softly with the tips of his fingers. “I almost drowned in my sorrows before you knocked on my door.” He leans back down and chuckles against the skin of your neck.

You don’t have exactly the same romantic thoughts in mind as you gasp out for the first time since he’s laid on you, “You feel so good against me, Spence. Wanted this so bad,” he stops kissing, breathing lightly against your neck as you continue. “Can’t believe I haven’t pulled you on me sooner.” He’s blinking silently hidden in the corner of your neck. He acts on a whim and bites down lightly against where your neck and shoulder meet and you squeal.

Spencer was not prepared for the blazing eye contact he’d be met with once pulling away to look at you. Your tank top has ridden down, the top of your pink bra showing a bit and your hair is drastically more disheveled than when you arrived. He can feel his heart in his throat. He has to keep making you let out that sound.

You seem to notice his brazen eyeline and you take one hand to pull the neckline of your top down a bit, exposing most of the bra covering your breasts that are only slightly spilling out from all your wiggling. Spencer shuts his eyes like he’s in pain, but he’s actually moving his hips up and away from the floor so he doesn’t come in his pants right then and there.

A completely new and formidable heat spreads over him and into his loins. Never in his life has Spencer trembled with anticipation in this way. His skin is on fire and he’s struck with the overwhelming need to make you the happiest person in this world. He wants to have you shiver and shudder completely against his apartment floor, he wants to hear every moan and grunt until your voice gives out. He wants to fuck you with his mouth.

“Gah-God, baby,” Spencer moves himself away from you so that he’s kneeling between your open thighs, rubbing the outsides of your legs as he looks into your eyes. “My mouth. Um, can I use my mouth?” He lets out a shaky breath at the image.

You bite your lip softly at him, he feels like he just licked the screen on one of those old staticy TVs he used to have. “Use your mouth for what?” You half play coy and half ask in earnest, not wanting to jump to conclusions since you and Spencer have never taken off many layers together.

“I want to use my mouth to make you cum.” His face flushes immediately, your eyes widen in shock. He drags his sight down to where you lay in front of him. Legs spread open and skirt ridden up giving him an obscene upskirt of your underwear for him. Also black. He keeps his eyes there as you reply.

“Yeah. Please, please-” he whips his head up to look at your face again to engrain the image of you unkempt and nodding a desperate yes into his memory. He lightly reaches out between your thighs to briefly feel the bottom of your panties. He’s barely thinking, his first instinct was to gauge how wet you are, to compare it to how you’re going to feel later. You gasp sweetly and he moans in response, untouched, again.

With this searing hot permission Spencer gets hit with a strong pietistic devotion towards you. There is literally nothing in his life that has mattered more to him right now than how the gusset of your panties stick onto you and that his tongue can finally be given the task he has thought about constantly since knowing you.

The anxiety Spencer was expecting as a result of his inexperience is completely overthrown by a perfectly instinctual autopilot setting he falls into. The excitement of making you feel good, you letting him touch you in such a profound way completely overshadows the doubt of his expertise.

Not that he’s completely clueless. Erotica classics hide in his bookshelves, copies of Anaïs Nin’s short stories, the detailed counts of female pleasure derived from biology books, decent sex education stemming from the countless hours he’s poured into literature. He’s fairly in tuned to what generally makes people crumble, he just has to try it out himself.

Spencer starts at the top again. The push and pull between him and eating you out the way he’s craving will have to drone on a little longer as he starts kissing along the exposed skin of your breasts, not wanting to leave anything unkissed. How rude.

You outstretch your neck to him and slide the tank top off yourself, leaving just your pink lace bra that's covering little of your nipples. Spencer fingers the straps briefly while taking in the sight of you. He cannot believe the cosmic circumstances that have led him to this moment.

“D’you like?” you mumble while watching him eye-fuck you. He almost feels sorry for how he’s watching your chest rise and fall but the way his dick is pulsing under the confines of his underwear allows for little words.

In fact, his hips kick a twitch forward at the sound of your voice. A siren song as old as time.

“MmmIwanna,” Okay. Form words. “I wanna-” he pities himself enough to give up on that one and kisses along your chest again.

“Do what you want to. I want to feel you everywhere… I want you to touch me.” You seem to understand his dilemma. A once articulate tongue falls flat in such a frenzied situation.

Spencer palms your tits through your bra properly now while kissing you sloppily. He feels the friction of the lace against his palm and your hardened nipple receiving the rough friction from it as well. He picks up on your whine against his lips and pulls your bra down by the middle of it, exposing your chest fully.

You gasp against his lips and move your tongue against his as a thanks. Spencer lets out a tiny “ah” from the back of his throat when your tongues meet. To regain composure he takes the nipple he was palming through lace earlier and rolls it between his middle finger and thumb, it’s your turn to kick your hips up for friction now.

He decides to lower his hips against yours fully for the first time, desperately searching for that debauching pleasure that he was avoiding earlier. His dick rests nicely under your belly button and you bite his bottom lip when he’s fully settled against you, he feels sort of proud.

Feeling your body completely pressed against him in this way makes him mourn every second he’s been with you and not made you moan in happiness like he is now. Wishing that the pesky virginity he’s carried with him this long will be taken by this angel underneath him right now. His cock twitches against you at the thought of it.

He stops fiddling with the nipple and instead moves to hold one of your hands with his as his other hand moves to rub your neglected nipple. He subtly grinds a long and slow rhythm against where you two are pressed together and you make a curious noise, a full moan caught before getting let out. Nudged in your throat as you hold it in.

Spencer thinks for a moment and smiles at the realization that it sounds almost exactly like how you hold back a laugh in your throat. A small and choked out “hngh” high pitched before its snuffed out. He thinks of any future endeavors where he gets to hear you hold back a laugh in a quiet museum or library from one of his stupid jokes. With this comparison he’s going to be pathetically hard in so many more inappropriate situations now.

“Please, can you please take my panties off.” You mewl gently, almost as if you’re worried he will refuse, and break him out of his thoughts. Spencer nearly forgot how lost in his head he was while methodically rubbing your sensitive breasts and grinding against you.

“Pretty girl, I’m sorry.” He really is, he never wants you to feel so desperate you have to beg for him to touch you, but without interference he could probably sit for eight hours straight playing with your tits to see if you could come from it. He whines out loud at the thought. “I will, of course, I will.”

The feeling of him peeling himself off you feels tortuous. However, it is very much a high risk, high reward scenario when he looks down between your thighs again to see a wetter fabric clad to your hips. Spencer leans towards you, pushes your socks down slightly to kiss the tops of each of your knees. You giggle and he nips the inside of your leg slightly.

It’s dizzying, the experience of pulling your panties down for the first time. Every night where he has sloppily fucked his fist thinking of your smile lines and pretty hands, every evening after you’ve left his apartment well kissed has finally led to this life altering moment.

Your panties have been slid off and he’s got an iron grip on them as he’s staring at you fully exposed, the translucent liquid smudged around your cunt. He’s trying incredibly hard to not push them up to his nose and inhale, he thinks he’s done enough animalistic sniffing and grunting at you tonight. He places them neatly on the couch instead.

“Baby, Spence, you’re a voyeur.” You laugh at his staring gently, he assumes 25% of this experience for you has been watching him stare bug eyed at every inch of skin you’ve surrendered. He lays down flat on his tummy, sucking in air through his teeth as his dick presses against his carpet through his slacks again. “Feel sensitive, that feels like a lot?” You ask softly down at him. He flushes, embarrassed a little that you notice him the exact same way he notices you. Spencer pinches his eyebrows together and nods.

“Feels.. real good though.” He laughs gently at himself as you groan and rest your head back down on the carpet at how sweet he is.

He wraps his arms tightly underneath your thighs to pull your pussy closer to him, your skirt riding up to your belly in the process. He feels you squirm a little under his arms and kisses the skin above your hip flexors softly.

His heart skips a beat when he’s up close to you, a sliver of doubt creeping up along with the immeasurable need to make you feel good. Spencer takes his tongue out and licks a broad stripe up from right below your opening to above your clit. This is more for himself, actually. He wants to taste every single drop you expelled from him kissing and touching you, it’s what he deserves.

Spencer's arms immediately have to resist against your thighs moving shut, using a bit of his strength to keep you open as he does it again. This time he moves his head slightly side to side. The whine he hears coming from your lips makes him take one arm away without thinking to hold your lips open and wraps his lips around your clit.

The open window you get without one arm suspending your leg allows you to close one thigh to the side of his face while the other is still pried open by him. He continues to suck gently, pulls away and lifts up the skin covering your clit, kisses it softly, you let out a pitiful sobbing noise and Spencer sucks your clit again, rolls it between his lips.

You help him out by taking your other thigh away from his face and holding it up yourself. “Wh-who taught you to do this?” You squeak out giving him a sense of confidence he’s been desperately striving for. Spencer cannot bear to part from your cunt to reply so he just hums lowly against you, hoping that you get his message of I daydream about doing this to you every waking moment through the vibrations he’s emitting.

He feels you rock your hips against his face greedily and he smiles a toothy grin against you. His perfect pliant girl, he couldn’t be happier to have your wetness rubbed against his nose as he dives into you.

Wanting to escalate the scenario a bit, he’s internally pleading to feel you cum against his face, Spencer begins to suck harshly and suction onto your clit intermittently. The loud “fuck” you whimper out and how your torso isolates to twist to the side as you keep your hips in place is a good indicator that he’s making you feel good. This is a dream.

“Hh- mmmm” you cry out and Spencer flickers his gaze up to your face. You’re scrunching your face like a sweet bunny and have one hand up and posed above his head, waiting to push him away, the pleasure so strong you have to implicitly prepare yourself to shove him away when it gets to be too much. He moans highly against you.

The hand you had defensively propped up begins to lightly push at his face, he smiles at this, suctions your clit through his lips and runs circles over it with his tongue, your hand falls limply to your side.

“Fingers- ah, fingers!” You manage to gasp out one more plea before sucking your lips in and moaning deeply against them.

You seriously do not have to ask him twice. Being able to feel you twitch and grip around his fingers while he sucks on your clit has him pushing himself against the floor. The bordering on painful stimulation he’s getting from using all his body weight to hump his carpet sends tingles up and down his spine. As you said, sensitive.

Spencer starts by tracing your entrance with his middle finger, he slips in easily just by doing that, your slick and his spit making the intrusion incredibly easy. He wastes no time pulling his finger up against your g-spot and slips in his ring finger alongside it, rubbing slick circles inside of you.

The noises your cunt is making from his incessant sucking and rubbing could probably be heard from any of his neighbors walking by his front door. He gasps hotly at this thought, what are you doing to him? Has he no shame?

You’re riding his face and fingers again, mumbling intelligible sentences. God, his cock hurts.

“Baby, close, don’t stop-” The angelic words fall from your mouth and his ears perk up like an owner saying her dog's favorite words to it. Spencer continues exactly what he’s doing against you and looks up at you again through your back arching.

He can feel you twitching and senses you’re done for. If only he could talk and eat you out at the same time, he wants to call you pretty until tears come from your eyes. You gasp wetly and come all over his fingers.

Your thighs clamp against his head and he lets you do whatever you need to do to his face to get off. He’s rubbing soft and soothing circles against your hips as you hiccup through your orgasm.

You open your mouth as if you have something to say, and close it again, shuddering out a breath of air. Spencer pulls away, he can talk again.

“My good girl, thank you. I mean, you tasted so good… you’re so pretty, my pretty, oh my god-” He’s got a lot on his mind right now.

Spencer watches and follows your movements as you sluggishly sit up to kiss him, moving your tongue against his in an eager display to taste yourself against his lips, he whines again, feeling your warmth against him. When you palm him through his pants Spencer stutters out a pornographic “hnnn”, the friction from his rubbing against the floor has left him painfully needy.

“Can I take your cock out baby?” You ask against his neck. Spencer is aware of the embarrassing uhhuh uhhuh he releases as he scoots back against his couch. You don’t bother teasing him, taking out his red dripping dick from his pants and underwear and you don’t even giggle when it makes a whip sound as it taps against his skin.

