#Except that it would be lovely and quick to get to the end of the current book | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

amethystarachnid · 1 day ago

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If you promise us a happy ending, I'm okay with a angst part 3 hahahahah a breakup would be nice. The boy needs to move into another place, Tony being the most supportive and cute dad ❤️

CHRISTMAS MORNING - part III

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 5.9k

ᯓ★ Summary: first love heart break is rough, but nothing a trip to Paris can't resolve

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing

ᯓ★ Part I | Part II

ᯓ★ Prequel

ᯓ★ maybe a prequel to let you know how Tony and y/n ended up with four kids? 🤭, just wanna focus some more on the two of them before the kids

ᯓ★ Tony Taglist: @groovy-lady

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

Summer turns to fall, and Cora and Ryan’s relationship becomes a steady part of family life. By now, Ryan is a regular visitor to the house. Though Tony still maintains his “watchful dad” persona, he’s noticeably relaxed around Ryan, occasionally sharing a sarcastic comment or offering him a soda without much fuss. You’ve even caught Tony grumbling about the boy’s taste in music—not exactly glowing approval, but close enough.

Cora, meanwhile, is glowing in a way you’ve never seen before. She’s still her fiercely independent self, but there’s a new softness about her—she’s less quick to snap, more patient with her siblings, and her happiness is infectious. Except, of course, when it comes to Alex and Howard.

The twins, ever the chaos-makers, have taken their jealousy of Ryan to theatrical levels.

“Cora doesn’t love us anymore,” Alex announces one afternoon as you’re folding laundry in the living room.

“She just loves him,” Howard chimes in dramatically, lying face-down on the carpet like his world has ended.

You glance up from the socks you’re sorting and try not to laugh. “That’s not true, and you know it. Cora loves you very much.”

“Then why doesn’t she play with us anymore?” Alex demands, sitting up with a pout.

“She used to build forts with us,” Howard adds, now rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling like a tragic hero in a Shakespearean play. “Now she just texts him all the time.”

“Boys,” you say gently, sitting down beside them. “Cora’s growing up. That doesn’t mean she loves you any less. She’s just figuring out who she is and spending time with someone who makes her happy. But you’ll always be her little brothers, okay?”

“Yeah, but we don’t like him,” Alex mutters.

“You barely know him,” you point out.

“We don’t have to know him to not like him,” Howard says stubbornly.

Before you can respond, Estelle toddles into the room, dragging a blanket behind her. She climbs onto your lap without a word and leans against you, her thumb in her mouth.

“See?” you say, wrapping an arm around Estelle. “Even when Cora’s busy, you’ve got each other—and us.”

The twins don’t look entirely convinced, but they nod reluctantly.

Later that evening, while the kids are occupied with a movie, you and Tony find a rare quiet moment together in the kitchen. He’s leaning against the counter, sipping a glass of wine, while you finish tidying up.

“They’re really laying it on thick, huh?” Tony says, smirking as he recalls the twins’ earlier dramatics.

“They’re jealous,” you reply, rinsing the last dish. “They miss her, and they don’t know how to say it without turning it into a production.”

Tony sets his glass down and crosses the room, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “Well, they’d better get used to it. She’s not a kid anymore. And I’m pretty sure Ryan’s sticking around.”

You lean back against him, savoring the warmth of the moment. “You really think so?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I still want to give the kid the third degree every time I see him,” Tony says with a chuckle. “But yeah, he’s not bad. And she’s happy. That’s what matters, right?”

You turn to face him, resting your hands on his chest. “You’re a good dad, you know that?”

“Don’t let that get around,” he says, grinning as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Just then, Estelle toddles into the kitchen, clutching a stuffed animal in one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other.

“Mommy,” she says sleepily.

You scoop her up, kissing her chubby cheek. “What are you doing out of bed, little one?”

“Can’t sleep,” she murmurs, resting her head on your shoulder.

Tony reaches out to brush a strand of hair from her face, his expression softening in that way it always does when he looks at her. “Come on, princess,” he says. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

He takes her from your arms and carries her upstairs, humming a soft tune as she curls against his chest. You follow a few steps behind, watching the way he cradles her with the kind of tenderness that still catches you off guard sometimes.

Back downstairs, the twins are sprawled on the couch, fast asleep by the time the credits roll. Cora is in her room, probably texting Ryan, and the house feels peaceful in a way that’s rare but cherished.

Over the next few weeks, the twins continue to grumble about Ryan, but their protests lose some of their bite. They still don’t love the idea of sharing Cora’s attention, but they’re slowly coming to terms with it.

One Saturday, Cora surprises everyone by joining the twins for a game of basketball in the driveway. Ryan is nowhere in sight, and the boys are thrilled to have their big sister back, even if only for an hour. You watch from the porch with Tony, sipping coffee as the three of them laugh and bicker over the rules.

“See?” you say, nudging Tony with your elbow. “They’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, though his gaze lingers on Cora a little longer. “But I reserve the right to be overprotective forever.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” you reply, leaning against him.

It’s late afternoon when the front door opens, and you hear the unmistakable sound of Cora’s school bag dropping onto the floor. Usually, this is accompanied by her calling out, “Hey, I’m home!” or the sound of her heading to the kitchen for a snack. But today, it’s eerily quiet.

You glance up from the stack of papers you’re sorting at the dining table, your instincts immediately on alert. Tony, who’s tinkering with something small and metallic at the kitchen counter, notices too.

“Cora?” you call, standing.

Then you hear it—soft, muffled sobs coming from the living room. You’re moving before you even think, Tony right behind you.

You find her sitting on the couch, her knees pulled up to her chest, her face buried in her arms. Her whole body shakes with the force of her tears, and it feels like someone’s reached into your chest and squeezed your heart.

“Sweetheart?” you say softly, sitting down beside her.

Tony freezes for a moment, his eyes wide with panic as he takes in the sight of his usually strong, confident daughter falling apart. “What happened? Who hurt you? Tell me right now, and I’ll deal with it,” he says, his voice already edging toward anger.

Cora looks up, her face streaked with tears, and shakes her head. “No one hurt me, Dad.”

“Then what’s wrong?” you ask gently, brushing her hair out of her face.

She tries to speak, but her voice cracks, and a fresh wave of tears spills over.

Tony, clearly struggling to stay calm, sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of her. “Cora, you’re scaring me here. Just tell us what’s going on.”

After a moment, she takes a shaky breath and manages to get the words out. “Ryan… Ryan’s moving to London.”

Your heart sinks. “Oh, sweetheart…”

Tony blinks, his initial panic giving way to confusion. “London? Like… England London?”

Cora nods, wiping at her eyes. “His dad got a job there. They’re leaving in a month.”

“And what does that mean for you two?” Tony asks, though he already looks like he knows the answer.

Cora swallows hard, her voice trembling. “He… He said we should break up. He doesn’t want to do long distance.”

Tony’s jaw tightens, his fists clenching on his knees. “That little—”

“Tony,” you say sharply, cutting him off. “This isn’t about you wanting to punch a teenager.”

“Why not?” he mutters under his breath, but he backs down.

Cora lets out a shaky sigh. “It’s not his fault. He doesn’t think it’ll work, and… maybe he’s right. But it hurts so much.”

“Oh, honey,” you say, pulling her into a hug. She collapses against you, her sobs muffled against your shoulder.

Tony’s expression softens as he watches her, and he reaches out to squeeze her hand. “He’s an idiot if he thinks he’s not going to miss you every day. You’re amazing, Cora. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.”

Before she can respond, there’s a small sound from the hallway. You turn to see Estelle standing there, clutching her favorite plushie—a well-loved bunny with one floppy ear. Her wide eyes take in the scene, and she hesitates for a moment before toddling over to the couch.

“Cowa sad?” she asks, her voice tiny and uncertain.

Cora sniffles and sits up a little, trying to wipe her tears away. “I’m okay, Estelle.”

But Estelle isn’t convinced. She climbs onto the couch beside her sister, her little face scrunched up with concern. Without a word, she holds out her bunny.

“Bun-bun make you happy,” she says solemnly.

Cora’s breath catches, and for a moment, she looks like she might start crying again—but this time, for an entirely different reason. She takes the plushie with trembling hands and pulls Estelle into a hug.

“Thank you, Stellie,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

Tony watches the scene unfold, his usual snark and bravado nowhere to be found. He looks at you, and you can see the helplessness in his eyes. He hates seeing any of his kids in pain, and knowing there’s nothing he can do to fix it is clearly killing him.

Later, after you’ve managed to convince Cora to eat a little something and Estelle is back to playing with her toys, you find Tony in the garage. He’s pacing, running his hands through his hair, and muttering to himself.

“Tony,” you say gently, stepping into the room.

He stops and looks at you, his expression a mix of frustration and sadness. “I hate this. I hate that she’s hurting, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“I know,” you say, wrapping your arms around him. “But she doesn’t need you to fix it. She just needs you to be there for her.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” he admits, his voice quiet. “I’m not good at this kind of stuff.”

“You’re better at it than you think,” you tell him, resting your head against his chest. “Just keep showing up. That’s all she needs.”

Over the next few days, Cora starts to open up a little more. She talks about the memories she and Ryan made together, the inside jokes they shared, and the plans they’d dreamed of before the news of his move.

The twins, thankfully, are oblivious to the situation for the time being. They’re too busy with basketball practice and their latest obsession with building the tallest block towers they can manage. You’re grateful for the reprieve—it gives Cora space to grieve without their constant questions and commentary.

One evening, as you’re tucking Estelle into bed, she looks up at you with her big, curious eyes.

“Cowa okay now?” she asks.

You smile softly and brush her hair back. “She’s getting there, sweetie. Thanks to you and Bun-bun.”

Estelle nods, satisfied, and snuggles deeper into her blankets.

By the end of the week, Cora seems a little stronger. She still has moments where the pain hits her all over again, but she’s beginning to smile and laugh more often. Tony even manages to get her to join him for a round of Mario Kart, and the sound of her laughter fills the house like a balm for everyone’s hearts.

“She’s going to be okay,” you tell Tony one night as you’re lying in bed.

“Yeah,” he says, though his voice is still tinged with sadness. “But it’s going to take time.”

And so, as a family, you give her all the time she needs, surrounding her with love, support, and the occasional inappropriate dad joke to remind her that she’s never alone.

The chaos starts one evening during dinner. The twins are unusually quiet, their usual chatter about basketball, school antics, and random “fun facts” replaced by curious glances toward Cora. She’s sitting at the table, picking at her plate of pasta with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. The sparkle she usually carries has dimmed a bit since the breakup, though she’s been doing her best to mask it.

“Hey, Cora,” Alex pipes up, breaking the silence. “Where’s Ryan? He hasn’t come over in forever.”

Howard nods, his mouth full. “Yeah, didn’t he say he’d bring us that big bag of caramel popcorn? He never did.”

You can see the subtle flinch in Cora’s shoulders before she glances at you, silently pleading for help. Tony immediately stiffens, his protective instincts on high alert as he watches the exchange unfold.

“Guys,” you say gently, “Ryan… isn’t coming over anymore.”

The twins pause mid-bite, their synchronized reactions almost comical.

“What? Why?” Alex demands, his tone filled with disbelief.

Howard narrows his eyes. “Did he do something to you, Cora? Because if he did, we’ll—”

“No!” Cora cuts in quickly, setting down her fork. “It’s nothing like that. He’s moving to London, and we broke up.”

The twins blink, processing this new information. Then, as if on cue, they both push their plates away and hop off their chairs.