He actually has to close his eyes after watching you whine in overstimulation as you collect your come from yourself to use it as lubrication to jerk him off with it. He’s genuinely going to pass out.

With a mouth open to the shape of an “o”, Spencer has an onslaught of tiny gentle noises that fill up the room alongside the skin slapping sound of you jerking him off. You touch the crown of his dick and one of his arms shoots out to brace himself against the couch.

He accidentally grabs your panties he placed on the couch earlier.

Not thinking, he grips onto them and you kiss his cheek. “Want em’?” You tease. “My panties are in my top drawer next time you come over and want to snoop around.” You joke further, a red flush of humiliation covers Spencer's neck and chest. He slowly moves his grip on them over to his nose. Too far gone to have the same self-control he had earlier to set them aside, he finally indulges in taking in your scent.

He’s somewhat expecting more prodding and teasing, but you just continue to kiss over his face softly. He’s so thankful.

There’s no surprise to the fact you have him coming especially fast. Spencer feels his legs twitch and he sets down your panties to kiss you properly as he finishes all over your fist.

As he comes down from this unexplainable high he is struck with such a tender feeling of affection towards you his eyes water. You notice and scoot onto his legs and lap and wrap your arms around him in a hug.

Not letting go until you feel him chuckling against you, you ask him how he feels and he sighs out dramatically. He’s so exhausted now.

You shyly offer to wet-vac his carpet once you guys move to clean yourselves up and he breaks out into a laughter that makes his stomach hurt. You eventually join his contagious laughter at the situation.

Spencer’s suggestion for you to stay a while is accepted with open arms. You spend your first night together wrapped up in each other's embrace. Being back in his own bed with you here settles his mind so gently that within three minutes of his head hitting the pillow he’s out like a light.

In the morning when he wakes up for work he rubs his nose softly all over your face to wake you up. Spencer offers that you stay in his bed and sleep more or he can drive you back to yours before he heads over to work. He ends up driving you home so you can get ready for work yourself. Once you’re back home he finally opens up his phone again from last night to see a picture of yourself you sent on the walk to his apartment last night with the text under it “Had to come see you anyway, hope the doors unlocked mwahaha”.

He finds himself smiling at his missed message all day at work and once he’s seated back in his car to go home later that day he finally finds the “forgotten” panties you left on his passenger car seat when you left this morning.

Spencer flushes then pockets them before texting you that he is in fact not a voyeur or a perv and he did not put your panties in his pocket and he is not asking you to come over again tonight so he can cook you a pasta dinner before he lays you out for him again, hopefully on his bed this time.

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jays-after-hours-blog · 7 days ago

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Suspicious Minds

Pairing: Emperor Geta/wife!reader

Summary: A senator informs Geta about the rumors surrounding his wife

Author's Note: This fic consists of pieces I took out from a much longer fic I had written. After reading what I originally wrote I didn't really vibe with the whole thing and so I took out parts I liked best to create this fic. Idk if it's better or worse because things feel a bit rushed in this fic now and not as cohesive as before but it's good enough I think ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I was partly inspired by Fire & Blood where it says that some in court found Queen Rhaenys Targaryen suspicious because she spent time with bards and singers and they were sure she must be having an affair on Aegon I. Also the title is from the Elvis song of the same name because it popped into my head while writing this because it's similar to the plot lol.

~~~

The late afternoon sun streamed through the marble arches of the palace, casting shadows across the floor of the Emperor’s private chamber. Emperor Geta paced restlessly, his jaw clenched tight, his fingers twitching. The rumors had come to him this morning, carried by a senator whose words had been carefully chosen, yet laced with venom.

“She is often seen in the company of poets and bards, my Emperor. Some say perhaps too often.”

The words echoed in Geta’s mind as he strode to the balcony. Below him, others strolled about, oblivious to the storm brewing in his heart. He had always known that his wife had a fondness for the arts. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her. The way her eyes lit up when she heard the verses of a poem she thought was interesting, the soft smile that graced her lips during the final notes of a ballad. She was a woman of intelligence and charm. Perfect qualities to be his empress.

But now those very same qualities and interests had become the source of his unrest.

Geta finds his wife out in the garden. “I had hoped to speak with you my wife,” he said, his tone polite but firm.

“What troubles you, my love?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she stepped closer to him.

Geta studied her, his gaze lingering on her face, searching for some sign of guilt. But she looked as she always did, serene, composed, and beautiful. “There are whispers in the court,” he began slowly, “that your affection for music and poetry has extended beyond mere appreciation.”

His wife’s eyes widened, and then she laughed softly, a sound like the chiming of bells. “Surely you don’t believe such nonsense.”

“I don’t want to,” Geta admitted, his voice low. “But the court is not kind to a woman who spends her days surrounded by other men, no matter how innocent her intentions.”

Her smile faded, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Geta, these men are poets, musicians and artists. They speak to me about the soul, not the flesh. My heart belongs to you, and only you.”

He wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her. But the thought of her laughter, her attention, her admiration being bestowed on another man gnawed at him. “Then why do others speak of you so?” he demanded, his voice rising slightly. “Why do they say you adore Bacchus so much that you have embraced his indulgences?”

His wife stiffened, her hand falling away. “Do you question my virtue?” she asked, insulted that her husband would believe such nonsense about her.

“I question the company you keep!” he snapped, the words sharper than he intended.

She took a step back, her expression conveying her hurt and frustration. “You have always known who I am Geta. I am not a woman content to sit idly in the palace, just simply gossiping my day away. I find joy in the divine chaos of creation. If that makes me suspicious in the eyes of our court then so be it. But I will not apologize for things I did not do.”

Her words hung in the air between them, heavy with emotion. Geta clenched his fists, his anger warring with his love for her. Finally he spoke, his voice softer. “I do not wish to stifle you. But I cannot bear the thought of others questioning your loyalty or your love for me.”

His wife stepped closer, her gaze steady. “Then let me reassure you, my emperor. I am as sure of my love for you as I am about Sol bringing us the sun each morning. But if you doubt me, then tell me what must I do to prove myself?”

He sighed, reaching out to cup her face in his hands. “Stay with me tonight,” he murmured. “Let the poets and bards sing their songs without you for once. Let Bacchus have his revelry elsewhere.”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his touch. “If it will ease your mind, my dear husband then I will stay.”

Geta pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if to shield her from the whispers that sought to undermine them. But even as he held her, a shadow of doubt lingered, refusing to be banished entirely.

The grand halls of the palace echoed with the click of her delicate sandals against the marble floor. The weight of her husband’s arm on her shoulder was both reassuring and suffocating. For the past three days, Geta had not let her out of his sight. Where she went, he followed. Where he could not follow, he sent his guards to watch her every step. It was unlike him, and though his paranoia was silent, she could feel it in the way his fingers tightened around her arm, in the watchful, almost desperate glint in his eyes.

She had tried to comfort him, tried to reassure him of her loyalty, but it seemed no words could pierce through the suspicion that had taken hold of him.

During a feast, Geta watched his wife like a hawk as she entertained a visiting nobleman whose son had written a collection of poems. His wife listened to the man intently, her soft smile never wavering as the man recited a verse.

But Geta saw something else. He saw how the man’s eyes lingered on her, how her laughter seemed to light up the room. His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair, his jaw tightening. Was it admiration? Was it mere courtesy? Or was there something more? The thoughts churned in his mind like a storm, dark and unrelenting.

When the man left, Geta wasted no time. He rose abruptly, crossing the room to where his wife stood.

“You enjoyed his company,” he said, his voice low but laced with accusation.

His wife blinked, startled by his tone. “He was reciting his son’s poetry, my dear husband. That’s all it was.”

“You smiled at him,” Geta pressed, his eyes narrowing. “You laughed.”

“Am I not allowed to smile and laugh?” she asked softly, though there was a tinge of frustration in her voice. “Must I always wear a sour expression to please you?”

His hand shot out, gripping her chin and forcing her to look up at him. “You are mine,” he said, his voice trembling - not with anger, but with something deeper, something more fragile. “Your smiles, your laughter, they belong to me and no one else.”

Her eyes softened as she saw the flicker of insecurity behind his harsh words. She reached up, covering his hand with her own. “And they are yours, Geta,” she murmured. “Only yours.”

His grip loosened, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if afraid she might vanish. “I will not lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I cannot.”

For the next several days, Geta’s wife’s world shrank. Where she once wandered the gardens freely, now her husband walked beside her, his hand resting possessively on her waist. When she visited the library, he went with her. Her gatherings with poets and musicians were no more, replaced by dinners where Geta sat her beside him, his eyes never leaving her.

She tried to be understanding, but his constant scrutiny weighed heavily on her. One evening, as they sat together in their chambers, she finally spoke.

“Geta,” she began, her voice tentative. “Do you not trust me?”

He looked up from the goblet of wine in his hand, his expression guarded. “Of course I trust you, you are my wife,” he said after a long pause. “It is everyone else I do not trust.”

“You cannot keep watch over me forever,” she said.

His jaw tightened. “You are my wife,” he said firmly. “My empress. And I will not risk anyone else taking you from me.”

“Even if it means suffocating me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Geta flinched, as if her words had struck him. He set the goblet down and rose to his feet, pacing the room. “You do not understand,” he said, his voice low and strained. “I have enemies everywhere. We have enemies everywhere. They would use you against me. They would take you from me. Take your love away from me”

“Who could take me when I am yours in both heart and soul?” she asked, rising to stand before him.

He stopped, his gaze meeting hers. For a moment, he looked like a man on the edge of breaking, his carefully constructed armor of intimidation cracking to reveal the fear beneath. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “But the thought of losing you terrifies me.”

She reached out, cupping his face in her hands. “Geta,” she said softly, “you will not lose me. I love you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you will never leave me.”

“I promise,” she said, though her heart ached at the desperation in his voice.

He pulled her into his arms again, holding her as if his life depended on it. She sighed softly, resting her head against his chest. She understood that his possessiveness was not born of cruelty, nor out of a need to stifle her but it was of a fear he could not truly voice, a fear he could not truly reconcile with, and it had consumed him.

And so she stayed, tethered to him by her love for him, hoping that soon his insecurities would ease and he would see that she was his, not because he demanded it, but because she chose it. But she was not sure how much she could take of this suffocating behavior. Of every move of hers and every interaction being heavily watched.

She rarely let her frustrations boil to the surface, but this time was different. As she sat across from her husband in their private chambers, the weight of the senator’s venomous words and their impact on her marriage gnawed at her patience. For days and days now, Geta’s suffocating possessiveness had taken over every aspect of her life, and she could no longer bear the thought that this rift between them had been instigated by a man seeking to undermine her, a man seeking to replace her.

She set down her goblet with a sharp clink, her hands trembling, not with fear, but with barely restrained annoyance and anger. “I’ve been thinking, my dear husband,” she began, her voice calm but carrying an obvious edge to it.

Geta glanced up from his seat, his brow furrowing slightly at her tone. “What is it?”

She met his gaze, her eyes blazing with uncharacteristic determination. “The senator who came to you with these baseless rumors. I believe he must be punished.”

Geta blinked, clearly surprised. “Punished? For what?”

“For daring to speak against me,” she replied, her voice firm, slightly exasperated that he did not already know what she spoke of. “For poisoning your mind with lies and causing this… this chaos between us. He sought to undermine your confidence in me, to cast doubt on my loyalty, to possibly destroy my reputation. That is not something we should let go unanswered.”

Geta leaned back in his chair, studying her intently. “You surprise me, wife. I thought you were above petty revenge. You have always counseled me against such rash decisions before”

“This is not petty, nor is it rash!” she shot back, her tone sharpening. “He sought to disgrace me, your wife, your empress. By doing so, he has disgraced you as well. How can you tolerate such audacity?”

Her words struck a nerve. Geta’s insecurities flared, his mind racing as he considered her argument. She was right. The senator’s insinuations had not only called his wife’s loyalty into question but had also implied that Geta was a weak ruler, unable to control his own household. The thought made his blood boil.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, his voice low.

“Demote him. Remove him from his position. Let it be known that you will not tolerate slander against your Empress.”

Geta narrowed his eyes. “And if others see this as an act of weakness? A sign that I am blinded by my love for you?”

“Let them see it as a warning,” she countered. “Let them know that your loyalty to your wife is unwavering and that you will not allow anyone to sow baseless discord in your court.”

Her words appealed to Geta’s pride, and she could see the gears turning in his mind. After a long silence, he nodded slowly. “Very well. The senator will be dealt with. I’ll ensure his removal will be public and soon.”

Relief washed over her, though a part of her felt dissatisfied about simply just having the senator removed from his position. The senator had meddled in her marriage, made her husband watch every move she made for days now, and he deserved to face more severe consequences for it. The senator has a daughter around her age, she felt certain the senator was likely hoping to get her pushed aside to potentially make way for his daughter to get close to Geta, for her to be the next Empress of Rome. Geta’s wife seethed silently at the thought of someone replacing her, of someone attempting to steal her position. She thought about paying Caracalla a visit and informing him of the treacherous senator in their midst. He would certainly give her the dramatic reaction she wants.

Geta rose from his seat, crossing the room to stand before her. He cupped her face in his hands, his gaze softening. “You are right. I should never have allowed his words to poison my mind. You are my empress, my wife. No one will come between us again”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his touch and calming for a moment. “And I will always stand by your side Geta. But we must stand together, against anyone who seeks to divide us.”

Geta kissed her then, fierce and possessive, as if to reaffirm their bond. She let herself melt into the embrace, even as a small voice in the back of her mind wondered if she should push for more to be done about the senator.