“Unacceptable,” Alex declares, his hands balling into fists.

“Totally unacceptable,” Howard echoes, his expression darkening. “He can’t just dump you and move to London like that!”

“It’s not his fault,” Cora says, though her voice is tinged with frustration. “He doesn’t want to do long distance, and we both agreed it was for the best.”

“That’s a bad excuse,” Alex snaps, pacing back and forth.

“He’s a coward,” Howard adds. “And cowards don’t deserve you, Cora!”

Before you or Tony can intervene, Estelle, who has been sitting quietly in her high chair, suddenly pipes up in her tiny, serious voice.

“Coward don’t deserve Cowa,” she says, mimicking Howard’s words almost perfectly.

Tony chokes on his water, and you nearly drop your fork.

“Estelle,” you say, trying not to laugh. “Sweetie, you don’t even know what that means.”

“Coward,” Estelle repeats, crossing her arms like her brothers, as if she fully understands the weight of her declaration.

“See? Even Stellie gets it!” Alex says, gesturing dramatically to his baby sister.

“We should punch him,” Howard announces, his face set in a grim expression.

“Punch him,” Estelle echoes, holding up her tiny fist.

At that, Tony finally snaps out of his stunned silence and stands up, waving his hands in front of him. “Okay, okay, let’s pump the brakes here. Nobody’s punching anyone.”

“Why not?” Alex asks, glaring up at his dad.

“And anyway,” Howard adds, “Ryan hurt Cora. Isn’t that worse?”

“Guys,” you say firmly, stepping in before this spirals any further, “violence isn’t the answer. And Ryan didn’t hurt Cora—he made a difficult decision, and sometimes relationships just don’t work out. It’s no one’s fault.”

“But Cora’s sad,” Alex says, his lower lip jutting out in a rare display of vulnerability.

“We don’t like seeing her like this,” Howard agrees.

Cora, who’s been quietly watching the whole exchange, finally speaks up. “I appreciate you guys wanting to defend me, but I don’t need anyone to fight my battles. I’m okay, really.”

“You don’t seem okay,” Alex mumbles.

“She’s just figuring it out,” you say softly, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “And the best thing you can do is support her and be there when she needs you.”

The twins exchange a look, clearly reluctant to let the matter drop.

“We still don’t like him,” Howard mutters as he sits back down.

“Yeah,” Alex adds. “And we’re never eating caramel popcorn again.”

At that, Estelle solemnly pushes her sippy cup away and declares, “No popcorn.”

Tony snorts, shaking his head as he sits back down. “You’re really digging in on this, huh?”

“Someone has to,” Alex says with a dramatic sigh.

The rest of dinner is a little quieter, though the twins occasionally shoot pointed glances at Cora, as if they’re still plotting how to avenge her heartbreak. Estelle, meanwhile, alternates between eating her mashed potatoes and mimicking the twins’ exaggerated arm-crossing stance, clearly enjoying the attention.

Later, as you’re tucking Estelle into bed, she looks up at you with her wide, innocent eyes and asks, “Cowa happy now?”

You brush a strand of hair from her face and kiss her forehead. “She’s getting there, sweetie. Thanks to you and your brothers.”

Estelle smiles, snuggling into her blankets. “Okay. No popcorn.”

You stifle a laugh and tuck her in, leaving her room with a heart full of love for your fiercely protective little family.

Downstairs, you find Tony sitting on the couch, staring at the wall with a contemplative expression.

“You okay?” you ask, sitting beside him.

He lets out a long sigh. “I don’t know how you do it. Keeping them all from forming a vigilante squad and storming London.”

You laugh, leaning your head on his shoulder. “It’s a team effort.”

Tony wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer. “She’s going to be okay, right?”

“She will,” you say confidently. “She’s got us. And if that’s not enough, she’s got two little brothers and a baby sister ready to take on the world for her.”

Tony chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Yeah. That’s enough.”

It starts with little things, subtle and soft gestures to help lift Cora’s spirits. You and Tony both know she’s heartbroken—first loves are never easy to lose, and Ryan’s move to London had hit her harder than she wanted to admit. But you also know the kind of family she has. Stark resilience, wrapped in unconditional love, with just a sprinkle of chaos.

The effort begins the morning after the twins’ dramatic anti-Ryan declarations. Cora walks into the kitchen to find the twins at the breakfast table, uncharacteristically quiet. Estelle is perched in her high chair, clumsily holding a spoon as she tries to feed herself yogurt.

“Good morning,” Cora mumbles, still a little groggy.

“Morning!” Alex chirps, way too chipper for this early.

“Hi,” Howard says, looking suspiciously at his brother.

Cora narrows her eyes. “What are you two up to?”

“Nothing!” Alex says, but his grin gives him away.

Howard looks down at his plate, trying to look innocent but failing miserably. That’s when you step in from behind them, holding a plate of Cora’s favorite pancakes—chocolate chip, with extra whipped cream.

“We just thought you deserved a special breakfast,” you say, setting the plate in front of her.

Cora raises an eyebrow. “Okay, what’s the catch?”

“No catch!” Tony’s voice booms as he strides into the kitchen, dressed in a casual hoodie and jeans. “Just a family-wide campaign to cheer you up. Welcome to Operation Cora Smiles Again.”

Cora groans, though there’s a tiny flicker of amusement in her eyes. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“And you love us for it,” Tony says, dropping a kiss on the top of her head before grabbing his coffee.

Over the next few days, the “operation” goes into full swing. The twins take it upon themselves to invite Cora to all their activities, from basketball practice to board games, though their “invites” are mostly just them dragging her out of her room. Estelle toddles after her sister constantly, climbing into her lap during movie nights and insisting Cora help her with her coloring books.

Tony, of course, takes things to a whole new level.

One afternoon, he barges into the living room where you and Cora are sitting, her head on your shoulder as the two of you watch some feel-good rom-com. He’s holding his phone, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Ladies,” he announces, “pack your bags. We’re going to Paris.”

Cora sits up straight, her mouth falling open. “What?”

“You’ve always said you wanted to see the Louvre, right?” Tony says, grinning. “Well, I figured, what better way to distract you than with some world-class art and culture? Plus, croissants.”

“Are you serious?” Cora asks, still stunned.

“Dead serious,” Tony replies. “Private jet leaves in two days. Hope you’ve been brushing up on your French.”

“Dad, you can’t just—”

“Already booked it,” he interrupts, waving his phone. “Non-refundable. So you’re coming.”

Cora looks at you, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Mom?”

You shrug, smiling. “He’s not kidding. You might as well start picking out your outfits.”

She blinks a few times, then a slow smile spreads across her face. “Okay, fine. Paris sounds… amazing.”

Tony pumps his fist in victory, and you shake your head fondly.

When the day of the trip arrives, the excitement in the house is palpable. The twins are bouncing off the walls, thrilled at the idea of flying on the family’s private jet again. Estelle is too young to fully understand what’s happening but seems to pick up on the energy, clapping her hands and shouting, “Pawis!” every few minutes.

Cora, meanwhile, is quieter but visibly excited. She spends most of the flight flipping through a guidebook Tony had casually tossed her way, her mood lighter than it’s been in weeks.

Once you land in Paris, it’s like a whole new world opens up for her. The city is everything she’d imagined—bustling streets, beautiful architecture, and, of course, the Eiffel Tower. You and Tony make sure the kids experience all the highlights: boat rides along the Seine, macarons at a fancy patisserie, and a picnic at the Champs de Mars.

But the real highlight is the Louvre.

Walking through the museum, Cora is completely captivated. She takes her time studying each exhibit, her eyes wide with wonder as she absorbs the art and history. Tony stays close, his usual sarcasm dialed back as he watches her with pride.

At one point, she stops in front of the Mona Lisa, her expression thoughtful.

“It’s smaller than I thought it’d be,” she says.

Tony smirks. “Yeah, but it’s got personality. Kind of like someone else I know.”

Cora rolls her eyes but laughs, and it’s one of the first genuine laughs you’ve heard from her in a while.

By the time you return to the hotel that evening, everyone is exhausted but happy. The twins collapse onto their beds, and Estelle is already dozing off in your arms. Cora sits on the balcony, looking out at the city lights.

Tony joins her, leaning on the railing. “Feeling better?”

She nods, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yeah. Thanks, Dad. For all of this.”

He shrugs, though you can see the emotion in his eyes. “Anything for you, kid.”

When you join them, Tony wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. Together, the three of you watch the Eiffel Tower sparkle in the distance, a quiet moment of peace in the midst of everything.

The Paris trip continues to unravel in a blend of heartwarming family moments and the kind of chaos only a Stark family vacation could produce. It starts innocently enough as you all wander through the streets of Montmartre, the cobblestone pathways alive with music, street performers, and the scent of fresh pastries. Cora has perked up considerably since the museum visit, her mood lighter, her laughter more frequent.

But then there’s him.

It happens as the family pauses near a small café. You’re distracted, helping Estelle adjust the straps of her sunhat while Tony orders espressos, croissants, and a ridiculously overpriced cup of hot chocolate for the twins. Cora’s off to the side, flipping through postcards at a nearby vendor stand, when you notice a boy about her age approaching her.

He’s tall, with tousled dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and a confidence that screams “Parisian charm.” He says something in French, his voice lilting in a way that immediately draws Cora’s attention. She blushes, brushing her hair behind her ear as she responds—haltingly but gamely—in the French she’s been practicing since she knew about the trip.

Tony notices it too.

“What’s happening here?” he says, his tone shifting to dad mode as he steps closer, coffee cup in hand.

“Oh, relax,” you say, biting back a smile. “He’s just flirting with her.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Flirting? In broad daylight? In front of me?”

“He probably doesn’t know you’re her dad,” you tease, leaning closer. “She does have my genes, after all.”

Tony smirks but doesn’t lose his focus on the boy. “Well, he’s about to find out.”

Before he can make a move, the twins return, each holding a baguette that’s nearly as big as they are. Alex squints at the scene unfolding by the postcards.

“Hey, who’s that guy talking to Cora?” he asks, his mouth full of bread.

“Probably her new boyfriend,” Howard says, grinning mischievously.

“Not helping,” Tony mutters.

“Let’s just give her some space,” you suggest, tugging gently on his arm. “She’s allowed to talk to boys, you know.”

Tony sighs but relents, though he keeps a close eye on the interaction. Eventually, the boy waves goodbye and walks away, leaving Cora clutching her postcards with a dazed expression. When she rejoins the group, Tony can’t help himself.

“So, who’s your new friend?” he asks, trying (and failing) to sound casual.

Cora glares at him. “Nobody. Just some guy.”

“Did he give you his number?” Alex asks, grinning.

“Did he try to kiss you?” Howard adds.

“Guys, stop,” Cora groans, her cheeks turning bright red.

Tony crosses his arms. “Was his name Pierre? Because he looked like a Pierre.”

You smack his arm lightly, laughing. “Tony, let it go.”

Despite the teasing, the moment passes, and the family moves on to the next adventure. The twins, however, are not so easily distracted.

That evening, as you’re lounging in the hotel room, flipping through a travel guide, the boys march up to you and Tony with matching determined expressions.

“We want to go to Disneyland,” Alex announces.

“Disneyland Paris,” Howard clarifies.

“Please, Mom?” Alex adds, turning his best puppy-dog eyes on you.

Tony snorts. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We came all the way to Paris, and you want to see Mickey Mouse?”