~~~~

reader can't take out her frustrations on Geta so she will take it out on the senator who started all of this instead lol

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jays-after-hours-blog · 8 days ago

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It's kinda funny when you get a bunch of likes but no reblogs like I enjoyed your post but I'd prefer if no one else saw it

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jays-after-hours-blog · 9 days ago

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Feast // Billy Butcher x Reader (18+)

A prequel to Stuffing

pairing: dad's associate/friend!billy x f!reader rating: explicit // word count: 5.6k // ao3 link warnings/tags: no y/n, age gap, flirting, cheeky banter, fingering, oral (f!receiving), dirty talk, unprotected PIV, fucking in your childhood bedroom with your father in the house because why not, Billy being Too Much (both physically and in personality), mentions of eating, smoking, and alcohol consumption, blink and you'll miss it daddy!kink divider by @saradika-graphics <3

summary: Your father's associate always seems to have an eye for you. Maybe you have an eye for him too. And maybe you're choosing to do something about it.

It’s a struggle to keep your eyes off of Billy Butcher. Particularly when he seems to struggle keeping his own off of you.

He likes to shoot the shit with your father, likes to give him a hard time. And as powerful a man as your father may be, Butcher seems to keep him on his toes well enough.

Shit, it seems like child’s play for him to exercise that little talent on you as well. A sharpened sword with a double-edged tongue, wrapped in a wink and a cheeky smile. It’s a perilous combination, that. Lethal as shit — poison for the pussy, heroin for the mind. He doesn’t even seem to blink when he turns it on.

Dangerous.

On one of your first encounters with the man, it had been in a lull of conversation between him and your father. The latter had gone off to take a call, the former leaned over the island at the center of your father’s kitchen, thumbs tapping away at his phone screen.

It’s rude to stare, your father has always rebuked. But Billy always seemed to hook his gaze onto you when you were in a room. This was an uncommon instance where he was preoccupied. You had time to study.

The lines in his aging face, the way they’ve done nothing but complement his looks. The trim of his facial hair, dark with sparse strands of dignified gray. The gentle scarring scattered across his skin. He’s mesmerizingly terrifying. A nightmare that spurs your pupils to dilate like a schoolgirl crush. A statuesque paragon of masculinity that makes your—

“‘F you wanna snap a photo to make it last longer, I’ll flash my tits for ya, doll,” he mutters, still staring at his phone. When you let out a small squeak upon being caught, his eyes flick up to you with the cheekiest of smirks on his lips.

“No, no, I wasn’t…I didn’t mean to…”

“‘S’alright, love. Don’t get your panties in a twist over it,” he banters back, garnishing his words with a wink as his attention returns to his phone.

You wish you could have come back at him with a witty retort. Something filthy, crass, cutting. Your smart remarks only come to you in hindsight, with your fingers on your clit that night.

Bold of you to assume I’m wearing panties.

Maybe if they’re already twisted, you could shove them in my mouth instead.

Try not to shit in your adult diaper at a young woman showing your old ass an ounce of attention, Butcher.

He could one-up your counters so easily, but the thought of getting him to stumble in the slightest, even cocking an eyebrow at you in unexpected delight, has you coming with his name on your lips in your bedroom.

Your encounters are brief, but impactful. Each one harder to scrub from your memory, lingering longer on your fingertips as they circle between your thighs.

There was one…oh, there was one that cemented your need to try him, taste him. A late night with your father in his study with the door cracked several inches and cigar smoke spiraling from the brass tray between two armchairs. A half bottle of scotch drained by the two of them, decorum lost. You happened to catch Butcher midway through a sordid tale.

His words are moderately slurred in his intoxicated state, but you’ve become attuned to his accent with the amount of time you’ve rehashed his turns of phrase in your head.

“Now, mind you, I’d just been havin’ a romp with the little slag the night before. You’d think that’d be worth something, I dunno. I thought I was a right gentleman with her. Maybe less emphasis on the ‘gentle’ bit, but I thought we was having a grand ol’ time of it. But I guess it’s that old song ‘bout no honor amongst thieves and all’at. Cunt’d cleaned me out by the next morning.”

Your father grunts and takes another swig from his crystal tumbler rattling in his grip. “Like I’ve always said, Butcher. Never trust a bitch with a dragonfly tattoo.”

Butcher scoffs, wagging around his own tumbler in dismissal. “Oh, fuckin’ come off it, ‘I’ve always said.’ You ain’t never said bullocks,” he refutes with a shake of his head. He jabs a finger at him from the hand nursing his glass, sloshing the liquid inside. “I’ve taken pisses longer than your last shag, you bald cunt. The fuck you know about a slag’s tattoos when you blow your load by the time she even got her tits out.”

Your father squints back at him. “The fuck do you know about my track record, you fucking asshole?”

A sleazy sort of smile creeps across Butcher’s face, and he massages at the corners of his upturned mouth as he looks devilishly up at your father with his forearms on his thighs. “You remember that…blonde bird with those two little beauty marks above her eyebrow at that charity fundraiser bullocks a few weeks back?” He asks, scratching his nail above his own brow for further emphasis. “The one you took home with ya?”

Your father squints in suspicion. “Lydia?”

“Was that ‘er name?” He asks, leaning back in his armchair opposite your father, his mouth twitching downward in lieu of a shrug. “Don’t think she ever said. She was, uh, bit preoccupied hollerin’ mine to high heaven the night after.”

Your father is practiced in composure, but not perfect by any means. The shell-shock on his face at the comment dissipates quickly, but it does make an appearance before he composes it. Then he nonchalantly tips his glass to Butcher and nurses another sip as he says, “By all means, take my sloppy seconds.”

Butcher’s eyes go dark, debaucherously reminiscent as he regales. “Oh, she was sloppy alright. She was sloppy on me all fuckin’ night long. And that’s because I…oh, what’s that?” He asks rhetorically, snapping his fingers thrice as though in search of the words before pointing to your father again with a glint in his eye, “Right, because I can get it up, and keep it up. Not blow my wad in the first quarter like a fuckin’ wanker. Or that’s what the broad told me you did after I had her seein’ Saturn, Venus, and fuckin’ Pluto behind her fuckin’ eyelids for the fourth time that night.”

It really is involuntary, but the pulse between your thighs is frighteningly powerful hearing him put to words what you’d hoped of him. A beast of a man, as obsessed with pleasing a woman as he is taking pleasure from her. You have to stifle the sound that escapes your mouth for fear of being caught in your eavesdropping.

“You’re a fucking shitstain motherfucker, Butcher. Fuck that bitch,” your father spits out. “She doesn’t know shit about fuck.”

“Right, right. I’ll let you reflect on that alone for a tick, guv,” Butcher teases, stumbling up from his chair. “Gonna take a leak. Give my wankin’ hand somethin’ to do for once since Lady Lydia’s made it practically obsolete,” he snipes with a wink at your father.

You spring into action, darting from the door and putting some plausibly deniable distance between you.

Not fast enough, because Butcher clears his throat upon seeing you in the living room down the hall. You turn around guiltily to see him leaning against the wall, eyes on you. But instead of a snarky remark, he just says, “Apologies, love. A lady ain’t need to hear all’at. Was just takin’ the piss out your old man is all.”

You drop onto the couch, resting your elbows on the arm of it closest to Butcher and crossing your legs with a wry smile. “I’ve heard men talk before. I’m a big girl. Congrats on the sloppy blonde, by the way. Bummer on the dragonfly bitch.”

Butcher’s eyes scan you, an element of intrigue on his face that fills you with satisfaction. “Ain’t you just a wee little Christmas cracker of surprises, love.”

Perhaps all the mulling over worthy comebacks has come in handy after all, as the next words that tumble out of your mouth are, “Maybe you should give me a little tug. See if I bust open for you.”

You see a light go on behind Butcher’s drunken eyes at the comment, see his fingers tap in succession against the wall. Then he pushes off the surface with an abruptness that has your heart rate rising with it, and waggles a finger in your direction with a smirk. His voice low to avoid your father’s detection, he asks, “Does your Pops know he’s got a sleeper slag for a daughter?”

You shrug with a small pout. “He only knows what he chooses to see. I’m sure you’ve scouted that out about him by now.”

“S’pose I ‘ave,” he acknowledges, dipping his head as he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Gonna find yourself in a nasty bit of trouble if you make a habit of skulkin’ about like‘at, doll,” he imparts, the depth of his voice tickling something in your stomach at the tone of it.

You lounge against the back of the couch, intentionally allowing your dress to inch up your thigh with the fluid movement. “Oh yeah? How nasty are we talking?” You ask, floating your voice with a glimmer of naïveté that seems to tickle him right back judging by the filth in his encroaching grin.

Butcher meanders over to you, hands firmly in his pockets as he stands in front of your crossed legs as his own spread apart. He casts a fleeting look down the hall toward the study before his eyes pull back to you. In that same low timbre, he utters, “Bent over in the back alley of a pub with your lacy knickers around your ankles and an half-smoked fag danglin’ from my lips, love. ‘Til it’s tricklin’ down into your fuckin’ trainers. How’s’at for ya?”

Your breathing goes shallower than expected at his response, heat blossoming in your cheeks. “You’re drunk, Butcher. And clearly all talk.”

His lips twitch infinitesimally. His hands slip from his pockets, landing on the top of the couch to cage you in. Your breath catches, and you can smell the scotch and your father’s cigars on him this close.

“Call me Billy, love,” he purrs, and dips closer to your ear. “And if there’s one thing I’m not known for, it’s spoutin’ bluffs.”

Your eyelashes flutter as your skin tingles, the hair on your arms and the back of your neck going taut. You feel the absence of him before you see it. When your eyes pull open, he’s already halfway to the nearest bathroom, an unmistakable swagger in his step.

That’s when you knew. You had to suss out if he was all talk, or if the brutal Billy Butcher could give it as good as he claims he does.

You spied his name on the invite list for Thanksgiving dinner, and again on the seating chart right next to yours, and decided to craft a plan.

—

You’d expected him to make a move on you at some point prior to or during dinner. But thirty minutes into the meal, Billy had done nothing. Engaging in raucous conversation with your father and anyone else foolish enough to tango with him at a dinner table.

So, taking matters into your own hands it was.

You allow your fabric napkin to slip off your lap onto the floor with a mumbled, believable, “Oops,” and pull your chair out a smidge. You duck your head under the table and snag the napkin, grazing your hand ever so softly against Billy’s leg. Gentle so as not to startle, but firm enough there’s no mistaking it was intentional.

You clear your throat as you situate yourself back in your chair, sneaking a look to your right. Billy’s face reads as some amalgam of perplexed, curious, and amused.

He gives you a little whisper out of the side of his mouth. “Alright there, doll?”