“Oui, Mickey,” Estelle chimes in from her spot on the bed, clapping her hands.

You glance at Tony, who’s already shaking his head. But then Cora chimes in, a small smile playing on her lips.

“It could be fun,” she says. “And the twins have been really sweet to me lately. I think they deserve it.”

Tony groans. “You’re killing me, kid.”

The next day, you find yourself standing in the middle of Disneyland Paris, surrounded by excited children, cotton candy stands, and the sound of cheerful Disney music. The twins are practically vibrating with excitement, dragging Cora from one attraction to the next.

Estelle is equally thrilled, her eyes wide as she points at every princess she sees, babbling excitedly about their dresses.

“Look at her,” Tony says, watching Estelle hug a life-sized Winnie the Pooh with absolute joy. “She’s two, and she already knows how to work the system.”

“She’s your daughter,” you tease, linking your arm with his.

The day is a whirlwind of rides, character meet-and-greets, and an obscene amount of overpriced snacks. Tony tries to talk his way into a VIP area at one point, but you manage to reel him back before he starts name-dropping himself.

Later, as the sun begins to set, the kids are busy chasing bubbles near Sleeping Beauty’s Castle, and you and Tony find a rare moment of peace on a nearby bench.

“Remember the last time we were in Paris?” he says, his voice low and teasing.

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “I do. And I remember how much wine we drank that night.”

Tony smirks. “It was a good night. A productive night.”

“Tony,” you say, laughing softly.

“What?” he says, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying, nine months later, we had Cora. Coincidence? I think not.”

You shake your head, leaning into him. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, the chaos of the day fading into the background. Tony takes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he says quietly. “Keeping this whole crazy family together, making sure everyone’s happy…”

“You help,” you say, smiling up at him.

He grins. “Yeah, but you’re the glue. The sexy, unstoppable glue.”

You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Mrs. Stark,” he murmurs.

The moment is interrupted by Estelle toddling over, holding a sticky cotton candy in her hands. “Mama! Dada!” she says, grinning. “Candy!”

Tony scoops her up, laughing. “All right, princess. Let’s get you cleaned up before you stick to everything.”

As the fireworks light up the night sky, you watch your family, your heart full. Cora is smiling again, the twins are their usual mischievous selves, and even Estelle is giggling as Tony pretends to “steal” her cotton candy.

It’s not perfect, but it’s yours. And in this moment, it’s everything you could ever want.

Returning to Miami is bittersweet. After the whirlwind adventure in Paris, filled with laughter, healing, and plenty of magical moments, the familiarity of home feels both comforting and a little dull in comparison. The private jet touches down mid-morning, and as you step onto the tarmac, the heat wraps around you like an old friend. Estelle claps her hands excitedly at the sight of palm trees, and the twins immediately begin discussing which of their toys they missed most.

Cora, however, is a little quieter than usual. She’s not sulking—in fact, she seems happy—but there’s something in her demeanor, a kind of soft distraction, that doesn’t go unnoticed. You and Tony exchange a knowing glance as you watch her scrolling on her phone, her thumbs moving quickly over the screen as a faint smile plays on her lips.

By the time you’re back at the house, it’s clear that whatever—or whoever—Cora is texting has her full attention. The twins bolt up the stairs to their room, racing to see who can dump their luggage the fastest. Estelle toddles after them, babbling about her stuffed animals and pausing halfway up to plop down and rest.

Cora lingers in the living room, dropping her bags by the couch and flopping down with a sigh. Her phone is still in her hand, and her fingers immediately start typing again.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “So, who’s the lucky recipient of all those texts?”

Cora doesn’t look up, but she does roll her eyes. “Nobody.”

You smirk, taking a seat next to her. “Nobody’s got you smiling at your phone like that? Come on, spill.”

“It’s not a big deal,” she says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m just talking to some people I met in France.”

Tony sits on the arm of the couch, folding his arms across his chest. “Oh, some people, huh? Are we talking guys, girls, or… Pierre?”

“Dad, seriously?” Cora groans, but she’s laughing despite herself.

“Wait, is it actually Pierre?” you ask, feigning shock.

“No!” Cora insists, finally setting her phone down and looking between the two of you. “His name is Louis. He was in line behind me at the Louvre, and we started talking while we waited. He’s cool, okay? That’s it.”

“Cool enough to text all day?” Tony teases, his grin widening.

“Cool enough to not break my heart, which is more than I can say for other people,” Cora shoots back, though her tone is light.

Tony’s smile falters for just a moment, and you place a hand on his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Well,” you say, steering the conversation back to neutral ground, “I think it’s great that you’re making new friends. France clearly left an impression.”

Cora nods, picking up her phone again. “Yeah. Louis and his friends were all really nice. They even invited me to come back someday and visit.”

Tony stiffens. “Visit? Alone? Over my dead body.”

“Tony,” you warn, shooting him a look.

“I’m just saying,” he mutters, leaning back. “Paris is great and all, but it’s a long way from here. And I don’t trust teenage boys. Especially French ones. They’re too charming.”

Cora laughs, shaking her head. “Relax, Dad. It’s not like I’m packing my bags tomorrow. Besides, you liked Paris too, remember? You wouldn’t stop talking about the croissants.”

“She’s got you there,” you say, smiling.

The next few days pass in a blur of unpacking, settling back into routines, and adjusting to the Miami heat. Cora spends a lot of time in her room, but instead of sulking like she had after the breakup, she seems genuinely happy. You often catch her laughing at something on her phone, and her mood has improved so much that even the twins take notice.

At dinner one evening, Alex leans over his plate of spaghetti and asks, “Cora, why are you always on your phone? Are you playing games?”

“No,” she says, twirling her fork. “I’m talking to my friends.”

Howard squints at her. “What friends? You don’t have any friends here.”

“Not here,” Cora says patiently. “In France. Remember the trip we just took? I met some people there.”

“Like Pierre?” Alex asks, grinning.

“His name is Louis,” Estelle pipes up, repeating what she’s heard so many times over the past few days. She giggles as if she understands the joke.

“Okay, dinner table rule,” you say, holding up a hand. “No teasing your sister about her friends. Got it?”

“Yes, Mom,” the twins say in unison, though you can tell they’re not entirely sincere.

After dinner, as you’re cleaning up in the kitchen, Tony wanders in, a dishtowel slung over his shoulder.

“So, what do you think about this Louis kid?” he asks, leaning against the counter.

“I think he’s halfway across the world and just a friend,” you reply, rinsing a plate. “And I think it’s good for Cora to have someone to talk to who isn’t us.”

Tony sighs. “Yeah, I guess. But I’m not thrilled about the idea of her running off to Europe to visit him someday.”

“She’s not running off anywhere,” you say, setting the plate in the drying rack. “And if she ever did, it wouldn’t be without a lot of planning—and probably a chaperone.”

Tony smirks. “So, you’re saying I’d have to go too?”

“Obviously,” you say, smiling. “You’d hate to miss out on more croissants.”

As the days turn into weeks, Cora continues to text Louis and his group of friends, her phone buzzing at all hours with messages and pictures. You catch glimpses of their conversations occasionally—photos of the Eiffel Tower lit up at night, jokes about the Louvre’s long lines, and even a video of someone attempting to skateboard in a cobblestone alley.

The twins remain mildly suspicious of this new development, but their jealousy is quickly forgotten whenever Cora agrees to join them for a game of basketball or a movie night.

One afternoon, as you’re sitting on the patio with Tony, watching Estelle splash around in the kiddie pool, he leans over and says, “You know, I think she’s really okay now.”

You follow his gaze to where Cora is lounging in a hammock, laughing at something on her phone.

“She is,” you agree, resting your head on his shoulder. “And that’s all that matters.”

Tony wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer. “You know, we’re pretty good at this whole parenting thing.”

“Speak for yourself,” you tease. “I’m the glue, remember?”

He laughs, kissing the top of your head. “Fair enough. But I’m the fun one.”

“Sure you are,” you say, smiling as you watch your family, your heart full.

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muffinlance · 1 year ago

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#No promises on either #But I'll have some writing time tomorrow #Fair warning that there's been at least one Very Persistent commenter/asker who keeps poking for TtS updates #So I'm very much biased against it #Except that it would be lovely and quick to get to the end of the current book #but every time I think about updating it that person. pokes. AGAIN.#Cheating at Pai Sho fans you're lovely beautiful amazing never change

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arolesbianism · 9 months ago

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If I was more of a fanfic writer I would totally write like 50 oni timeloop ai fics and Id have to fight myself so hard to not make Olivia a significant part of all of them. Just like yeah Quinn timeloop au. They and Olivia regular at the same bar actually. Don't worry abt it.

#rat rambles #oni posting #I know in the past Ive said that jackie timeloop hypotheticals make me go crazy but if I were to hypothetically write a timeloop au itd be #an ellie one for sure shes just enough both in and out of the action and also enough of a bad person that it'd bring me great joy writing #her flounder and fuck everything up and become even worse of a person and not even feel guilty abt it #also Id totally have it not even be a satisfying loop ending condition itd be like a survival style timeloop but its just so she can #survive long enough for the world to end and die there instead #now for a less frustrating a depressing main character bubbles would be a decent option but I actively want a frustrating pov #I <3 povs that you wanna beat the shit out of so bad for their consistent fuck ups but you cant say its poor writing because in every #situation they fuck up in it Is what they would do and its what they would do every time #like watching a train crash except you get to watch the things that doomed the crash to happen as they happen #but yeah I think ellie would loose it so fast shed start emailing jackie hampster gifs out of frustration #I just dont rly see her as the type of person who would even for a second find the prospect of a timeloop exciting #like jackie would be absolutely ecstatic at first if she got trapped in a time loop she'd be so happy #not even because of the typical reasons its fully scientific curiosity #shed get disappointed pretty quick tho and probably rly confused due to it contradicting other theories of hers #but yeah maybe there'd be a part of ellie that had some scientific curiosity but I think itd be in more of a oh god damnit way #like oh fucking hell this just had to be possible didn't it I don't want to deal with the ramifications of this bullshit #because in universe time loops would probably impossible or at least would have to look very different #so a timeloop au would come with having to accept that contradiction and roll with it #which Im totally fine with I think its funny to have these scientists deal with blatantly impossible events #I thrive when fucking with characters I love

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rex3o · 2 months ago

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Doting wife

Royal au! Sukuna x Reader

Being the emperors wife was something that you would have not expected to be in the position of. Many would think being the emperors wife, would bring in love, happiness and luxury. Yet your husband would be nothing of the sorts, yes you heard of his reputation. A cold and ruthless emperor with a thriving empire, you entered his palace with big hopes and determination of changing him to be a loving husband.

oh how wrong you was.

After 4 years of marriage and a heir to his throne, he was as cold and ruthless the day you met him. Every interaction was short or met with silence. You put effort in your duties as his wife and empress to the empire to impress him. Yet nothing. You wore his favourite colour. Nothing. You did your make up differently. Nothing. You tried talking to him about things he was interested... and nothing. He was not phased. During the birth of your son, he was nowhere to be seen only to come in the following morning and smile at the sight of his son. yet when his red eyes met yours his smile dropped.

So here you sat in the royal gardens watching your three year old son chase a butterfly with his toy sword. Letting your mind wander, you had tried everything.. what was you not doing that he hasn't even dropped a single thought on you. Your lady in waiting looked at you a bit confused as you continued to stare hardly at nothing.

"Your majesty" she says softly yet anxiously, as she looks at you while drifting her eyes to whatever thing you was staring at.

"hmm" you say.

"are you uh.. quite alright you seem to be staring at.." as she is lost for words.

You snap out of your thoughts and look at her, your eyes widening a little.

"oh apologises, I seemed to have lost myself in thought."

She exhales as she smiles at you.

"oh that is fine.. may I ask about what?"

"oh nothing.. you know.. thoughts." you say not really wanting to indulge on the countless attempts of getting your husband to even give a glance at you.

Your eyes land back on your son as you find him aggressively hitting the dead bug on the ground. Definitely his father's son. You thought. You got up from your seat as you approached your son to stop his insane antics and bring him back inside. The boy huffs and drops his toy sword and runs back inside as you followed after him, walking back inside the palace you spot Sukuna walking with several of his advisors, as they head somewhere. You do not let your eyes linger for long as you follow after where your son had ran off.

After several hours of chasing your son around the palace, you managed to catch him and get him ready for dinner. As you both head inside the dining hall, he runs and takes his space next to his father. Sukuna sat on his seat already busying himself with the food. You sit down and remain silent. How odd. You're never quiet at dinner. You ate your food only glancing at your son to see if he is eating like a proper boy and not gobbling his food like a damn animal.

Dinner goes swiftly, without a word as Sukuna finishes, you take your leave. He gives a quick glance at your figure.

The days went on, this new personality of yours. Quiet, not chatty as before. The little interactions of yours, well one sided conversations, with Sukuna went from infrequent to zero. He noticed this. As you slowly put your effort and interest into other things besides him. Sukuna would find himself at least hoping for a glance of you around the palace. Hell he would be even be satisfied by you uttering a single word at the dinner table. But no.

There you three was again at the table, silence except for your son's occasional ramble of what he did today to his father.

Sukuna bore his eyes onto you, as his son's yapping went from one ear to another. Gripping onto his utensils as he waits for your eyes to meet his, for you to utter something. Yet you sat on the opposite end eating your food finding the chandelier to be the most interesting thing you came across the whole day.

"Have we lost our manners suddenly." he blurts out annoyed.

You stop chewing as you slowly look at your husband, as if he grew a pair of wings and started to fly.

"pardon..." was the only thing you could conjure up.

"I am your husband, you are supposed to greet me, ask me how my day is.. have you forgotten your role wife?" he demands. Yet your clueless face irked him more.

".. uh- how was your day?" you ask, not knowing if you should or not. Sukuna grunts in response.

"that's more like it." Is all he says, as you remain confused for the remainder of the dinner.

Your interaction with Sukuna stuck out like sore thumb to you for the next couple of days. You did not know what to make of it. You stood silent, as the advisor chattered along on what to do for the next royal event. The advisor realising that your mind was on something else he quietened down waiting for you to speak. As you came back to reality, you looked at him confused.

"w-we can do this on another day empress if your feeling under the weather." he says anxiously. You just barked out a laugh.

"I am good, something had caught my attention, please continue." You say, as he goes continues. The door to the private meeting room swings open as Sukuna enters and makes his way next to you. The advisor taken aback looks at you if he should continue.

"Continue" Sukuna commands as the man starts his nervous ramble now more directed to Sukuna for the royal event. The meeting ends, the advisor leaves defeated as he didn't get much answers from the both of you.

This new behaviour of his continued, every day at least at one point of your day, he makes himself known and sit with you till he seems fit. He doesn't say anything some days but others he would demand you to say something, whatever it was you was doing on that day he will involve himself. Even if it was watching your son fight an imaginary dragon. But you did not back down. Yes this was entertaining watching your husband finally put some sort of an effort. So you kept this behaviour of yours up. Almost like a silent contest on who is going to break first.

As the day of the royal event dawned, you spoke to your guests, in your beautiful gown. Your presence captured everyone's attention.. even your husband. As a duke kindly asked for your hand for a dance. You took his request, as you both waltzed on the ballroom floor. As he lets you go for you to spin, you are met back with a familiar set of arms. Your eyes met your husbands crimson eyes.

You hold back your smile, as he lead you to dance. Everyone's lingering eyes drifted away, the music blending away in the back of your mind, as you both danced.

"You did not wear red.." Sukuna comments. You look back up at him.

"I have worn red too many times." You retort.

"Too many times.. even for your husband?"

All you did was shrug your shoulders, as his hand your waist tightens.

"You used to gab my ears off woman.. now your as silent as a mouse." He comments.

"And..?"

"Has my efforts not been enough.." He quietly says in your ear.

"You think, a couple weeks of you spending some time with me, making me question you is effort" you say back in disbelief.

"It is something woman" he says slightly annoyed.

You look at him, as your smile slowly fades.

"I spent the last four years, catering to your needs, acting as a good wife to you.. yet the moment I stop you suddenly remember you have a wife and start acting like somewhat of a companion-"

"companion" he says offended. "I have treated you like a husband should, I spent time with you, I spoke to you, I provided you with a palace and riches."

"oh thank you for doing the bare minimum." as you push yourself away from him and composing yourself as you walked away from the ballroom floor. Sukuna stands there as he walks off the opposite direction not wanting to make a scene in front of his guests clearly annoyed.

While the event progresses, as all he could think about was you, what you said. He watched your every move, every word you uttered to your guests, every sip you took from your glass, every hand movement. He took note of it. He did not care if people realised he was staring you down. He couldn't wrap his head around how you could even think of speaking to him like that.

Was what he did not enough? Before you would swoon if he even said a word to you. Now you did not care. You would chatter his ear off about things you assumed he would be interested in. Now silence. All your efforts now gone.

What was he not doing to get you back to being his doting little wife.

part 2

big FAT authors note : I cannot lie guys I am not fit for long fics but yk what I can do... make one shots so please enjoy what my mind could conjure up for 15 minutes after having 3 cups of chai. Also I may have a thing for historical au I dunno. my head is NOT working. so pls if there is any mistakes do LMK!

- R

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konigsblog · 5 months ago

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KINKTOBER CALL OF DUTY MASTERLIST 2024

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT

BEWARE: DARK THEMES BELOW. CONCEPTS MAY BE GRAPHIC OR UNPLEASANT. MIND THE WARNINGS.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. ALL MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED. STRICTLY 18+ ONLY.

MAY INCLUDE: KIDNAPPING, RAPE, INTOXICATION, AND OTHER GRAPHIC THEMES.

OCTOBER 1ST — DOCTOR!KÖNIG. Being drugged and used relentlessly by someone you thought you could trust. (NON-CON)

OCTOBER 2ND — RAPIST!SIMON. You should've known better. Walking around with an ass like that in such a skimpy, revealing dress... What were you thinking? (NON-CON)

OCTOBER 3RD — KIDNAPPER!PRICE. What did you expect, Birdie? Now, you'll be used relentlessly and tortured by a depraved sicko, because of your stupidity. (KIDNAPPING, RAPE)

OCTOBER 4TH — WEREWOLF!GAZ. A helpless lamb shouldn't be wandering around the forest this late at night, should they? (NON-CON)

OCTOBER 5TH — DENTIST!SOAP. Who would've thought that a simple, quick dentist visit would end in tears and a bloody mess? (KIDNAPPING, NON-CON, GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS)

OCTOBER 6TH — ELDRITCH!KÖNIG. Never in a million years would you expect to be held hostage by an intimidating monster, desperate to breed with a human like you. (MONSTER-FUCKING)

OCTOBER 7TH — STALKER!KÖNIG. You should've trusted your gut feeling. Now, you're chained to your bed inside of your own apartment, being bred relentlessly by a large, masked figure. (FORCED BREEDING, NON-CON)

OCTOBER 8TH — STEPBRO!KÖNIG. You shouldn't trust such a perverted social recluse. Now, here you are, sucking off your stepbrother hoping that he'll keep quiet. (BLACKMAIL)

OCTOBER 9TH — RAPIST!KÖNIG. He has sickening and disturbing urges, a growing crave for control. This should teach you to not wander the streets this late as a woman. (NON-CON)

OCTOBER 10TH — BESTFRIEND!SIMON. You knew something felt off, that lingering impending doom chasing you, ‘til it was all too late. (NON-CON)

OCTOBER 11TH — STEPDAD!PRICE. Your mother loves that man. You can't break her heart, let her know how sinister, perverted, and deplorable his behaviour truly is. (NON-CON)

OCTOBER 12TH — PERVERT!SOAP. Oh, forgive him, Bonnie. You know he can't help himself, and you look so adorable like this; knocked out cold and mumbling incoherently, pleading with him for mercy. (NON-CON, DRUGGING)

OCTOBER 13TH — PERVERT!GAZ. How can he not take advantage of you like this, under the influence and giggling blissfully? He'll take care of you, Dove. (DUB-CON, INTOXICATION)

OCTOBER 14TH — SOMNOPHILIAC!KÖNIG. He uses your body to cope with the reoccurring, horrifying, and haunting nightmares he has, Liebling. Forgive him, please...

OCTOBER 15TH — NERD!KÖNIG. You know how fascinated he is with knives, as well as his growing and intensifying obsession with you. Why not combine both, press a knife to your throat while using your body? (DUB-CON)

OCTOBER 16TH — STEPDAD!KÖNIG. You're even better than your mother; tighter, quieter, and younger, with a pliable mind easy to morph to fit his sickening beliefs. (DUB-CON)

OCTOBER 17TH — KIDNAPPER!KÖNIG. His punishments are unusually violent, leaving deep and agonising welts and lengthy scars on your skin, and crimson leaking from beneath your thighs. (NON-CON)

OCTOBER 18TH — STEPBRO!KÖNIG. Don't you feel sorry for him? A little sympathy? He's had nothing to violate since you left for University. Why don't you come here and bend over, let him get familiar with your smooth, comforting mouth once again?

OCTOBER 19TH — CREEP!KÖNIG. Being a sex worker isn't easy; you have your fair share of sinister pervert with immoral and wicked fantasies, and König is no exception.

OCTOBER 20TH — GYNECOLOGIST!KÖNIG. Under anaesthetics, you're a compliant and babbling mess, until you're weeping pathetically, too drugged to protect your swollen cunt from his assault. (NON-CON)

OCTOBER 31ST — CREEP!KÖNIG. Halloween parties are only fun when everyone's drunk and tipsy, too inebriated to think clearly. Nobody bats an eye when König stumbles into a frat party wearing a mask, dragging an intoxicated woman off alongside him. (NON-CON)

OCTOBER 21ST — THERAPIST!KÖNIG. Oh, how he loves to watch as you cry out. Having a fetish for sobbing isn't easy to hide when you're a therapist, but manipulating a mentally unwell patient sure is exciting.

...

#orla speaks #cod x reader #könig call of duty #konig x reader #könig #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #soap mactavish #call of duty soap #soap x reader #kyle gaz garrick #gaz call of duty #gaz x reader #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain price

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pencil-n-pen · 20 days ago

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ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

#girlblogging #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid #dr spencer reid x reader #soft dom spencer reid #soft spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff

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sttoru · 1 year ago

Text

your boyfriend cannot stop himself from kissing you all over. kissing you is his favorite thing to do - no matter when or where.

☀︎｜tags. older bf!gojo satoru x female reader. suggestive, mild (to somewhat) nsfw, fluff. lots of kissing. lots and lots of kissing and loving. he fondles and gropes you everywhere basically. clingy satoru. tiny bit size difference (yes ok im a slut, what about it). body worship kinda. readers gets called ‘sweet / pretty girl, baby, princess’. beta read? what’s that.

you fell for it again; satoru told you it was only going to be a quick peck on the lips. ‘i promise, baby, c'moooon’ — you recall him begging in that whiny voice of his. that's all what was needed to make you putty in his hands.