“Right as rain,” you chime back just under your breath with a sly smile, picking up your utensils to continue eating.

“Wouldn’t fuss about you slippin’ back beneath that table for a spell. Show me some real Yankee nosh on this delightful day of thanks,” He mutters, his wine glass dancing in a circle on the table along the rounded base as the liquid licks the sides.

“I bet you wouldn’t,” you banter right back. You opt to end further escalation there for now. You have time for more later, when there aren’t so many eyes on you.

That time comes approximately an hour later. The dishes cleared, many guests gone, a significant portion of those remaining draped on couches and chairs in sleepy conversation until they’ve dozed off with bellies full on food and wine.

Billy isn’t dozing. You find him trolling around upstairs. And where else would you possibly find him but loitering in your bedroom, his back turned to the door, his attention on the light pink and aged white of your vanity dresser.

Perhaps you should have locked this door before guests arrived. Perhaps you purposefully didn’t.

“Is it everything you predicted it to be?”

“It’s exactly as I predicted it to be,” he rumbles with his back to you, entirely nonplussed by your presence, the familiar melody of your music box drifting through the room. He places a finger on the head of the spinning ballerina on her rust-speckled spring, pulling her back slightly and releasing the tiny ceramic figurine to watch her jiggle about at a much more violent tempo than the somber lilt of her tune.

Billy does a leisurely aboutface, and he deliberately spies the door at your back, now firmly closed behind you. “Somethin’ you wanna have a private little chinwag about, love?”

You smirk at him, stiletto heels digging into your childhood carpet as you advance measuredly toward him. His eyes grow darker, the closer you step.

“Sure. Let’s talk. Just talk,” you say quietly, unconvincingly.

“Oh, you know me, doll. I could talk the ear off the Venus de fuckin’ Milo. Broad’s already missin’ her arms. Wouldn’t miss losin’ something else.”

“You really don’t ever shut up, do you?” You say in exaggerated exasperation, coming to a stop inches from his imposing form.

“Not unless me mouth’s got more pressing matters to attend to,” he volleys, eyes skating over your figure in your dress.

“And do you?” You lead, slightly apprehensive fingers breezing over his shirt, your forefinger catching briefly on one of the gaps between two buttons. “Have a matter currently to…press into?”

He stares down at you, his fingers draped around the edge of your dresser. Not with nerves, not with restraint. At least not the kind of restraint you’d expect — not like the type you might find in a dog snapping and snarling and yanking on its leash until its handler gives the go-ahead.

It’s moreso a matured restraint. One could call it respectful, but that doesn’t quite capture it either, not on someone like Billy Butcher. It’s unhurried restraint. It’s…almost cocky.

It’s “make her make the first move, you know she will” restraint. Confident, slightly belittling. Sexy as fuck and prepping to shatter.

He leaves it up to you to fill in the blanks for him. You fix your eyes on him, attempting to read this man who seems unreadable, as trembling fingers find the bottom button on his shirt. You feel like a virgin on prom night, the extent to which your fingers fumble to get the little brass bastard through the hole. He seems to find it moderately amusing, observing your struggle.

He takes an ounce of pity on you, fingers still dormant on your dresser as he rasps out under his breath, “I do. In fact. Have a matter I’d very much like to press into.”

Your breath escapes you in a whoosh, and it sends your hands into a tizzy, scrambling to unveil the full expanse of Billy’s chest to your insatiable eyes as he conversely remains calm, all the fire in his blood contained to the look he’s bestowing upon you as you work.

Once you’ve finally shoved the offending clothing off his shoulders, only then does Billy relinquish his grip on your vanity, one hand whipping up to cup around your throat and the other to grip your jaw. You freeze, a cat pulled by its scruff as its owner — its owner, god — bores deep into its eyes.

“You want this?” He asks you, and it’s not exactly polite, rather than him compelling you to admit it, to debase yourself for him before he’s even done his damage.

And you don’t hesitate. “I want it.”

“Fuckin’ right you do.”

His lips are soft, and he tastes like whiskey and the after-dinner butter mints. You’ll be the first to admit you’re not all that practiced in kissing a man with facial hair, at least when it’s this lush, but it’s not entirely unpleasant. Particularly when a strong, commanding tongue is overtaking your mouth and making it his. He walks you back to your bed, hands in your hair, on your waist, rucking your dress.

With your head spinning as madly as it is, you’re deeply grateful for the blatant manhandling of your body he’s taken it upon himself to initiate. Your ass hits the plush bed of your youth, for far more nefarious reasons than you’ve employed before, at the hands of a man old enough to be your father, who is stupidly volatile and almost certainly does not have your best interests at heart.

It’s heady and delicious and exactly what you wanted. Whether he intentionally made you want it or not.

There’s teeth down your neck, rough fingers at the zipper of your dress, and you’re being stripped to your tits without a single word passing between you.

Billy breaks the chorus of heavy breathing and rustling clothes to mutter, “Christ, you’re a tasty little morsel, eh?”

You moan at the drag of his mouth, the prickle of his beard along the curve of your tits, his tongue dancing over your nipple as his hands dispose of your panties. Then he’s sucking kisses down your ribs, over your stomach, until he’s on his knees at the side of the bed, peering up at you from between your thighs. He places a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your bare mound — bare for him, on purpose, you weren’t sure if he’d mind — and breathes over the throbbing bud poking out from your lips with a smirk. You whimper at the feral look in his eye, squirming despite yourself.

“Careful, love,” he whispers, lowering himself down. “Don’t want daddy to hear.”

Your eyes roll as your elbows slip out from under you, landing on your back and knitting your fingers into his hair as his mouth descends on your cunt. You fail to muffle the gasp that sprouts from you when you feel the scratch of his beard on your inner thighs. A three-course meal tucked away, and he still eats at you like he’s primed for another one.

“Oh, Billy, that’s…that feels so fucking good,” you moan breathily, tugging on his dark locks as he groans into your pussy, his tongue bearing down on your clit.

He smiles up at you, mouth shimmering and smile lines prominent with your slick. “Say that like you’re surprised.”

“Maybe I am,” you counter with a playful smirk of your own, only for it to warp into another gasp of pleasure when a finger prods at your entrance, sliding deep and thick inside you as he grins into your clit.

It’s not a conscious decision when your thighs clamp down on either side of his head, but Billy seems to find it flattering. His mouth is occupied, but there’s laughter in his eyes.

He really is a wretched man, Billy Butcher. A personality that could either charm the robe off a nun or send her fist hurtling toward his face, likely within roughly five seconds of each other. Smug, self-serving, caustic…and gives some of the best goddamn head you’ve ever experienced in your life thus far. You may pull your own hair out if you weren’t presently doing so to his.

You wish your resolve was more robust, but judging by the predicament you’ve found yourself in, you should’ve known better. You can feel your thighs practically vibrating against his ears as he spears you through with his fingers and drenches his own beard with the fruits of his dedication.

Your stomach tightens to the sight of Billy’s eyes looming over your cunt, bright as you’ve ever seen them from making dessert of you. He gives you a brazen wink at your mesmerized stare, and you unravel all at once, plunging your forearm between your teeth to mute your moans.

“Gorgeous little creature when you come, doll,” he mutters against your inner thigh, sinking his teeth into the flesh and shooting sparks through your core. “Now I’m dyin’ to see how pretty you look on my cock.”

“I’ve been dying to see it. Every fucking time my head hits my pillow and my panties come off.”

On his journey up your body, he cocks his head and halts. Smiles. His eyes trail over your breasts, your throat, your lips. “What a dirty fuckin’ slut,” he purrs, pressing against the backs of your thighs to spread you open.

“Is that a problem for you?” You challenge, taking it upon yourself to grab hold of your legs as he wrangles himself out of his pants.

“Depends on which you’re askin’ about,” he counters, his hand stuffed into his jeans and taking hold of his cock where you don’t have the pleasure of witnessing it quite yet. “Do I got a problem with you jackin’ your Jill without me there to see it, or with you being a little scarlet whore right under your daddy’s nose?”

You scrape your teeth over your bottom lip as you stare down the fabric concealing what you so desperately want to devour. “Both. And you’ve gotta stop calling him my ‘daddy’ when I’m naked like this,” you plead.

You catch the smirk on his face as you see the veins in his forearm shift, exposing the way he’s flexing around his length while hidden from view. “Why? Daddy issues got you all hot and bothered, love?”

“Why don’t you take him out and we’ll see if you’re worthy of me being hot and bothered?” You bait, tugging on the open flap of his jeans.

He quirks an eyebrow at you. “Seemed to think I was plenty worthy a minute ago when she was gushin’ all over my bloody face, now, didn’t she?”

You huff, jerking harder on his pants. “Will you just fucking let me see it already?”

You could smack the smug grin off his face, but then he’s finally shoving his bottoms down his hips and gracing you with everything he’s been concealing.

And Jesus, it was a lot to conceal.

You don’t even have to say it, because you know it’s written all over your face by the pompous expression Billy is exuding.

“Everything you predicted it would be?” He asks snarkily in recall, stroking down the length of himself as your eyes glaze over at the action.

“Shut up and put it inside me,” you order breathily.

Billy tuts at you with a disapproving look, but situates between your legs regardless, aligning himself with your exposed cunt. “How’s about a ‘please’, eh? Utilize those posh little manners for me.”

You give a frustrated groan. “Please, Billy,” you beg him with a tone filled with sass.

“Good girl,” he croons, dragging the tip of him through your slit teasingly and making you jump as it brushes your clit. “One more thing.”

“Fuck, Billy, will you please—” you moan in impatient aggravation, beating your clenched fist onto your mattress. Billy grabs hold of your jaw firmly, wrenching your eyes to him.

“You’re gonna watch it,” he dictates, his gaze burning into yours. “You’re gonna watch me split this little cunt open with your own two fuckin’ eyes. If you want it so bad.”

That you can agree to.

You nod emphatically, propping yourself high up onto your elbows to provide yourself with a view. You can see the tip of his cock, reddened and slick with arousal, parting your lips and settling at your entrance. Large and intimidating, but all the more enticing at the prospect of stretching around him like you’ve imagined so many times recently.

“No going back, doll. Open up for it. Take a nice, deep breath for me.”

You whimper quietly, locking your eyes onto where he’s pressing against you, and you take the recommended deep breath.

But then he actually presses inside you, and your jaw drops into an agonized moan at the sharp sting of it. He looks obscene, gripped by your naïvely ambitious pussy, and feels even more absurdly huge than he looks. Yet, somehow, you still have the urge to thank him for giving it to you like this.

“Fuckin’ beautiful little cunt. Look how pretty she is, stretched open on me like’at,” he groans, his brows drawn together in pleasure as he slides deeper.

The devastating fact that Billy feels better than you’ve ever imagined is as hard to swallow as he is to physically take. There’s nothing worse than a man who talks a big game, and subsequently backs it up. He put his money where his mouth was, and as a result made your pussy feel priceless beneath his tongue. Your father has always been wealthy, but you’ve never felt as expensive as you do now, loose from your climax with your blood warm and molten like liquid gold.

You can hear how wet this man has made you in a matter of minutes, and if you had enough cylinders firing in your brain to conjure anything but pleasure, you might feel mortified at how effortless it was for him. Soft conversation filters up the stairs, but with the cessation of the ballerina’s lullaby, the most prominent sounds are Billy’s restrained grunts and the slick of your cunt as he thrusts into you.

The deeper he goes, the harder it is to keep your head from flopping back from the force of his hips against yours, and you eventually give up on the endeavor and allow your body to take over. You dig your heels into Billy’s back and let your head drop, and Billy doesn’t complain.

“Atta girl, fuckin’ feel it,” he rasps, taking hold of your hips to pull you down onto him as he powers into you at the same time, squirming as he drags along the end of you in the most tantalizing way.

You whimper at the intensity of it, the sensitivity of having someone so deep inside you like this for the first time. “Fuck, Billy, you—it’s too—”

“Little too much for you, love?” The condescending smirk oozes from his words so thoroughly, you can hear it with your eyes pinched closed.