“fine, but only one kiss, okay?” you gave in and walked over to satoru, climbed onto your shared bed and leaned in for a swift kiss—only for his strong arms to cage you in and never let go. it had been ten minutes since; the apartment was silent, except for the lewd sounds of your shared kisses and heavy breaths.

satoru’s soft hands are wandering everywhere. from cupping your cheeks to rubbing your sides and gripping your ass. the clock was ticking loudly, but the sound of it was drowned out by your moans. and satoru’s low, needy whimpers.

the appointment you were getting ready for had long slipped your mind.

“mh, you’re such a good kisser, baby,” the white-haired man sighs. he absolutely loves the way you follow the movements of his glossy lips—your head tilting to the side and back—automatically accomodating to satoru’s motions. he was kissing you with an urgent need. one you had never known or witnessed before, “more, ngh, need more of you, please.”

satoru was not letting up. you couldn’t blame him; it was easy to get lost in this warm and cherished moment of peace. his sweet kisses switched intensity—going from innocent kisses to sloppy ones, resulting in your chin dripping with a mixture of saliva.

you whine and straddle satoru’s lap which earns you a happy hum from your lover. that was his plan all along: to completely distract you from the fact that you had to leave the house. that you had to leave his side. others would call it annoyingly clingy, but satoru absolutely needs your lips on his.

he is sure that he would go insane if he spent a whole day without kissing you. an hour is already too long, if he is honest.

satoru would love to kiss you until the end of time. until death comes knocking onto his door. the last thing he desires to feel is your plump lips and wet tongue wrapped around his. a peaceful, warm death. one with no regrets.

“mhmmm, fuck, you taste so sweet.” satoru's eyebrow furrow in delight. he is nearly overstimulated by the taste of you. the way your small body clings onto him, your hands holding onto his jaw and sliding down his chest, your sounds of pleasure that only he could ever have the honour of hearing.

it was perfect. all of you was perfect.

your parted lips make way for his tongue again. satoru slips his tongue inside your mouth. it was tender, yet demanding. your throat tightens up and a choked moan fills his ears. his cold fingers make contact with the warm skin of your midriff. they were aiming at one place; your chest.

the one satoru loves to fondle no matter when or where. the same one he loves to use as a pillow every night.

“nnh, ‘toru, need’to breathe,” you are running out of air. the short gasps you took between the heated kisses were not enough to fill your lungs. but, it was addicting. the shortness of breath the two of you experienced only served as more proof of your love.

neither of you want to pull away—to pause the make out session for even what could be a split second.

the older man below you is hesistant. he does not want to let go of you. it's like you’re asking him to break up—that’s how much it hurts him to stop kissing you.

however, he felt a bit light-headed from the lack of oxygen as well. satoru pulls away, but not without sweeping his tongue over your bottom lip, lapping up the drool that dripped down the corners of your mouth.

his eyes are half-lidded and glazed over with both love and lust. you stabilise yourself by holding onto his broad shoulders and satoru rubs your back to help calm you down further. a ghost of a grin tugs at his lips. he surely is enjoying your adorable, exhausted demeanour. your chest was heaving up and down—his fingers sneaking to your front and wrapping around a breast to feel its tenderness.

“pretty,” satoru sighs. he takes the chance once your lips part to take a deep breath. his tongue quickly slips in, invading your mouth and exploring every inch before separating the two of you again. he can not go a minute without kissing you. you sure are like a drug to him, “thank you, princess.”

you are surprised by the sudden tongue kiss, but brush it off with a chuckle. you know how satoru is; not able to keep away from you in heated moments like these. his large hands fondling, groping and squeezing every area of your body only proves that point.

“thank you for what?” you ask, planting a soft peck on his lips. your boyfriend responds by holding the back of your head. he leans in for another kiss like a man depraved of any affection. you shudder and hold onto him like he there is no tomorrow. he does the same back, squeezing you against his chest.

satoru slightly tilts his head back to answer your question. his breath was hot on your mouth, a faint string of saliva hanging between your bottom lips. he can not hold the urge. he can not answer. his lips are already colliding with yours once more.

over and over. until the two of you were out of breath and needed a break again.

“thank you for being with me,” satoru answers in a quiet whisper. the pad of his thumb brushes back and forth against the waistband of the shorts you are wearing. there is an urge to pull them down and reveal those pretty little panties you are wearing, but his current priority is to feel your mouth on his.

until he gets enough. which is never. never in a million years.

“thank you for everything, honestly,” satoru continues and leaves a couple wet kisses down your neck. his hands do not leave your perfect body. he’s admiring every curve - every body part that had yet to be touched, “could have never believed that i’d end up with such a pretty girl. but, here i am, with the prettiest girl in the world in my arms.”

satoru had a way with words. one that left you flustered like crazy each time. he looks at you and that’s when you know that he means every word. his eyes were shining, even when half-lidded. the admiration in them more than just visible.

he looks at your face and body like he’s witnessing the world's greatest treasure. and that you surely are.

“stop saying that.” you giggle embarrassedly. you cover your mouth to hide your smile, though satoru is quick to grab your wrist and pull your hand away. he keeps holding onto your arm to prevent you from hiding your face from his sight. and to stop you from hiding your lips from his, of course.

the older man clicks his tongue, scolding you jokingly for trying to hide that precious smile from him. he kisses the corners of your lips, touch lingering against your hot skin, “how am i supposed to admire my pretty girl if she keeps hiding herself, hm?”

you squirm due to satoru’s flirty words. his gentle tone of voice is making you feel those tingles in your lower abdomen. there has not been a single moment in your relationship where your lover made you feel unwanted. it’s been the complete opposite every day.

“someone’s getting a bit squirmy, aye?” your boyfriend teases. he knows that the combination of his words, looks and actions make you weak in the knees. you always react like it’s your first time kissing and that is both endearing and amusing to him.

you can’t control your bodily reactions either. the sight of satoru beneath you is simply too much. his fluffy hair that sits messily due to your fingers that tugged and played around with the strands, his black top riding up to reveal a glimpse of his defined abs and happy trail. . . the faint blush on satoru’s cheeks and the needy look in his eyes.

you surely can’t leave him alone while he looks like that.

“shut up and kiss me already.” you respond with a huff. and so, satoru does. wasting not a single second. kissing you is his job—his passion. the only thing he ever craves for.

the room once again fills with noises of pure contentment, enjoyment and pleasure. it’s just you two in that moment—no one else mattered.

as long as your lips stay attached to each other, no one actually does.

#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #x female reader

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kedreeva · 2 months ago

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You kill your birds? I thought you loved animals...

I do love animals. I breed quail for meat and eggs, and that means that yes, I kill some of my birds, just as I kill some of my mice who are unsuitable for pet homes or unnecessary for breeding, just as I have sent overtly aggressive peafowl that would be dangerous to other birds or humans home with someone to be dinner.

Loving animals and understanding meat source animals must be killed to be eaten and that domesticated husbandry requires some amount of hard culling for the benefit of the breeding program and species as a whole are not mutually exclusive ideas. It is my job to give my animals good, proper care, enrichment, and love until their time in this world is over (for some that's sooner than others), to ensure that death is as humane as possible, and to ensure that as little as possible goes to waste after.

And almost nothing here does go to waste; offal or unusable parts goes to the crows and other scavengers I feed at the front of the house (and in turn they chase off nosy hawks and eagles), meat gets eaten, bones get used to make stock and then composted for the garden. Mouse culls and quail feeder culls (quail hatched specifically to be feeders for other animals) almost all go to reptile owners who want ethically sourced animals kept in better conditions/fed better feed (the exception is when Bug eats some of them instead). And the two times I have ever had to cull aggressive peafowl, they both went to a hunting family that made use of the meat.

Additionally, on several occasions now, I have been called upon by others to help euthanize their fowl friends. Strangers who couldn't afford a vet bill but wanted to put an end to their bird's suffering. Strangers that knew it needed to be done but couldn't do it themselves, or that didn't know how. I have taught others how to do cervical dislocation in case the need arrives ever again, so the bird doesn't have to wait. I have held sobbing owners who thanked me for being able to do what they couldn't even when they knew it was necessary. And yes, I have demonstrated the butchering process to folks who want quail meat, so that I know they're giving a quick, humane end to their birds.

Death is a part of life. When you raise purpose animals, death is going to be a part of the deal at some point.

It doesn't mean I love them any less while they're here, or in general.

#asks #anon asks #i know i said 'birds' and you might have been thinking peafowl #but i meant quail #i don't eat the peafowl #i don't kill the peafowl unless i absolutely have to and even then i usually take them to a vet #if they're one of My Pets and not a bird hatched for sale #animal death for ts #culling #I'm also currently awaiting a phone call for the deer whose death i commissioned #as i do every year

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shotmrmiller · 9 months ago

Text

the tale of how simon got himself a gf without stepping a foot outside of base.

anyone can tell you that alcohol reduces the ability to use logic. to see reason. it lowers inhibitions and blurs the boundary lines you've drawn in the sand.

but indulging in drink tonight is justified. you're in need of reprieve after this shit week: broke up with your boyfriend, deadlines at work appearing out of thin air, a flat tire on your morning commute. you even stepped on the end of your cat's tail.

miserable. (she's okay, just giving you the cold shoulder. you'll buy her some tasty snacks tomorrow.)

but for tonight, you're wallowing in your own misery. some uninteresting show is playing on the television, you're cradled by the cushions of your couch, a fluffy sherpa throw over your socked feet.

if only there was a way to melt this week's accumulated stress away even further.

cue the drunk texting your ex cliché.

anyone can tell you that it's detrimental to moving on. it's akin to reopening a wound that's already begun to heal. a step back when you should only be moving forward. your friends would drag you by your hair for being so dumb.

but there's an incessant throb in between your legs that's only getting stronger with every glass of wine you toss back. you're wound tight, violin strings stretched to the brink. a couple of bow strokes away from snapping.

you'll deal with the consequences tomorrow, along with your hangover.

typing in his (deleted in a fit of heartbroken rage) number with fumbling fingers and send a picture of you with the hem of your sleeping shirt between your teeth, the swell of your bare breasts on full display with a cheeky little missing you <3

he responds in minutes even though it's 2:30am.

send a vid and show me how much you miss me.

it makes your pussy clench around nothing, already slick, drooling, begging to be filled. you sink your teeth into your bottom lip as you bring up the camera.

when simon first gets the text, he's on edge, gripping his phone hard enough to crack. no one should have this number except for price, johnny and kyle. he's made sure of it-- had laswell pull strings to give him a secure line. no scam likely's, no cold calls, nothing.

but then some silly little bird dials his number by mistake and the sweet cherry on top is that you've sent a nude. breasts on full display-- soft looking, hard peaked. it makes his mouth water, his gums itch. he'd love to sink his teeth into them, into you, hard enough to bruise. mark. claim.

but that's for later, once he finds you.

he texts back and what you send him in response fattens his cock. a small hand tucked beneath the waistband of your flimsy knickers, gusset dampened with warm arousal. you lick your bottom lip, leaving it glossy with spit. your chest heaves with the sharp gasps of breath you're drawing.

but there's a problem. he can barely see what you're doing. he doesn't have x-ray vision, your knickers are in the way. while he can understand the allure, he himself doesn't have the patience for it. either you let him see your bare cunt or don't waste his time.

he wasn't expecting you to agree this fast. maybe a bit of push back, a little snapping of teeth until you relent but no. you're an obedient thing. submissive. just how he likes 'em. (if he wants to break someone in, that's what johnny's for.)

soft, inviting thighs spread wide, a couple of fingers curling inside your glistening cunt. (duly noticing how your 2 fingers are the size of 1 of his.) your moans spill from your lips unreservedly when you roll your pearl in tight, precise little circles. he spits on his hand, heavy length resting in his calloused palm and tugs himself at the pace you've set: jerky, quick, messy.

you come with a whimper, eyes shut and pliant body coiled tight. a frothy, sticky cream coats your fingers, dripping down to your arse, pooling on your couch.

you miss me too? sent 3:27 am

(he decides to keep you. simon can't remember the last time he's had a climax that spine stiffening in a while.)

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f reader #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley x you #simon riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x f!reader #simon riley smut

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bunny-jpeg · 1 month ago

Text

the bouncer & the missus

simon "ghost" riley

tags: smut/pwp, bouncer au, bouncer!simon, established relationship, simon's soft spot, pregnant!reader, car sex, clothed sex, pregnancy & breeding

a/n: want to suggest your own fic? the inbox is open! this rabbit runs on comments & reblogs!

"baby girl." simon said as he came over during his break. he saw you in a booth by yourself, happily on your phone and munching on a basket of fries and onion rings that simon ordered for you. he knew you ate dinner before you came to see him, you dropped him off his portion of the meal. he looked down at you.

he was wearing all black. from the backwards baseball cap hiding his blond hair to the tight black t-shirt that highlighted his tattoos. he looked at you with those deep brown eyes. he asked, "you and the peanut shouldn't be in a place like this." his gaze cast down to your swollen middle.

you replied, "i'm not drinking, si. plus, these fries are much better than any kind of alcohol." you leaned against the vinyl of the seat and rubbed your swollen middle, "plus, i can't sleep well tonight."

you were dressed in one of his sweatshirts, it covered you perfectly. plus the faint smell of cigarettes on it plus the body wash he had been using for nearly a decade. you also liked that it had your husband's last name written across the back. made you feel protected as you ventured out of the house to visit your beloved simon at work. underneath was a stretchy maternity dress because struggling jeans didn't feel like an option tonight.

simon didn't like you hanging around the bar, even before you got pregnant. now with the peanut on the way, he was extremely protective over the both of you. he got into the booth beside you and held your face while he kissed you on the lips. you kissed over the black medical mask over his mouth. he didn't take the thing off during shift except to replace it if it got dirty or ruined. he didn't want to ruin the mystery when giving a kiss to his missus.

you were knew around the bar was "the missus" or "mrs riley", you've always been known as that even before you got married to simon. it was why you were able to have both onion rings and fries!

he placed a wide hand on your belly and rubbed it gently. you rubbed your thighs together lovingly while you continued to eat. simon had a thing for your pregnancy. knowing that you were carrying his child, it excited the bouncer.

he was all tattoos and sharp edges. meanwhile you were painfully sweet, the total opposite. and together you made the most precious peanut you could possibly imagine. you were perfect for him. so of course he rubbed his nose up against your neck and you giggled against him. his touches got a little more firm, not enough to hurt. but enough to know that your husband was getting a good feel of you.

how could he not? he loved you, you were his wife. no one else could call themselves that! he even got a quick squeeze of your ass before you pulled down his mask just enough to kiss his lips in the low light of the bar.

you pulled the mask back over his mouth and asked, "how much time do you have left in your break?" you knew that this wasn't going to happen if you waited until you got home.

simon looked at his watch, the one you gifted him for his first, un-offical father's day. he said, "twenty more minutes." and before you knew it, you were being helped out of the booth by your adoring husband.

you ended up in your car, simon opened the door for you and shuffled you inside. you sat in the backseat with him. he chucked his mask into the dark of the vehicle. he kissed you passionately and his hands pushed up your dress. he touched your behind with a bit of force, but not enough to bruise you.

simon riley would never bruise his missus on purpose. he one time smacked your ass too hard it left a purple hand print and he spent a month apologizing to you. he managed to get your panties around your left ankle and his cock out of his jeans.

"there she is." he said softly, "my missus." he purred lovingly. simon, despite his rough exterior, loved you deeply. he loved you so much he almost didn't ask you out when you first met because he was worried a woman as amazing as you didn't need to be with someone like him. but you loved him all the same, every mark, scar, tattoo, all of it. it was what made your husband, your husband.

"i hope i'm not taking up too much room." you said with your hands on your middle. simon patted your belly with another hand on your hip as he assured you that you were fine.

"i'll always take up more room, love." he said. you didn't have much time, as much as he loved to admired his wife. the two of you had to be quick if this was going to work. the breathing between you two was hot as you sank down on his cock.

you groaned and nodded when simon asked you if you were okay. you let out a cute little moan and your husband silenced you with a hot kiss. you felt a tremor of pleasure in your gut as you started to rock your hips against him. he was so much bigger than you, so intimidating and scary. but he loved you. you were his wife, his everything.

"you look amazing, lovie." he said softly as you moved against him. your pretty painted nails dug into this shirt over his shoulders. your fingers grasped onto the black material.

your swollen middle rubbed against his abdomen and he loved the feeling. it was a big cramped with little room to get comfortable with. but this wasn't the most cramped space you ever had sex in. plus, simon could be any position and still cum because of your sweet cunt.

the movements were fast, but not rough. you bounced on simon's hard cock and he kept a hand on the top of your head so you didn't hurt yourself against the roof of your beat up little car. you felt the shift in your weight as you moved. simon eyed you with those dark beautiful eyes.

"there's my girl." he purred as he moved against you. you felt the swell of warmth in your soul from the movements. simon dialed for the roughness after you got pregnant. his girl needed some tlc, but no bruises. never bruises.

"mmm, please, simon." you arched your back a little and felt the excitement race through you. you held onto him tighter, his strong shoulders felt good under your touch. you felt the zaps of pleasure through your body.

simon rested a little more up against the leather seats as he held onto your head and hip to make sure that you didn't put too much strain on yourself. he rolled his hips up against you and you moaned a little louder. you felt the warmth radiate in your core as the two of you fucked passionately in the backseat of your care.

simon loved that your swollen middle was up against him. to feel so close to you. to know that he made you that way excited him. oh, did it excite him. he loved it. he loved knowing that you carried a big piece of him everywhere you went. you two made a family together, and that left simon aroused.

he was finally putting the seed to go use. dumped enough of it inside of his missus and now you were sprouting a lovely little bump. in a few months you'll have your son in your arms. you two moved together in a rapid pace, the kisses got hotter as did the steam on the car windows.

husband and wife doing it in a car behind the the bar. your noises got a little louder and higher in pitch as you felt the swell of want through you. it excited you, he excited you.

he kissed at your next with admiration. he carried all his love in his touches and kisses. he carried his love for you in everything he did for you. you were the center of his world. as was the baby you were carrying. simon riley finally got the family he always wanted and he'd make sure that you two were protected.

"i love you."

"i love you too."

your words sweet like honey as you felt closer to your orgasm. you felt a tightness in your chest as you tensed up from the heated want. the pleasure coursed through you as you felt so close to your orgasm. you continued to move up and down his cock until you clenched around him and orgasmed.

simon continued to with his cock into you, he felt a similar heat in his body as he moved you up and down his cock as much as he could. he could feel it all bubble up and eventually pour over. with a few more steady thrusts of his hips. he finished inside of you with a heavy groan. you two looked into each other's eyes and simon pulled you in for a heated kiss, "mm, my girl, always takin' care of me."

you held onto his wrist and looked at the time, "oh no. you better hurry up and you may have time for some food in your stomach!" you kissed him then struggled to get your panties back on. he kissed you before he got out of the car.

he pointed at you and said, "you get right home and don't stay up waiting for me. you and peanut need sleep. i'll meet you in my bed, mrs. riley."

you giggled from the driver's seat, composed enough to get yourself home, "don't worry. i'm well worn out, it'll be time for a cup of herbal tea and comfy pajamas." simon leaned in to kiss you on the lips deeply before he went back to the bar to finish the rest of his shift. you watched him leave and before you left the parking lot you looked down at your swollen middle and gave it a pat.

"you and i better get to bed, or else papa is gonna be worried. but maybe we'll make a quick stop to the corner store first for some ice cream." you giggled before you turned on the car and sped off of the parking lot. <3

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illyrianbitch · 9 months ago

Text

An Evening Reunion

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: Azriel comes home from a mission. You talk to him about your day, but he’s far more interested in you—and your silk nightgown.

Warnings: 18+, established relationship fluff, lil domestic moments, az coming home from a mission, reader serving cunt in a nightgown, suggestive sexual content, basically dry humping, boners, and allusions to sex

Word Count: ~ 1.6k

based on this ask!! youve done the lords work!!

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The evening was still and quiet, a content feeling lingering in the air as if the world had enjoyed its day and was happily ready to yield to the night.

It had, indeed, been a good day, a really good day. You had no complaints— except one. You missed your mate. Azriel had been so busy recently, chasing fading whispers and potential leads. He was running himself ragged, returning every night exhausted and sore. What would make today perfect for you was something you were sure would make Azriel’s day end properly— a nice, warm embrace.

Faintly, your ears picked up the sound of the door opening, a small creaking that you’d grown to love. Your heart leapt as you pushed yourself out of bed, the floor cold against your bare feet as you made your way out of the bedroom and through the hallway.

A window was open in the living room, a decision you had made earlier to welcome the beautiful weather. You had forgotten about the decision until now, until the cool breeze met your body and you shivered, nipples hardening under the thin material of your silk nightgown.

A familiar scent of night-chilled leather and something uniquely him filled the room, carried by the gentle night breeze. You took in a deep breath, letting the air and the smell of your mate fill your senses. A smile began to gnaw at your lips as you rounded the corner, eyes landing on Azriel’s form.

His wings were folded tightly against his back as he shrugged off his jacket, shadows swirling and flickering around his form like restless children. You knew that they got tired on these long missions sometimes, too. Your heart ached at the sight of two beings you loved so dearly being so evidently exhausted.

Sensing your presence, Azriel’s eyes immediately found yours, and the weariness in his face softened into a look of pure affection. His movements stilled, shadows seemingly calming, then, as if sensing his relief. Within seconds, they surged towards you, encircling you in a cool, loving embrace. You laughed softly, the sensation tickling your skin.

You smiled at your mate. “Welcome home.”

His gaze softened even further, a deep warmth kindling within your chest as he tugged on your bond— that divine, beautiful bond.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured, crossing the room in a few long strides. He brought you into a quick, tight embrace, a hand placed on the back of your head as he pressed a faint kiss to your forehead.

When he broke apart with a sigh, you reached up to run a comforting hand over his arm. “Rough day?”

He shrugged, but his shoulders relaxed under your touch. “Better now.”

You gave him a sympathetic glance, brows furrowing at the tension etched into his features. You took his hand in yours, bringing it to your lips to place a kiss on his knuckles. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Azriel only nodded, a small smile gracing his lips as he followed you down into the hallway, closing the bedroom door with his heel as you pulled him inside.