He doesn’t let up at your mild discomfort, and you’re grateful. You don’t want him to stop, or need him to stop. You’re already beginning to crave the size of him, the pervasive yet addictive sting of your stretched opening as he parts you open on him with every thrust.

“N-no, it’s fucking perfect,” you moan for him, breathy and overtaken with your satisfaction at how the evening has developed so unquestionably in your favor.

He groans in response, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth again to suck and bite as he buries himself inside you with confidence and well-earned bravado. The additional stimulation has you reaching for your clit, in search of a second reward for your bravery tonight for chasing what you wanted for once instead of waiting for a move to be made on you. It’s freeing and invigorating, and you’ve never felt so empowered while being impaled on a man’s cock before. Sex, until now, had felt like something transactional or obligatory. Never as mutually thrilling as this.

Maybe this is what sex with older men is like.

Perhaps you won’t get ahead of yourself. This is just what sex with Billy Butcher is like. Wisdom informed by his age. Looks significantly enhanced by that same measure. And just so happens to also be frustratingly blessed with the equipment that a man this wise, this sexy, and this thorough absolutely deserves, as much as you’re loath to admit it.

“That’s right, doll. Let me see those pretty little eyes roll back in that pretty little head.”

The stubborn streak in you doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but your body is wholly ignorant to the fleeting desires of your mind. You’d be surprised if Billy even knows what color your irises are with how they’re constantly cheating back into your skull with his unapologetic exploitation of your pleasure.

Your legs shudder around his waist as you scrub feverishly at your clit, a slew of wanton noises and pleading sentiments sliding from your lips as you beg him to keep doing precisely what he is doing to you. Far be it from Billy to disappoint, apparently, because he takes the cue to stay steady on the course as your cunt begins to spasm around him in earnest.

You cry out your climax as he beats and batters your insides into submission for him, all while his tongue curves around the filth he’s crafting moment by moment in a crass commentary of how you look beneath him, how you feel around him, what a naughty thing you become at his hands.

You’ve scarcely unearthed your consciousness from the toothsome grip of your orgasm when Billy’s thrusts start to go sloppy and heavy with his own impending finality.

“Fuck, what a good fuckin’ girl. Oh, fuck,” he groans in resolution, slamming his hips into you in staggered thrusts as his cock spills within your walls. He growls into your ear as he fucks his spend into your warmth, not bothering to stop until you feel it pushing out from your opening each time he spears back inside you. Until you can feel it dripping from one hole to another, slipping over the pucker of your ass and down onto your soft, floral duvet from your childhood.

His breathing is ragged and relentless against the side of your skull, fluttering your hair as he gently scratches at the shell of your ear with his mustache and beard, still damp with the manifestation of your arousal.

“Quite the fuckin’ ride you are, doll,” he rasps, a telltale smirk apparent in his voice. You can hear the wince in his facial expression as he grunts and extracts himself from your tight, fatigued embrace, and you feel his lips press feather-light against the underside of your jaw as he does so.

You observe him reverently as he stands up to his full height, stretching his back out from the presumed ache of the prolonged hunch of his former position. His fingers rake through his sweaty, dark locks as he awards himself a deep, revitalizing breath. His softening cock flexes with his movements, still impressive regardless of its progressively shrinking state, and you subconsciously lick at your lips and pull the plump bottom one between your teeth as you leer at him with unabashed lasciviousness.

“Feel free to get back in line,” you banter back, tilting your head against your shoulder as you study the cut of his bare chest and stomach, the guiding “v” of his hips down to his delicious length, the plume of dark hair at its base, and what you can see of his strong thighs before his jeans rob you of further intimate inspection.

His chest still heaves, his jaw dropped open as he exhales labored breaths from the exertion. The reaction is slightly flattering with what a rough-and-tumble brute of a man Billy is. Proof that he deemed you worthy of exhausting himself, making himself vulnerable to the point of breathlessness, solely for the sake of tearing you apart and splintering your mind into disorganized fragments. And making it feel so goddamn good.

You lament his actions as he pulls his pants back over his hips, his eyes lingering over your leaking cunt and hardened nipples.

“How long is the queue, love? This a corner shop or fuckin’ Disney World?” He quips with a lilt to the corner of his mouth as he fastens the buttons of his retrieved shirt, not even glancing down once as his gaze continues to snag on the expanse of your naked form. The focused attention has your cheeks heating, despite the reality that this man was just inside you, is still inside you technically, and currently trailing his way out.

“Not entirely sure which one would be preferable, to be honest,” you admit. “Do you want me to play ‘hard to get’?”

He gives one last, long, scrutinizing sweep up your body. Then he fluffs out the collar of his shirt and takes a few leisurely steps back toward your vanity. He lifts your music box wordlessly, giving the knob a few good cranks before he sets it back down and watches the tiny ballerina rotate one full revolution to the tinkling tune before glancing back at you.

“How’s about I let you know,” he answers dubiously as he meanders over to your bedroom door, giving you another cheeky wink as he slips out through it.

Entirely unsure what to make of that, you collapse back onto your bed, ears clinging to the shrill, nostalgic melody until the spinning stops.

Thank you for reading!! 💖💖

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jays-after-hours-blog · 10 days ago

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X-MEN x FEM!READER

The X-Men Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Emma Frost, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Laura Kinney & Wade Wilson

Logan Howlett aka. Wolverine

You aren’t sure what possesses you to send it—not exactly. Maybe it’s boredom, maybe it’s the way Logan’s been gone longer than expected, leaving you restless. Either way, you know it’s reckless. The second the picture sends, you can already hear his voice in your head: Darlin’, you got a death wish? But you know Logan, know that he’s a beast caged in skin, and there’s nothing he loves more than being provoked by you.

He’s at a dive bar when his phone vibrates. The place is crowded, a few bikers at his table arguing over a pool game. Logan isn’t paying attention—until he glances at his screen. The moment he sees you, bare and sinful, every muscle in his body locks up. His breath hitches, his grip on his beer tightening until the glass threatens to crack. The scent of his own arousal floods his senses, so sharp he’s sure the few mutants around can catch it. One of the bikers nudges him, saying something about his "weird face," but Logan’s already pocketing the phone, jaw clenched.

He needs to get out of here. He doesn’t get embarrassed—not exactly—but the heat that licks up his spine is too much, too distracting. Logan swipes his tongue across his teeth, exhaling hard through his nose as he stands. His voice is a growl, all gravel and heat. “Got somewhere to be.” His movements are stiff, his body thrumming with need as he shoves out of the bar, barely resisting the urge to snarl at the people in his way.

The second he’s outside, he presses a number on his phone. When you pick up, he doesn’t say hello. His voice is low, dangerous. “You got no idea what you just started, sweetheart.” His free hand flexes at his side, his control razor-thin. “You better be home when I get there. And you better be ready.” Then he hangs up, already making his way to his bike, his thoughts full of nothing but you.

Remy LeBeau aka. Gambit

Remy is used to being desired. He knows the weight of hungry stares, the way people fall over themselves trying to get his attention. But you—you’re different. You make him ache. And you know it. Which is why you send the picture when you do, when he’s at a poker table, mid-game, surrounded by half a dozen people.

He sees the message light up his phone and, without thinking, checks it. The second the image fills his screen, his pupils dilate, his breath hitching just enough that the man across from him—some big-shot casino owner—narrows his eyes. “Something wrong, LeBeau?” Remy schools his features quickly, smirking as he locks his phone. “Non, mon ami,” he drawls, voice smooth despite the heat licking at his spine. “Just feelin’ a little… distracted.”

But he is struggling. His heartbeat is unsteady, his palms itching to touch, to grab. You’ve effectively thrown him off his game, and you know it. He shifts in his seat, stretching his legs out, forcing himself to focus. But his mind keeps circling back to the curve of your body, the way your skin looked in the dim lighting. His fingers twitch, itching to shuffle his deck, to channel all this pent-up energy somewhere before it burns him alive.

He doesn’t text back. No, that would be too easy. Instead, he waits until he’s out of the game, until he’s walking down the neon-lit streets of New Orleans. Then he calls you, his voice a lazy purr. “Ma belle, you really gon’ tease me like that?” He pauses, his smile slow, wicked. “Think you should be waitin’ by the door for me, chérie. Don’t want me comin’ in all impatient now, do you?”

Kurt Wagner aka. Nightcrawler

Kurt is used to wanting. He has spent a lifetime longing for things he believes he doesn’t deserve—love, touch, a home. But then there’s you, and you make him greedy. So when his phone vibrates in the middle of a crowded hallway at the Xavier Institute, he doesn’t think much of it. Not until he sees what you’ve sent.

His tail flicks so fast it nearly knocks over a nearby vase. A choked sound catches in his throat, his golden eyes widening, pupils dilating. He should look away, should pocket his phone before someone notices. But instead, he stares, heat rushing to his face so quickly it nearly makes him dizzy. The image of you burns itself into his mind, searing and divine.

Someone calls his name, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, fumbling to lock his phone. His three-fingered hand twitches, his tail coiling around his waist as he forces a shaky breath. Gott im Himmel, you’re going to be the death of him. He can feel the heat rising to the tips of his ears, can sense the way some of the younger students glance at him in curiosity. He clears his throat, tugging at the high collar of his uniform, muttering something about needing air.

The moment he’s alone, he teleports straight to your room, appearing in a burst of sulfur and smoke. His voice is hoarse, thick with something between reverence and hunger. “Liebes… do you have any idea what you have done to me?” He steps closer, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I hope you are prepared to confess your sins… because I am more than willing to be your punishment.”

Scott Summers aka. Cyclops

Scott prides himself on control. It is all he’s ever known—containing his power, his emotions, his every sharp-edged want. But you? You make control feel like a curse. So when his phone vibrates in the middle of a team debriefing, he barely glances at it. Until he does. And then his world tilts.

His breath halts, heat rushing up his throat so fast it makes him dizzy. The conversation around him blurs, the sound of Logan and Ororo discussing strategy fading into static. He swallows hard, locking his phone, fingers tightening into a fist on his thigh. You are going to ruin him.

“Scott?” Jean’s voice pulls him back. He clears his throat, straightening his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says, voice just a little too tight. “I’m fine.” But he’s not fine. His skin is too hot, his thoughts spiraling. He adjusts his visor, as if that’ll help him regain some semblance of control. It doesn’t. He can still see the image burned into his mind, can still feel the ache you’ve ignited in him.

The moment the meeting ends, he heads straight to his quarters, his movements stiff, controlled. He doesn’t call, doesn’t text. Instead, he waits until he’s inside, the door locked. Then he pulls out his phone, staring at the image for a long, slow moment before finally responding: You just made a very big mistake, sweetheart. And you’re going to spend all night making up for it.

Jean Grey aka. Marvel Girl / Phoenix

Jean is used to knowing. She reads people as easily as turning a page in a book. But you—you manage to surprise her. When her phone vibrates, she’s mid-conversation with Ororo, standing in the bustling halls of the X-Mansion. She checks the message out of habit, and then—Oh.

The world around her vanishes. Her breath catches, her fingers gripping her phone tighter. Heat blooms beneath her skin, a slow, simmering thing. She locks her phone quickly, but not before Ororo arches an eyebrow, a knowing smirk curling her lips. “Something interesting?” Jean lifts her chin, feigning nonchalance. “Just a… distraction.”

But she is not unaffected. No, she can still feel the pull of you, the way you linger in her mind like a whispered temptation. She exhales slowly, steadying herself. You’ve always had a way of making her unravel, of setting her pulse racing with just a look, a touch. And now, with that picture—she knows exactly what you’re doing.

So she doesn’t text back. Instead, she closes her eyes, reaching out mentally, brushing against your thoughts with a teasing whisper: You’re playing a very dangerous game, darling. And you know I always win.

Ororo Munroe aka. Storm

Ororo has always carried herself with grace. There is a quiet strength in her, an effortless command of any room she enters. But when her phone vibrates, when she glances at the screen and sees you, bare and unapologetic in your teasing, even a goddess can stumble.

She is in the middle of the X-Mansion’s garden, surrounded by students tending to the plants under her guidance. The air is warm, the scent of rain lingering from a previous storm. But the second she opens your message, heat spreads through her veins like wildfire. Her fingers tighten around the phone, the wind around her shifting just slightly, enough for the nearby students to glance up in confusion.

With practiced ease, she takes a steady breath, forcing composure to settle over her. She locks her phone, tucking it away in the folds of her robe, but the image of you remains burned in her mind. She has faced gods and walked through storms, but nothing has ever made her this desperate. She exhales slowly, smiling at the students before dismissing them early.

Later, when she is alone in her room, she finally allows herself to look again, to savor. Then, with a smirk, she types out a message: You test the patience of a goddess, beloved. But I promise you—when I return, I will show you the consequences of such boldness.

Anna Marie aka. Rogue

Rogue ain’t shy. Not really. But there are certain things she doesn’t expect—like her phone buzzing in her back pocket while she’s in the middle of a conversation with Logan. She pulls it out absently, expecting a mission update. But when she sees your name, when she opens the image—her whole body locks up.

"You good, kid?" Logan asks, eyebrow raised as she nearly drops the phone. Rogue snaps the screen down against her thigh so fast she nearly fumbles it. "I—uh—yeah! Peachy!" But she can feel the heat rushing to her face, burning down her neck. Logan narrows his eyes, but she’s already stepping back, waving him off. "I—uh—gotta go!" She turns so fast her boots squeak against the floor.

She beelines for the nearest empty room, slamming the door shut before pressing her back against it, exhaling hard. "Mon Dieu…" she mutters, staring at the phone again. The sight of you makes her stomach flip, makes her hands itch with the desire to touch—even though she knows she can’t. And maybe that’s what makes it even worse, the sheer torture of it.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard before she smirks, biting her lip. She types back, her accent thick even in text: Ya better be waitin' for me, sugar. ‘Cause I got some real pent-up frustration I need to work out.

Erik Lehnsherr aka. Magneto

Erik is a man of control. He has spent his entire life bending the world to his will, shaping metal and fate alike with the force of his power. But when he sees your message, all that careful composure fractures like shattered steel.

He is in the middle of a political gathering, surrounded by dignitaries and mutants alike, discussing the future of mutantkind. He is calm, poised, his presence commanding the room. But then—his phone buzzes. And when he checks it—his grip on his glass tightens. The metal bends beneath his fingers, distorting under the force of his sudden, sharp desire.

He exhales slowly, willing himself to focus, but it’s impossible. His thoughts are consumed by the image of you, the sheer audacity of what you’ve done. He lifts his eyes, scanning the room, but the conversation has blurred into meaningless noise. He is no longer interested in politics. No, there is only you now, and the punishment you so clearly deserve.

Later, in the privacy of his chambers, he finally allows himself to react. He sets his drink down, removing his gloves with slow, deliberate movements. Then, he types a message: You are a very foolish woman, my dear. And I am a very dangerous man. I suggest you prepare yourself accordingly.

Charles Xavier aka. Professor X

Charles is used to knowing things before they happen. His telepathy grants him insight into the minds of others, makes surprises a rare thing. But you—you always manage to catch him off guard. So when his phone vibrates mid-lecture, when he absentmindedly glances at the screen—he nearly chokes.

His fingers tighten around the armrest of his wheelchair, his usually composed demeanor faltering for the briefest moment. He quickly locks the screen, but it’s too late—the image of you is seared into his thoughts. And worse, the faintest flicker of his reaction has echoed across his psychic link with you, letting you feel the way his breath hitched, the way his pulse stuttered.

He clears his throat, composing himself with practiced ease. "Shall we continue?" he asks smoothly, though his mind is miles away. The students remain oblivious, but you? Oh, you know. And Charles can feel your amusement through the bond you share, a teasing whisper against his mind.

Later, in the quiet of his study, he sends a message—not with his phone, but directly into your thoughts, his voice smooth, measured. My dear, if you wished to test my restraint, you have succeeded. But I fear you’ve also ensured that when I return, you will be left utterly undone.

Emma Frost aka. The White Queen

Emma Frost is not easily shaken. She has built an empire on her confidence, her ability to keep control in even the most delicate of situations. But when she receives your message, she very nearly gasps.

She is at a Hellfire Gala, surrounded by high society, diamonds glittering at her throat. The room is alive with conversation, champagne glasses clinking. She is draped across a velvet chaise, effortlessly poised—until she sees you on her screen. The way her lips part, just slightly, is the only betrayal of her reaction.

With a slow inhale, she tilts her phone away from prying eyes, locking the screen. But inside, her mind is already buzzing. You have nerve, sending this while she’s in public. It’s a power play, a challenge. And Emma does not lose. She takes another sip of champagne, a knowing smirk curling her lips.

Later, when she is alone, she finally lets herself look again, savoring the way you look—so tempting, so utterly hers. Then, with a slow, deliberate tap, she types: My darling, I do hope you enjoyed your little game. But let me make one thing clear—you are mine to tease. And when I return, I will remind you exactly why.

Wanda Maximoff aka. Scarlet Witch

Wanda has spent most of her life feeling like the world was just a little too unsteady. Magic crackles beneath her skin, her emotions tied too tightly to the fabric of reality itself. But when her phone vibrates in the middle of a very serious conversation with Doctor Strange, she has no idea the real chaos is about to begin.

She checks the message absentmindedly, but the second she sees you, bare and utterly wicked, the world around her tilts. The air shimmers—just slightly—like heat rising from pavement. Wanda sucks in a sharp breath, locking her phone quickly, but it’s too late. Strange is watching her with an arched brow, the flicker of mystical energy curling at her fingertips a dead giveaway.

“Are you alright, Wanda?” Strange’s voice is calm, but there’s a glint of amusement in his gaze. Wanda clears her throat, forcing her magic back under control, smoothing her expression into something composed. “Fine,” she says, a little too quickly. But inside, her mind is burning, and it’s all your fault.

When she finally gets a moment alone, she sends a message—not with her phone, but with her magic, a whisper of her voice threading into your mind: You have no idea the kind of spell you’ve just cast, my love. But don’t worry—I’ll break it soon enough. And when I do, you won’t be able to breathe without thinking of me.

Pietro Maximoff aka. Quicksilver

Pietro is always moving. His mind, his body, his thoughts—everything is fast, too fast for the rest of the world to keep up with. But when his phone buzzes, and he actually takes the time to check it, the impossible happens—he stops.

He’s in the middle of a conversation with Clint Barton, something about training drills, when he pulls out his phone. And then—bam. His mouth shuts, his brain short-circuits, and for the first time in years, he is frozen.

“...Pietro?” Clint frowns, waving a hand in front of his face. “You good, man?” Pietro’s fingers twitch, and suddenly, he is gone, zipping out of the room at impossible speed. The moment he stops—several cities away, in the middle of nowhere—he grips his phone, running a hand through his silver hair.

Then he smirks, his heartbeat pounding. He types back, quick as lightning: You are so cruel, bellezza. But don’t worry—I’ll be home in five seconds. Hope you’re ready for me.

Hank McCoy aka. Beast

Hank prides himself on his intelligence, his ability to remain rational in even the most unexpected situations. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a scientific symposium, and he—without thinking—checks it, all rational thought leaves his brain.

His glasses slide down his nose. His usually eloquent mind is reduced to pure static. He should lock his phone, put it away, but instead, his blue-furred fingers tighten around the device as his brain short-circuits. A faint growl rumbles in his throat before he catches himself, quickly clearing it.

“Dr. McCoy?” One of his colleagues is staring at him, waiting for a response to a question he definitely didn’t hear. Hank straightens, adjusting his glasses, willing his heartbeat to slow. “Ah—yes. My apologies. I seem to have been... momentarily distracted.”

The second he’s alone, he finally allows himself to breathe. Then, adjusting his tie, he sends a message: My dear, I do hope you’re prepared to be thoroughly lectured on the consequences of distracting a scientist. In great detail. Preferably with a demonstration.

Laura Kinney aka. X-23 / Wolverine

Laura doesn’t get flustered. She doesn’t blush, doesn’t stammer. But when her phone vibrates, and she checks it in the middle of a mission briefing with Logan, something deep in her animal brain nearly malfunctions.

She sees the image, and every muscle in her body locks up. Her sharp, enhanced senses go into overdrive. Her claws almost unsheathe from sheer tension. Logan is talking, saying something about enemy patterns, but she hears none of it. The only thing in her head is you.

“Laura?” Logan’s voice pulls her back, and she snaps her phone shut, jaw tight. “Tch,” she mutters, shifting in her seat, pretending like she isn’t burning alive under her own skin. “Nothing. Keep talking.” But she’s not okay. She’s seething with the need to do something about this, now.

The moment the briefing is over, she finds the nearest exit, presses her back against the cold wall, and breathes. Then, she types—short, sharp, dangerous: You think that was funny? Good. Let’s see if you’re still laughing when I get my hands on you.

Wade Wilson aka. Deadpool

Wade is always unhinged. Nothing shocks him. Nothing catches him off guard. But when his phone pings in the middle of a mercenary bar, and he casually opens your message—his brain leaks out of his ears.

“Oh holy chimichangas.” His voice is too loud, and every thug in the bar turns to look at him. Wade barely notices, his masked face tilting down at his phone, staring. Staring so hard his mask is probably fogging up.

One of the mercs nudges him. “You good, Wilson?” Wade slowly lifts his head, his voice an octave higher than usual. “I have never been better. In fact, I am having a religious experience. Thank you for asking.” Then he stands—abruptly—phone clutched to his chest like a lifeline.

The second he’s outside, he’s already typing, fingers flying: BABE. BABY. LOVE OF MY LIFE. I AM ON MY WAY. DON’T MOVE. ACTUALLY, MOVE A LITTLE, STRETCH OR SOMETHING. MAYBE DO A LITTLE TWIRL. OH GOD. I’M RUNNING HOME IN SLOW MOTION FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT.

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jays-after-hours-blog · 12 days ago

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I hate when I’m specifically looking for fluff and the only thing that pops up is smut

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jays-after-hours-blog · 12 days ago

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Obsessed!Feyd has got to be my favorite. Very well written! Loved it!

Healer

Feyd-Rautha x reader

Summary: Feyd's a bit attached to his new healer.

Notes/Warnings: nothing really. Cursing, kinda. Mention of injury.

Words: 3500

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist

He’s been trained never to forget a face. A lesson that started in childhood, which he instantly showed an aptitude for. Sealing the details of a face to memory keeps the image of an enemy alive. It keeps the anger festering. It overtakes his dreams so not a moment is wasted thinking of anything other than the victory of the battles ahead. It keeps him strong, formidable, a weapon of destruction to be used to the benefit of Giedi Prime whenever the situation calls for it, which is not infrequently.

But there’s been one exception in his life. An exception to those thoughts—a bit of room in his head for a dream other than those of fighting and bloodshed—and it is dedicated to you. Your face. Your eyes. Your smile.

He never met you. Never spoke to you. Only saw you. As you were led around the Harkonnen fortress by the elder healers, who were all growing too old to properly do their jobs, he peeked around corners and followed down hallways, trying to catch glimpses of the foreign girl.

He felt like a fool with each silent step he took. Much like the healers, he was too old to be doing what he was doing: lurking about his own home like a child playing hide and seek, striving to be unseen as if he was not important enough to have eyes upon him at all times. But he couldn’t help himself. He was curious. You were unique, and he liked unique things. He liked special things. Special things were all the more satisfying to corrupt. Though, for the first time, he had to contend with the incessant resistance to the voice telling him he didn’t want to hurt you.

Then you were gone, snatched away from him not a day later. But he’s never forgotten you. Your face has remained a clear image over the last five years, every feature unaltered. Not a mar on your skin misplaced.

That’s why he recognizes you instantly.

You’re a bit taller; hair a touch longer. Your features are more defined but still show the delicacy and softness that he remembers from years prior. Curves are prominent; hips wider, breasts fuller, the Geidi Prime leathers doing a poor job of hiding your shape. But you’re still as foreign-looking as ever. Equally as intriguing as the first time he saw you.