Piece by piece, you helped him remove his leathers, fingers softly undoing the buckles and straps. You let out a small laugh at the motions, memories of the start of your relationship bubbling to the brink of your mind— a time where you’d struggle to remove these same buckles and straps, when you’d get so frustrated and curse both your mate and his clothing. Not that you knew he was your mate at that point, but something inside you had convinced you that he was worthy enough of the patience it took to navigate the countless aspects of his fighting leathers.

“What is it?” Azriel asked softly, “What's so funny?”

You shook your head, drawing your lips in between your teeth. “Just remembering a time when I couldn’t remove these damned things.”

Azriel let out a laugh then, too. “And now look, you’re an expert.”

You looked up to meet his eyes. “I know. Call me the mate of the century.”

He let out another small chuckle, a dimpled smile forming on his face. A wave of silence fell upon you as each piece of clothing fell to the floor with a soft clunk, a sound made from both the metal clasps and the hidden assortment of weapons inside. Picking it all up was a problem for tomorrow. You made a mental note of it and stored it away in your mind.

Azriel let out a sigh of relief as the final pieces of his armor fell away. He peeled off the rest of his clothing, leaving him in just his underwear as he took a step closer to you. You tried not to stare at the beautiful form before you, at the ripple of his muscles. Gods, it was a sight you’d never tire of.

“Come here,” he said, gently pulling you onto the bed with him. He laid back against the pillows, his wings spreading slightly to accommodate your weight as you settled yourself atop him, straddling his hips. His hands found your waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on the silk of your nightgown, a cool trail of shadows following and exaggerating his every move.

“Tell me about your day.”

You smiled, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw. “Nesta and I walked around town for a bit. We found this little bookstore she loved. And then I baked with Elain. We made those dark chocolate cupcakes you like.”

He hummed appreciatively, hands rubbing gentle circles on your hips. “Sounds nice.”

You started to roll your hips, slowly, almost absentmindedly— a movement that you’d grown used to from other times spent in this same position. “It was. Elain sent some home for you.”

Azriel’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, his attention divided between your words and the steady, tantalizing motion of your body against his. “I can’t wait to try them.”

His fingers traced up your sides, one hand gently pushing your hair away from your neck to expose the sensitive skin to him. You shuddered at his touch, at the light brush of his fingertips. His hands were still cold from outside, and the tendrils of smoke, of shadow, that wrapped around his wrist made the feeling even stronger.

“And then we… oh,” you whispered, breath hitching as his nose brushed against your neck, face nuzzling into the crook of it. You felt the heat of his breath against your skin as he traced a path up your throat, a warm ripple of excitement running down your spine.

You tried to stay focused, asking him a question about his day and his input for tomorrow's plans. Cassian’s birthday was next week, and you and Az still had to decide on what you wanted to give him. The plan, supposedly, was to go out tomorrow and finalize your gifts. But your mate's attention seemed elsewhere. You let out a small laugh. “Az, are you even listening?”

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, gaze dark with desire, pupils now blown out. “Baby,” he said, “How can I when you look so good, and smell fucking divine.”

You let out a breath as a blush crept up your cheeks, the warmth radiating throughout your body. His hands tightened on your hips as he pulled you closer, his arousal now evident beneath you, large and wanting. “No, no,” he murmured, his voice husky with need, “Keep talking.”

“Alright,” you responded quietly, but your heart was no longer in the conversation. Instead, you focused on his hardening length beneath you, at the movement of your hips and the growing heat in your stomach. Azriel’s breathing grew more labored beneath you and you wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him closer. “And then we—”

You faltered as Azriel began to roll his hips, a whine leaving your lips as his hands slid up your back, fingers tangling in your hair. He pulled you into a searing kiss, mouth slotting over yours naturally— needy and eager.

Azriel groaned into your mouth, hands tightening around you as he urged you to continue moving against him— a request you gave into immediately, a pool of desire beginning to wet both your nightwear and his. He deepened the kiss, tongue brushing against yours, and there was a certain tremor in his muscles— a barely restrained hunger as he started to thrust up.

His hand tightened around your waist, the other sliding down to grab your ass, guiding you with a firm, insistent touch. His shadows coiled around your thighs as you parted from him, heavily breathing against his lips, “I'm getting the feeling that you’ve missed me.”

Azriel’s laugh was deep and rich, the sound vibrating through his chest as his lips remained pressed to yours. “Unbelievably so,” he muttered, capturing your lips in another hungry kiss, pulling you even closer.

You let out a sound of protest as he pulled away again, but it quickly turned into one of pleasure as his mouth trailed down to your collarbone, pressing heated kisses along your shoulder. The strap of your nightgown slipped down, baring more of your skin to his eager mouth.

"S'pretty," Az purred against your skin, fingers delicately tugging the strap down further. "I like this."

“Yeah?” Threading your fingers through his hair, you tugged lightly at his scalp, drawing his attention back to you. The intensity of his gaze sent a thrill through you and you throbbed as he ran his tongue over his lips. “Show me how much.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

whoever sent that ask....i love u and u got me writing faster than any deadline <3

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: @rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq

azriel tag list: @thisiskaylin

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starmocha · 10 days ago

Note

Oh oh oh since we're sharing pregnant mc hcs, how about one where they got a bit carried away, they did it, she got pregnant, he "died", by some miracle she didn't lose the baby, she's an excellent, doting, badass mom. then when he comes back he finds the love of his life with a little 1 year old baby girl that could be considered mc's perfect clone except for the eyes. the eyes are his. IMAGINE THE ANGST THE HURT THE TEARS THE LOVEEEEE!!!!!

🫵 are you guys using my Caleb-addled brain to sneak around my “I don’t take requests” condition. /lh 😔 this is who I am now, I guess. I see Caleb, I cave… 🥺

Endless Summer

It was an ambush, another attempt on his life.

It was the thirteenth time in three months, as a matter of fact. Caleb had thwarted all of the previous attempts with ease, always on guard, untrusting of those who claimed to have vowed their loyalty to him as their colonel.

As you learned, you couldn’t trust anyone in Skyhaven, much less the Farspace Fleet. Dark secrets surrounded this seemingly elite entity and though it appeared like the place ran like a machine with perfect precision and efficiency, there was still an insidious side that Caleb refused to let you see.

It wasn’t just his life they were after. They were after yours as well, using you as the ultimate pawn to get to him. Little do they suspect, while you may be his greatest weakness, you were also his strength, his sole reason to persevere.

This was to be a fatal lesson for many to learn.

It was supposed to be a celebratory banquet, thrown in honor of the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel’s latest achievements. There were no deceptions by the hosts, but a traitorous group seized this opportunity to trap the young colonel and all doors within the banquet halls locked, keeping many of the guests hostages in the process.

Within the center of the room, Caleb calmly eyed all of the familiar faces that loomed overhead on the second floor as all around, innocent guests rushed to the exits, banging and screaming for help. He tried to push you away, get you to safety.

They were after him, after all. You didn’t need to be in the crossfires.

You didn’t have time to react, hearing that first gunshot that led the way for the onslaught of bullets.

Something in Caleb snapped that night. The barrage of bullets that came at him and you from all directions would have taken down anyone, but they all froze midair only because of his Evol freezing them in their track and keeping them suspended as if time had frozen at this very moment. He soon, however, learned it was merely a distraction.

Ca…leb…

The moment he saw the crimson blood seeping from your side, that knife pulled out quickly, and you were falling, eyes closing, as he ran toward you yelling your name. His Evol flared out of control, the gravity in the room suddenly immensely heavy, as dozens of men were pulled to their knees in futile struggles.

Open your eyes, he pleaded, his uniform soaked with your blood. His face twisted in pain, a million thoughts rushing through his mind, all of the memories of the past resurfaced in quick successions. All of those years of smiles and laughter that transitioned to pain and distrust only to slowly return to some semblances of the past were now coming to an end before his very eyes. He couldn’t lose you like this, not when he had promised that he would make things right again, to be the man that you deserved. Please…please…

You struggled to breathe, the pain unlike anything you had experienced in your life. As he watched you teetered closer to death, he was filled with wrath, an anger that could not be calmed by any forces in this world.

Caleb held his hand out, and a gun laying on the floor levitated before it rushed into his grip from across the room, and without a thought or any remorse or even hesitancy, he fired bullet after bullet into each man’s head, a clean shot straight through the center, not flinching even as the surrounding guests screamed and huddled to the floor, covering their ears from that violent, horrid sound.

When the last traitor fell, Caleb dropped the gun with a clatter, and his arms wrapped entirely around you, pulling you closer to his body for warmth. Your breathing had weakened even more, but he could still save you. He hadn’t failed you. Not yet, not ever. You were going to live. He would make sure of it.

Even if he now realized you were safer away from him.

Colonel Caleb, you had only slept for four hours last night, the robotic voice of an OTTO said with some semblance of concern in its artificial vocal. It levitated after its owner as the young colonel adjusted his uniform. The robot continued, explaining, An adult man of your age requires ei—

“I’ve slept enough,” he interrupted firmly, ignoring the robot, whose monitor quickly displayed a digitalized look of concern. Caleb had thought often of shutting down the robot and dismantling it, but he could never carry through, remembering that he had purchased this robot for you.

In this cold, monotonous so-called-home of his in Skyhaven, Caleb had few things that reminded him of you. A few plushies you two had won together sat on his living room couch, some snapshots you two had taken together at a photobooth, and perhaps a few furniture pieces you had ordered to be sent directly to his home. You had been in the process of bringing warmth and life into this place when everything came to an abrupt stop.

If he hadn’t taken you to that banquet that night nearly two years ago, Caleb wondered how things would have played out. You wouldn’t have gotten injured that night, but he feared perhaps it would just delay that same outcome. That night, he found himself at a fork in the road, forced to make a decision that would change the course of both of your lives.

Keep you by his side, where he had foolishly believed you would always be safe under his protection, or, let you go, let you believe that whatever had happened that night, he was the one who had died, finally taken away by Death himself. It was better to let you believe he had actually died this time, to keep you from searching for him, to keep you far away from Skyhaven—to keep you from him.

Since that night almost two years ago, Caleb’s nightmares had worsened. He relived the dreadful night, but he had also had other terrifying dreams so horrendous, he would wake up screaming in cold sweats, completely disoriented, unsure if he was trapped within another layer of the nightmare, or if he was truly awake.

“She’s safe, she’s safe,” he would often mutter to himself, an attempt to convince himself that he had made the right choice, that setting you free was the only way he could keep you safe. As long as you lived, he would bear the weight of his sacrifice, even if it meant never seeing you ever again.

It was sunny in Linkon, not a cloud in the sky, and the weather warm and inviting, but to Caleb, it was a place he had forbidden himself from ever stepping foot in again, out of fear that your paths would cross. In all of those times since he had distanced himself from you, allowed you to believe he was dead, he had managed to avoid any reason to step foot in the place that was once his home.

When his adjutant, Liam, had informed Caleb that his schedule required him to attend a conference meeting in Linkon, the young colonel stiffened, the atmosphere in the room stifling almost as if he was using his Evol. He suppressed his initial instinct to yell, knowing Liam was well aware of Caleb’s situation and had in the past made the necessary arrangements to prevent him from having any reason to step foot in that city.

It seemed he couldn’t stay away from Linkon forever, so he resigned to this situation, still remaining vigilant in his stance. Linkon was a big city, and there was no reason for your paths to cross. He would make do with this troublesome situation for the time being.

Now, Caleb had intended to return to Skyhaven the moment the meeting ended, and yet, against his better judgment, he found himself wandering down familiar streets, lost in memories of happier times. As he walked, before his eyes, he saw the silhouettes of him and you as children running down the street after school to your favorite little vintage grocery store.