He’s acutely aware of his surroundings: the lack of air circulating, the placement of his body as he leans against the metal table in the center of the room, his discarded shirt. He’d stripped himself of the top half of his bloodied armor before you entered and now can not tell if he’d prefer to have kept it on. Modesty is not a trait attributed to him, but he feels too exposed with you here, like every thought he’s ever had of you is plastered across his pale skin, and the second you look at him, you’ll see the telling display.

But you’ve yet to look in his direction. You’re busying yourself, far more concerned with the bowls of medical supplies on the cart against the wall. You grab a couple of gauzy pads, some tape, and a small metal spatula that you’ve scooped some ointment onto.

Glancing over your shoulder, your eyes flick to his bicep before you return your attention to your collection. “It’s not too bad,” you tell him, and fuck, he likes your voice. He never got a chance to hear it before. You’d been an obedient little guest while trying to keep up with everything the elders were telling you years ago, and obedient little guests sew their lips shut. “Though I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

When the melody of your voice dissipates, he looks down at his arm. Truth be told, he forgot about the small slice that, with a bit of luck, a slave managed to inflict in the arena. The rush of pleasure subsided and he ceased feeling the warm trickle of blood seeping from the wound the moment you walked into the room, instantly more preoccupied with your surprising presence.

He was expecting one of the elders, the healers he’s had since he was a boy. But with their recent displays of poor memories and trembling fingers from age, he supposes it was only a matter of time before they would retire. However, he was not made aware of a replacement—a much younger, captivating replacement.

“You're new,” he says through the gravel in his throat.

“Yes,” you confirm. “But I assure you I know what I'm doing.” Then you turn and set your supplies on the table to the side of his body, laying them out in the order you intend to use them before getting straight to work.

The flinch that your touch induces when you rub an alcohol-soaked pad over his bicep to disinfect and clean the drying blood from his skin stuns him. He’s not a flincher. He never flinches. But he can’t help it. He can’t help the tingle that runs down his spine. He can’t help how his stare glues to your face as you work. He can’t help wanting to press his thumb to your bottom lip and tug it free from the trap of your teeth.

If he did that, would you even notice? You’re a thorough worker, honed in, too focused to stop and pay attention to him. Your steps are executed with the ease that years of practice afford, and the task is completed much sooner than he would’ve liked.

Your thumbs stroke over his bicep, smoothing out the edges of the tape that holds the pad to his skin. “There,” you say, satisfied with the job.

Finally, you look up at him.

The tingle returns, and bumps travel down the length of his forearms as he watches each shift of your features. How your eyes widen, how your lips part, how your breath hitches, making his heart hammer behind the wall of his chest. You’re so close. It wouldn’t take much to kiss you. A slight dip of his head. A hand on the back of your neck to draw you in those remaining inches.

But then you blink. The bond of your gazes breaks, and you take a step out of the bubble of space you were sharing. You clear your throat. Your eyes fall to the floor. “I’m done,” you mutter before quickly gathering the used supplies and discarding them in the trash. “I will see you after your next fight, my Lord. Assuming you suffer any injuries.” And then you’re gone.

—

It’s painful to Feyd’s pride, letting a weaker man succeed in injuring him in front of all of Giedi Prime. Spectators know the slave is an easy kill. He’s too thin, muscle mass barely evident. It’s a duel that should last mere minutes, if that, and yet Feyd lets it extend well past expectations—just long enough to ensure a few slashes of his opponent's blade will penetrate his thin armor without it being obvious he’s allowing the assault to happen.

The second Feyd feels the third nick in his flesh, a swift, skilled maneuver ends the slave’s life. Three is better than one, he thinks. More injuries means more time spent with you tending to him. And he wants that time. It is all he’s thought about for days. Feeling your touch again. Hearing your voice. Peering into your eyes.

He does not waste a moment to bask in the cheers following his victory, a tune he usually absorbs as if the sound grants him extended life. Instead, he drops his crimson-coated weapon onto the sand beside the fallen body and stomps toward one of the arena exits.

You startle when you see him, so subtle that had he blinked, it would’ve gone undetected. A brief scan of his chest confirms what he knew you would be surprised to see: more blood than before, more cuts for you to heal.

Composing yourself, you make your way to the aid cart. His eyes follow every movement of you collecting what you need before you turn to him, once again arranging your tools in the order you intend to use them.

The alcohol is cooler to the touch this time, a direct repercussion of his burning skin, and he grips the edge of the table until his knuckles whiten. He wants to reach out. He wants to feel you. You’re not as close as you were a few days ago, and it’s a glaring mar on the fruition of his daydreams. A wedge of air between you.

He leans in a modest couple of inches to see if you will maintain that distance. When you don’t, he says, “Where are you from?”

Your mouth opens and then closes. A pause, and then it opens again. “Caladan,” you say, your eyes still trained on the process of your work.

Caladan. Now that you say it, it makes perfect sense. The hair, the accent, the color of the clothes you wore five years ago. He hasn’t interacted with many Caladanians, any Caladanians, but still, he should’ve guessed.

“That's where you trained?” he asks, but he knows the answer. It’s common knowledge that Caladan produces strong healers, and you tell him just as much.

“We have good teachers,” you say as you swipe a spatula’s-worth of ointment just under his collarbone. “Healers from many planets find their replacements on Caladan. I was chosen to come to Giedi Prime long ago, once completing my education.” Feyd hums in acknowledgment. Your eyes flick up to his and then go back to his chest. A pink tinge seeps into your cheeks. “I visited once.”

“Is that right.”

You nod. “I liked it here,” you tell him. “It’s different, but different is…” your voice trails off. “Sometimes different is good.”

Feyd agrees. Different can be good. He runs his gaze down the length of your body. Sometimes different can be very good.

“Eager to leave such an inferior place?” he asks as you take a step to his right, starting on the cut across his pec.

Your brow pinches and you swallow—he can sense the hesitation—then you bite your lip. You can’t keep doing that: nibbling on that lip until its swollen state is indistinguishable from that of a long, thorough kiss. He’ll be inclined to do something about it. With each passing second, the urge grows harder to resist, and he’s just about ready to lift his hand to your face when you answer.

“There was nothing for me on Caladan,” you say. “Nothing for any of us. We were the children without families, without parents.”

Feyd snaps himself out of his fascination with your mouth and scoffs. “So what? They’re useless, anyway.”

The pressure of your hand holding the pad against his chest lightens, and you look up. Your expression is blank, but you hold his stare.

He can’t tell what’s tumbling around in that mind of yours. Maybe you know, maybe the truth of what he did to his own mother reached far enough to find an orphan’s ear on Caladan. Though what he’s done does not matter to him, he’s suddenly unsure of the effect it may have on you, and he can’t say he would be pleased to have offended you if it widens the gap between your body and his. But it proves inconsequential when your lips quirk up at the corners.

You lightly shake your head as you get back to work. “I wouldn’t know. They were dead before I could remember them.”

A huff blows from his nostrils. “Then trust me.”

Just barely, Feyd detects the slight curve of another smile. Silence passes as you tear off a strip of tape from the roll. Once the tape is sealed to his skin, you move away to begin cleaning up, but he grabs your wrist. You freeze solid. Then your head whips to stare at the contact. “There's one more,” he says before he releases you and turns.

As you step up behind him, the swell of pulsing energy surrounding you merges with his. Each puff of your breath warms his skin. The muscles in his back flex and shift in anticipation of your touch.

“Right,” you practically whisper. He nearly shudders when the tip of your finger traces a line just under the cut. “Just…stay still.”

Easier said than done.

—

He’ll admit this one potentially went a bit too far.

He had to do something, though. Something drastic. It’s been months of you tending to his intentional low-grade injuries, but lately you've begun to address them at a much quicker pace. After his last three fights, you’ve come in, slapped a piece of tape on his wounds, and rushed out before he could pull a word or two from you.

He can’t make sense of it. He doesn’t understand how what he did made everything change. From his perspective, you’ve grown closer. He knows you better from shared details of your history and life—details he does not care to request from any other soul on the planet—and those touches, those moments of skin-on-skin, were only becoming more intense. Your fingers were lingering longer. Your cheeks would redden whenever your eyes met. When your body was close enough to his, your breathing would turn shallow. Then one day, he touched your cheek, ran his thumb over your bottom lip, and now you run away as if being in his presence for too long will suck the life out of you.

But this you cannot run away from. This requires more attention.

A groan rumbles from his throat as he peels off his top layer and tosses it aside. The fabric is damp, slick with sweat and blood, and it makes a sloppy noise when it hits the floor. He looks down. It’s deeper than he intended. Not life-threatening by far, but you certainly won’t be able to stick a bandage on it and go on your way.

With a heavy exhale, he grabs a pad from the cart and presses it to his abdomen before crossing the room to lean against the edge of the table. He waits. After a handful of minutes, his patience curdles; thoughts of the impossible start to invade. Are you hiding? Did you escape? Have you thrown yourself off a ledge to get away from him?

You open the door before he can entertain any other questions.

“You’re late,” he grumbles.

The door slams behind you, your gaze instantly going to the blood-soaked gauze. There’s a lack of your usual grace as you stomp your steps in his direction. “Let me see it,” you demand in a tone he’s never heard from you. His heart pounds at the fire in your eyes. The pace of his breaths quickens.

He does his best to control the rise and fall of his chest, but it’s impossible. Luckily, you’re too distracted by the state of his lower body to notice. “Why are you late?” he asks.

“Move your hand.”

“Answer me.”

“Move your hand.” His brow raises. A beat passes, and then he pulls back the gauze to reveal the gash in his torso. A frown sets on your face. Your eyes snap to his. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“I watched you,” you tell him. “You gave that prisoner a window.”

“You’re late because you were watching the fight?” You’ve never watched his fights. It is not permitted. Your role is to wait for him, not join in on the entertainment.

You cross your arms under your chest. A crease forms in between your brows. “Why did you let him stab you?” you say, voice steady with the exception of the wobble that briefly sneaks in halfway through.

An immediate sense of satisfaction settles over him. It’s rapidly becoming clear—you’re more than bothered, more than irritated, you’re worried. And now he has the high ground. “Maybe you should assist me instead of asking questions. I’m bleeding out.”

Your lips part, but whatever words you have contain themselves just before they release, and your mouth closes. You stare at him. A smirk curls the edge of his lips that makes you roll your eyes.

With a huff, your arms drop down to your sides. “Stand up straight.”

When he does, your hand knocks his aside to remove the pad so you can better examine him. The bleeding has slowed. The skin around the wound has begun to feel tight. It still hurts like a damn bitch, and the way you focus on him only adds to the pleasurable sensation.

Your fingers press around the perimeter of the laceration, carefully prodding, searching for signs of something he would not understand, and his throat constricts at those gentle brushes on his flesh. His stomach clenches. Tingles and chills and goosebumps.

Once you’re satisfied with your findings, your hand flattens against the ridges of his abs. A sharp inhale sucks into his lungs as your palm slides up his body, stopping at the center of his chest. You lightly push. “Lay down,” you instruct. His hand raises and covers yours. He wants to hold on, pull you down with him, on top of him. If he could have your weight begging to meld with his, if he could kiss you– “Down. You need stitches.”

Your hand escapes from under his, and as you head over to the cart, he pulls himself up onto the table. Your supplies are all the same save for the pliers and thread that you expertly loop through the hole of a needle.

The punctures don’t sting. He can hardly feel them as he watches you nibble on your lip again, unable to jerk his gaze away from your face. With the seconds that tick by, your cheeks begin to bloom a soft pink. The shade deepens the longer he stares.

“It’ll scar,” you tell him as you tie off a final knot before peeling the gloves from your hands. He finally blinks. As he sits up, you take a few steps back and hug your arms around your waist. “You blocked every fatal attack but allowed this one,” you say. “Tell me why.”

He hums. It should be obvious. For what other purpose would there be? “Do you really not know?” he asks. When you don’t answer, he says, “Or are you smart enough to come to the conclusion all on your own.”

When he sees the harsh swallow in your throat, that’s all he needs. He slides off the table to stand and slowly eases closer, backing you up until you’re trapped between his body and the concrete wall. He searches for trembling, any evidence of discomfort, but it’s not there—no shaking hands, no quivering lip. His head dips, eliminating some unwanted space.

Your chin tilts upward slightly. But you hold yourself back. “My Lord…”

“Kiss me,” he whispers.

You swallow again. “You’re the na-Baron.”

“Yes.”

“We can’t–”

“We can,” he says. And then he leans lower and presses his lips to the delicate skin of your neck. He detects a gasp as his tongue darts out and glides across heated flesh. You smell so good. You taste even better. When he pulls back, your noses are almost touching; mouths so close the air between you becomes thin. “Kiss,” he repeats. “Me.”

Your eyes flit between his and his lips, which demand yours. He watches intently, waiting for you to finally surrender and sink into the pulsing thrum of your bodies.

And then you cave. Your hand goes to the back of his neck and your mouth plants firmly on his.

You kiss him hard, like you've wanted this as much as he has, and he can't help letting you have a moment of control to prove it. But he craves more. His head goes fuzzy as he matches the give and take. Fingers tangle into the strands of your foreign hair, lightly tugging, and he swallows the moan it draws from you.

He's greedy—wanting all that you have to offer. When your tongue touches his, his hands can't stop from roaming from your cheeks to your waist to your hips, pulling you closer.

Already he knows he won't be able to get over this. That this will not be a single kiss but rather the first of many. Very many. And by the way you grip his shoulders, it seems you know it too.

Suddenly, the connection severs and he's forced to chase after your lips, catching one more kiss before you pull out of reach. His brow pinches, but you don't acknowledge his distaste.

Your breaths are heavy as you peer up at him. “I don't wish to be a Lord's concubine.”

“You won't be my concubine,” he says. Concubine has been the furthest from his mind as his yearning for you has continued to grow over the weeks. It's too weak a title. He likes you more than that. More than his Darlings, more than any woman his uncle has attempted to throw at him.

“Then what will I be?”

He picks his words carefully, knowing that what he wants, what he's imagined, could be much too overwhelming. Scary, even. And he has no intention of making you a harder conquest. So all he says is:

“You’ll be more.”

---

A/N: I hope you enjoyed it. I've struggled to write much of anything for the past two months, so this took a lot, and I honestly don't know how it turned out. If you liked it, let me know :)

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha #jay fic recs

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jays-after-hours-blog · 13 days ago

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The love of my life (Enjoyed this a lot! Thank you @eowynsowl )

Warmth In The Firelight

Notes: My second fic in two days, I was scrolling through @imaginexhobbit's blog and found this one, along with a few others I’m working on currently! I am thinking about opening up requests again, what do you guys think? I hope you enjoy this one & as always, constructive criticism is appreciated! imagine

Warning(s): none, unless you count sweet tenderness :)

The company had finally found respite at Beorn’s house after the intense chase he gave them. The smell of freshly baked bread lingered in the air, and the soft crackle of the fire filled the silence as everyone settled into the cozy warmth of the great hall of Beorn’s cottage. Despite the faint tension of being in the home of a skin-changer (who had just scared you within an inch of your life), you felt a sense of safety you hadn’t experienced in weeks.

You found your spot near Fili, who had taken a place beside one of the low tables. His golden hair glinted in the firelight, his usually mischievous face now softened by exhaustion. You didn’t intend to end up so close to him—it just happened as the company sprawled out in various spots, vying for comfort. Your blanket, much too thin to ward off the night’s chill, left you shivering as you tried to find a comfortable position.

Fili noticed. “Cold?” he asked softly, his voice just above a whisper. His blue eyes flickered toward you, filled with quiet concern.

You hesitated, unwilling to admit it outright, but the tremble in your frame betrayed you. He didn’t press further. Instead, he shifted slightly, drawing the edge of his own blanket toward you.

“Here. Won’t do much, but better than nothing,” he murmured, his tone gentle.

Grateful, you nodded and tried to share the blanket without getting too close. The fire’s glow was soothing, and the low hum of Thorin and Balin’s quiet conversation filled the room, lulling you into drowsiness. Before you realized it, you began to lean slightly toward Fili, your exhaustion overriding your usual awareness.

Then it happened. Your arm brushed against his, the unexpected touch startling you awake. You tensed, pulling back slightly in embarrassment. “Sorry,” you whispered quickly, looking down at your hands.

Fili didn’t reply right away. For a moment, you thought he might have fallen asleep once more, but then you felt the weight of his arm hesitating above your shoulders. His breath hitched—uncertain, perhaps—but then his hand settled gently against your arm. The hesitation melted away as he gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t worry about it,” Fili said quietly, his voice barely audible over the crackling fire. He pulled you closer, his arm wrapping around you with surprising care. His warmth was immediate, chasing away the chill that had seeped into your bones.

You stiffened at first, not expecting the sudden closeness, but the steady rise and fall of his chest and the calmness in his presence made it hard to resist relaxing. You let out a soft sigh, leaning into him as your head rested lightly against his shoulder. Fili shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket to make sure you were both covered.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The company’s soft snores and the distant howl of the wind outside were the only sounds in the room. Fili’s thumb brushed absentmindedly against your arm, a soothing motion that made your eyelids grow heavier.

“This isn’t so bad,” he said after a while, his voice tinged with amusement. “I’d say you’ve got the better end of the deal. I’m a fine dwarven heater.”

You smile faintly, eyes still closed. “I think I’ll take full advantage of that, then.”

His soft chuckle vibrated against you, and you felt his grip tighten just a fraction. “You’re welcome to,” he replied, his tone softer now, his earlier playfulness giving way to something gentler.

Wrapped in his warmth and the rare peace of the moment, you allowed yourself to drift off, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear and his arm holding you close. For the first time in weeks, you felt completely safe.

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jays-after-hours-blog · 20 days ago

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jays-after-hours-blog · 20 days ago

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i’ve been workshopping this idea for like three days and i think i finally cracked the code

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jays-after-hours-blog · 20 days ago

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Me checking on one of my beloved ao3 fics that hasn't been updated since 2017

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jays-after-hours-blog · 20 days ago

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Esha Ingellvar and Emmrich Volkarin for @ladymdc Commission work <3

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jays-after-hours-blog · 21 days ago

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🌴🥥🌊☀️✨

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jays-after-hours-blog · 21 days ago

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get a grip loverboy !!!

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jays-after-hours-blog · 21 days ago

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saw a girl talking about how even after being together for a while, her bf still gets hard when she kisses him and needs a moment to readjust himself before they go out in public lol. anyway this is bob floyd. he loves kissing you and he does in fact get hard from a simple kiss at times because you're just so perfect and everything he's ever wanted. if you kiss him before going out, you're likely going to run late because he's hard (and perhaps needs to get in a little quickie to get it out of his system 👀)

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jays-after-hours-blog · 22 days ago

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Between Doubt and Secrets

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: When Geta and Caracalla left to attend to their duties as Emperors, you stayed behind due to sickness. Geta returns he notices just how distant you are, a week passed and he thinks he knows the reason behind your coldness.

The sound of his boots on the stone floor echoes in the quiet of the palace, each step bringing him closer to you.

After what feels like an eternity, Geta is done with his daily duties.

Normally, that would be a relief, a reason to smile.

But tonight, the air between you feels different. It’s heavy with a secret you’ve carried alone for far too long.

You stay by the window, watching the fading light of the setting sun. You were nervous.

The day is ending.

The news of your child you have known for over three weeks now. The doctor confirmed your suspicion and your heart sank.

A child wasn’t part of your plan. At least not now.

In truth, it’s thrown everything into chaos.

But now Geta is back, and the tension in the room is thick.

When he steps into the room, his presence fills the space.

His eyes immediately find you, but there’s something different about his look tonight.

It’s not the warmth you’ve grown to know, not the loving look he only gives to you.

No, tonight his eyes are sharp, suspicious. His brow furrows just slightly as he approaches.

“Where have you been today?” he asks, his voice even, too calm for the question. He was angry.

In the morning he did ask to see you, but you failed to.

For a moment, you stop.

You weren’t expecting interrogation, weren’t prepared for it. His eyes are searching, like he already knows something.

“I was... outside. Just needed some air.”

He doesn’t immediately respond, but you can see the suspicion in his eyes.

It doesn’t take much for him to read you, to notice when something’s off. To know when you lie.

And for the last week he has been home, something has been off.

“You’ve been distant,” he says after a long pause. “Too distant. I’ve been gone for weeks, and it feels like you’ve shut me out.”

His words cut deep, though you know he doesn’t mean to hurt you.

He doesn’t understand.

He hasn’t seen the turmoil you’ve been living with, the fear that’s kept you awake at night.

“I’m not... I’m not shutting you out,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just... a lot has happened while you were gone.”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing.

“What kind of ‘a lot,’ exactly? Have you been seeing someone else while I’ve been gone?”

The accusation hits you like cold water.

It’s not anger that fills his voice but hurt.

The kind of hurt that makes your stomach swirl.

You want to tell him that it’s not like that, that there’s no one else. But the truth is so much more complicated. And far more frightening.

“Geta, no,” you say, your voice trembling. “There’s no one else. I’ve been alone while you were gone. It’s just... I’ve been trying to figure things out.”

He watches you for a long moment, and you see the doubt still in his eyes.

You know he’s not convinced.

But you don’t know how to explain the truth.

How could you tell him that you’re carrying his child when you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself?

How could you tell him that you have been inside all day trying to figure out how to finally tell him?

Especially when he specifically told you he is not ready for a child. Only the senators demand such a thing. And he doesn't want to give into their needs.

He had enough to care for already, the Empires, his brother and now this.

For a long moment, the room is silent. You tried to collect your thoughts as you played with the hem of your dress.

You and Geta loved each other. Your love was known far and wide for its fire.

Then, finally, you collect yourself. You took a deep breath and realized, you needed to say it.

“Geta... there’s something I must tell you.”

His eyes shoot up to yours, but he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t say a word. He just waits, watching you closely, as if bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say. He prepared for the worst, he is scared you are about to break his heart.

“I’m pregnant,” you finally say. The weight now lifting from your shoulders but it fills the room instead.

The silence that follows is thicker than the air. Almost makes in impossible to breathe.

His expression shifts from one of anger to one of pure confusion.

He was a smart man, he probably connected the events already.

“Pregnant?” he repeats, voice low. “But... how? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you whisper, your hands trembling as you spoke. “I wasn’t sure what to think, and... I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Disappoint me?” he shakes his head. “I... I don’t understand. I thought you were... I thought you were pulling away from me, that you found someone.”

“How can I find anyone Geta? I love you so much. I just didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t plan for it. And what you said about the senators... I was scared.”

He falls silent, staring at you for a long time, as if frozen in time. He realised it was all his fault. That day, he spoke out of anger, he didn't realise just how much pressure that put on you.

In reality, he always wanted a child with you, just on your own terms.

After a moment, he steps closer, his hands trembling as they reach out to you.

“Are you truly pregnant?”

You nod, and a single tear slips down your cheek. The weight that’s been crushing you lifts just a little.

Then, without warning, Geta pulls you into his arms.

It’s a sudden and tight hug as if he’s afraid to let go of you.

His embrace is tight, warm, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe that everything will be okay.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought... you didn’t want me anymore.”

You pull back slightly to look at him, searching his eyes, you offer him a warm smile.

“I do want you. I just... I was scared. This wasn’t how I imagined it would happen.”

He brushes a hand over your stomach gently.

“You’re carrying our child, the future of Rome.” he says softly, the disbelief still evident in his voice.

“I am,” you reply, your voice catching in your throat.

His hand rests on your stomach, his fingers warm and protective. "I'm not leaving your side again. And what I said about the senators... I don't care for them. I care for you, I love you. I will protect you and our child. I promise."

For the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to breathe.

“We’ll be okay,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him, but he hears it.

Geta presses a soft kiss to your lips, pulling you close again. His voice and heart beat fill you with hope.

“I promise.” he whispered again.

And you knew Geta always kept his promise.

Suddenly, your baby felt like a blessing. The future of Rome and you.

Gladiator II Collection

Taglist:

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen @brevlada24

@mel-vaz @akamitrani @ange-olras @nicholaschavezslut69

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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