Caleb, you dummy, you can’t use your Evol!

Don’t blame my Evol because you can’t run fast on those short legs, pipsqueak!

Caleb chuckled. He couldn’t help it. The memories of those years seemed so much more carefree. He often wished to go back to that time when the only things that weighed on yours and his shoulders were school or silly childish arguments.

As he approached the old grocery store, closed just a few years prior, he was surprised to learn that it was now under new ownership. The familiar place of his childhood was now a small trendy café, popular with college students and young couples.

To his astonishment—and, perhaps, also relief—the vibrant hydrangea garden in the back remained. Bushes of the white, blue, and pink flowers bloomed in the garden, showing that its new owner took well care of the plants. They looked like the hydrangeas of his childhood, of those long summer afternoons that never seemed to end as he and you made this place just another secret hideout only you two would ever know. As he walked down a beaten path, distracted, he was stirred out of his nostalgic thoughts when he felt something bumped into his leg. He peered down, surprised to see a little girl in a light orange dress, the same color as the sunset he used to see in his airplane when he was a pilot, was clinging to his leg. He looked around, not seeing any adult in sight to indicate they were the child’s guardian.

He furrowed his brows, a little in annoyance, as he was not prepared to suddenly be grappled with the responsibility of a lost child. He knelt down lower, and immediately, he startled as he took in the little girl’s appearance, a near perfect carbon copy of you, but the eyes—he stared into sweet little violet eyes that mirrored his own, seeing his shocked face reflected in these orbs. The girl looked up at him with curiosity, the wind swaying her short bob while a little yellow chunky cartoon airplane hairclip held her side bangs in place.

Suddenly, she started tearing up, breaking Caleb out of his trance and for the first time in a while, he felt panicked, unsure of what to do. The girl started to cry and Caleb immediately lifted her up, her head resting onto his shoulder as he rubbed her back and soothed her.

He shushed her gently, his caregiver instinct reignited after years of dormancy. “Why are you crying, sweetheart?” he asked her gently, his soothing voice a complete opposite to the tone he used as colonel.

The girl sobbed. She looked so young, Caleb realized, surmising that she probably had barely started learning to speak.

“Are you lost?” he asked in that same tender tone despite knowing the child would be unable to answer him. He continued, “You miss your mommy, don’t you?”

He rubbed her back again, wondering with trepidation if this child’s mother was who he thought it would be. For just a second, his heart stopped when he felt the little girl gripping the fabric of his uniform with her small hands. Quickly, he recomposed himself.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, his hand smoothed the back of her hair. “Let’s go look for your Mommy, alright?”

“Ma...ma…” the girl struggled to say. She rubbed her face against Caleb’s shoulder, and he smiled gently, unbothered that his once pristine uniform was now covered in a child’s snot.

“Okay, mama,” he repeated, “I’ll help you find your mama, sweetheart.”

When he was just about to turn around to head back to the café, he froze again, hearing a familiar voice he hadn’t heard in years. He could feel his heart beating against his chest, actually feeling every heavy thump as the seconds passed and the voice grew closer, a name cried out—the little girl’s.

The child in his arms wriggled, and cried louder, seeing her mother over Caleb’s shoulder. “Mama! Mama!”

Stiffly, Caleb knelt lower and gently set the girl down to her feet, barely registering as the child toddled passed him to her mother.

A completely different feminine voice called out, angry. “Were you trying to kidnap a child in broad dayli—”

Caleb stood up and turned around, his face pale.

“Cale…Caleb?” You stared in shock, feeling like you were seeing his ghost again. Again.

“Mama…Mama…!” Your daughter nuzzled her face against your chest as you held her. You broke out of your trance and instantly redirected your attention to your child. You quickly soothed her, well aware that Caleb’s eyes were locked on you, his face just as shocked as yours but for entirely different reasons. Once the little girl calmed down you passed her off to your companion, saying, “Tara, take her back to the café.”

Tara looked at you worriedly, her eyes darting to Caleb with suspicion. One look into Caleb’s eyes, seeing that same, perfect shade of purple, and the young woman quickly understood the situation. She nodded quietly and took the girl from you. “Come on, sweetie, auntie Tara is going to buy you a cupcake, okay?”

You waited until Tara and your daughter were out of sight. You couldn’t look at him. You wanted to look at him, to make sure your eyes were not deceiving you, to make sure that this was not an illusion, not a cruel, mocking figment of your imagination. But you couldn’t. You felt cowardly in that instance, being afraid of the truth. Afraid of his reaction. Of everything.

“You were…you were pregnant?” he questioned, feeling a wave of guilt washed over him.

Just hearing those words made you realized this was him. This was Caleb, the man you thought was taken away from you. Again.

Suddenly, you broke down crying and you looked up at him with tears running down your cheeks.

“Caleb, you dummy,” you sobbed, “You fucking dummy!”

He gasped, unprepared when you rushed at him and started beating his chest half-heartedly with your small fists as you continued to sob and curse him over and over again. He let you carry out your anger, let you punished him as you saw fit in this moment, but when the punches weakened, he gently grabbed your wrists, lowering them to your sides before his arms wrapped around you in comfort, his apologies immediate.

“Yeah,” he agreed in that ever familiar soft and gentle tone reserved only for you, “I am a fucking dummy.”

You sniffled against his chest, gripping tightly the lapel of his coat.

The afternoon passed slowly, initially tensed and awkward, but eventually all of the missing pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and you both struggled to come to terms with the picture of the missing years. You peered at the man to your side, seeing Caleb hunched over, his cap in his lap, looking much like a sinner struggling to come to terms with his wrongs.

“You didn’t know,” you whispered after a while, wanting to break this stifling silence. You reached for his arm, but he tensed before his shoulders slumped again.

“That’s no excuse,” he said, looking up at you. He started to reach for your cheek, hesitating at the last second, as if he was afraid that you would recoil from his touch. He started to pull back but you grabbed at his hand, guiding it to your cheek. He stared in shock as you nuzzled your face against his palm, and you gazed at him with glistened eyes.

“You’re not allowed to die again,” you scolded him. “Promise me that.”

He nodded numbly, his voice clear and steady. “I promise,” he said, repeating in a more hushed, firm tone, “I promise.”

He leaned forward, guiding your lips to his, his words still repeating in between breath. You let him drown you in his kisses, let yourself dizzied and relent to his feverish promises. When your lips parted, just a few centimeters, his warm breath grazed over your trembling lips before he pressed another kiss to your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I... will you…”

You looked up, seeing the struggles in his violet eyes. He appeared to hesitate again, unsure of what right he had to seek your forgiveness, wondering if he was overstepping the boundary between the two of you.

You gently coaxed him, seeing relief washed over his guilty features. “Will I what?”

“Will you…let me make things right?” he asked, “Let me…earn your forgiveness. I…please…”

He almost wanted to say, I can’t lose you again but the words died at his lips. He, of all people, had no rights to utter such words in your presence. He looked so defeated, beaten down to the point he no longer recognized himself anymore.

You took his hand, just like you always seemed to do, and you pulled him to his feet, to his surprise. He gazed at you questionably, his heart stopping at your words.

“Caleb,” you said his name so sweetly, “I want you to meet…our daughter.”

The summer air was warm even as the sky darkened, and stars after stars appeared above to illuminate the world below. The gentle breeze ruffled Caleb’s hair as he stared down at the sleeping girl in his arms. Maybe it was because she was still so young and impressionable, or perhaps she could already sense who he was to her, but the girl clung to him immediately, already feeling safe and protected in his presence.

His heart felt heavy, overwhelmed by guilt, a feeling of failure, and also of self-loathing, but as he gazed down at his daughter, another feeling stirred, just as intense but much more forgiving. He didn’t think he could feel such love as he did now as he peered down at the sleeping girl, nuzzled against him on his lap, peacefully slumbering away.

He wondered what she was dreaming of as he admired how much she resembled her mother. Hesitantly, he let his finger caressed her cheek, in complete, silent awe at how soft and delicate her skin was. He was almost afraid of hurting her, feeling a need to protect her just as he protected her mother. He looked up at you, his cheeks and ears reddening when he realized you had been laughing at his expense.

“It’s alright,” you told him amid your giggles.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“You deserve it, you big dummy.”

He let out a huff, in mock annoyance, but he agreed with you. “Alright,” he conceded, “I deserve it.”

“Do you want to begin your path to seeking forgiveness from us?” you asked him, a playful, teasing lilt in your voice, unmissed by Caleb as he raised a brow in curiosity.

“Just like that?” he questioned, confused by your leniency with him.

You nodded. “You still love me, right?”

“I’ve never stopped,” he said, his solemn words had you blushing against your better judgment, your heart quickening when he looked at you so lovelorn. You quickly composed yourself, returning to your mischievousness from seconds ago.

“You love her, right?” you asked, your eyes shifting to your sleeping daughter in his arms.

He sighed, mesmerized. “So much already,” he whispered, and again, you found yourself softening, touched by his sincerity.

“Okay, we’ll forgive you,” you answered, catching Caleb’s attention as he looked at you almost bemused by your easygoing attitude. “First step.”

“Which is?”

“You have to make us your specialty,” you said, laughing at Caleb’s look of complete bewilderment unfit for a colonel of his status. Clearly, you had blindsided him completely with this first condition. You clarified with a mischievous twinkle in your eyes, “You have to make your braised chicken wings.”

He stared at you as if not comprehending your words. You laughed and leaned closer to him, your head resting on his shoulder. “I ate a lot of braised chicken wings while pregnant,” you said, reminiscing to that lonely period in your life without his presence. You reached over and brushed your daughter’s flyaway hair out of her face, continuing softly, “But they weren’t as good as yours.”

Caleb let out a huff of breath, a soft, resigned laugh as he readjusted his arm, letting it wrapped around you as he pulled you closer into his embrace. He leaned over and kissed the top of your head. “Okay,” he answered, “I take it she also likes braised chicken wings then?”

You leaned into him, nodding once. “She’ll love yours more,” you said, and then looked up, your heart quickening again as you gazed into his beautiful violet eyes, grateful that your daughter had chosen to inherit this sole feature from her father. Breathlessly, you uttered softly, your words for his ears only, “She’ll love you.”

“And you?” he whispered back, that same hesitancy still prominent in his tone. He looked at you expectantly as he asked, “Do you still love me?”

“I’ve never stopped,” you echoed his words back to him, continuing in that same hushed tone, “I’ll always love my dummy Caleb.”

“Alright,” he said, his voice resigned, holding you just a bit tighter, as if he was afraid this was a cruel, taunting dream he would wake up from.

As Caleb watched your eyes closed, he looked down, eyes darting from you to his daughter, and he wondered if he deserved any of this. In the warm summer night, surrounded by the blossoming blue and pink and white hydrangeas, he silently apologized for his mistakes, promising that for the remainder of his life, he would become a better man, deserving of both of you.

Just like the little boy from long ago, once he had made a promise to you, he would never break it.

He swore it on his life.

#x — 💌#anonymous #love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace x reader #caleb x reader #love and deepspace fanfiction #lads scenarios #caleb angst #caleb fluff #on the plus side #yayyyyyy i get to use my colonel caleb endless summer cap <3333 #i hope i am not giving ppl expectations or the impression that i will write all caleb headcanons/scenarios that come in .___.#but i also wonder if i am lying to myself and i will do just that #because #i love him so much pls love him too ;-;

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