#I'm already pretty efficient with my space

[mariasont]

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was practically painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes —"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a dejected sigh, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of movement and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did, like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was, the shift you loved to look for. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up, the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice, wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean — maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life. 

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil. 

This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second, bug-eyed panic, but he quickly scrambled for an answer. 

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption  my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part, it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. 

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that miniscule ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near. 

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile, the one that always made you a little breathless, spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale. 

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date. 

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy, your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over, but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before. 

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it — your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

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[sereia4skz]

HIIII

drabble, female reader, bf leeknow

prompt: "open wide." (they're cooking, except she's just sitting pretty on the counter and taste testing for leeknow lol)

1.5k Followers Event | open wide

pairing: minho x reader

genre: fluff

warnings: one sex joke from Ji

event masterlist: #1.5kStarsForYaya

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You’re not really helping. Sure, you offered to help, but Minho took one look at your excited little grin, your swinging feet as you parked yourself on the kitchen counter, and just shook his head with a fond sigh.

So here you are, legs crossed, back leaning against the cupboard, watching your boyfriend work in the kitchen like he was born to be surrounded by flame and seasoning.

He moves like muscle memory, fluid and efficient, sleeves rolled up, jaw set in soft concentration. And he doesn’t complain when you keep sneaking fingers toward the cutting board, only slapping your hand away with the back of a wooden spoon. Gentle. Always gentle with you.

“Open wide.”

You blink up at him. Minho’s in front of you now, holding out a spoon with a small bite of sauce-laced something. He doesn’t wait for your answer, just guides it to your lips with a raised brow and a barely-there smirk.

You part your lips automatically, letting him feed it to you with that infuriating calm he always wears, as if this moment, like every other, is completely in his control.

It tastes amazing. You let out a hum of approval as you lick the corner of your lip. But then, just as you’re about to give him your actual feedback- 

“Damn, what else is she opening wide for?”

You nearly choke. Your head snaps toward the voice, of course it’s Jisung, halfway through a drink on the couch, grinning like the little gremlin he is. He’s not even looking at you, just laughing to himself like he’s the funniest man alive.

Minho sighs. Long-suffering. The way he does every time his friend opens his mouth.

“You wanna get fed next?” he calls without missing a beat, already turning back to the stove.

Jisung perks up like a dog at a treat. “Depends. You hand-feeding me too? Wanna feel those soft hands-”

“or I can feed you this knife,” Minho offers sweetly.

You snort, nearly sending yourself into another coughing fit. "Kinky~"

Minho returns to you a second later with a new bite, a little twinkle in his eyes like this is all a game. You don’t miss the way he nudges your knees apart with his hips, purely for space, you tell yourself, and lifts the next spoonful to your mouth.

“You gonna behave this time?” he murmurs, and you’re not even sure if he’s talking to you or to Jisung across the room.

Still, you nod obediently and open your mouth, letting him feed you again. You chew slowly, savoring it, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mmh,” you mumble. “It’s perfect.”

Minho’s gaze lingers a second longer than necessary before he nods, turns back around, and mutters, “Course it is.”

Behind you, Jisung’s still mumbling about how he wants his turn next.

"Ya! Stop grumbling, I'm already making you dinner!"

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

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[hivemuthur]

Hi Anons! Happy Freakday! Taking this amazing opportunity to mingle two into one:

Lips Where Lips Were

viktorxfemale!reader explicit. What's in here? Perverted yearning, panty theft and face sitting :v I'm sure the day was stressful for him :< Never lose sight of your laundry, folks!

word count: 3K

author’s note: I listened to Smoke City Underwater Love. @rennethen beta-read and she was sick doing it so double thank-yous! And as per schedule, I name Fridays Freakdays, and on most of those you can expect some Freaktor action.

—

It wasn’t planned at all when you stepped into the laundry room with a basket full of clothes. Pure coincidence—or call it fate, if Viktor dared to entertain such grand notions when it came to something so utterly embarrassing.

He had just been loading the washing machine, half full with his meagre three white shirts and a few undershirts, when the door swung open. You entered backwards, nudging it open with your ass, your face obscured by the tall basket cradled in your arms. But he recognised you instantly—by the back of your head, the curve of your neck, your ankles. Again, utterly embarrassing.

“Oh my God, are you washing whites? Please tell me you are washing whites,” you asked, not bothering with a hello.

Viktor eyed the laundry in your arms, picking up what you were putting down, but simply replied, “Yes, I’m washing whites.”

"Mind if I invade?" you asked, already shifting your weight forward, basket pressing into your stomach. "I’ve mostly got darks, but I’m running out of underwear."

Viktor swallowed, considering. Having your underwear washed with his­—pretty good. You having no underwear to wear? Significantly better. Being unable to come up with explanation to denying you, he forced a nod, stepping back from his machine as if giving you space might help untangle the sudden knot in his throat.

"Be my guest," he said, voice steady despite the way his pulse stuttered.

You wasted no time, setting your basket down and beginning to sort through your clothes. Viktor watched as you moved, as your hands fished out a bundle of whites and dropped them in beside his. Then, with the ease of someone used to efficiency, you loaded a second machine with your darker clothes.

It should have been a nothing moment—mundane, forgettable. But when you leaned forward, he caught sight of a bra slipping from the heap in your arms, a delicate thing edged with lace, straps tangled. His mouth went dry.

A thought, insistent and utterly filthy, flashed across his mind—quick, scorching, and impossible to ignore. He almost turned away, almost shut the machine door to spare himself from his own treacherous imagination. But then, right there, in the tangle of fabric, were your knickers.

White as snow. Thin as paper. A tiny, pretty bow crowning the hem.

His fingers twitched. Good with his hands as he was, before he could think better of it, before his brain could catch up to his body, he snagged them—swift, seamless, a movement so smooth it almost convinced him it hadn’t happened at all. But the fabric in his pocket was real as day whenever he reached to check if it’s still there.

And now, Viktor has a problem.

He’s thought about returning them—washing them by hand and slipping them in with the rest of your white clothes. He’s also considered getting rid of them: throwing them away, tossing them out the window, burning them—anything that might make him stop. But whenever he comes close, he falters.

At first, just the thought of having a piece of fabric that was so intimately close to you is enough. Clutching onto the last ounces of self-respect he has, Viktor does nothing beyond tucking the knickers into his chest pocket, carrying them close to his heart whenever he feels like it.

The idea nearly backfires when Jayce asks him for a pen—the little metal loop catches on the fabric, almost pulling them out and exposing him for the depraved pervert he is.

From that point forward, Viktor says goodbye to your underwear every time he leaves his dorm. They lay splayed flat on his bed when he returns, and his mind instantly drifts to which parts of you they clung to. The curve of your ass, hugged tightly as you pulled them on. The waistband, with its little bow resting just beneath your belly button. And his favourite part—the delicate pouch fabric kissed by your sweet lips.

Then it happens again that his body overrides his mind’s restraint, compulsive in its betrayal. It’s a compulsion, yes, when his fingers unbuckle the belt, his hand palming his aching cock. It’s compulsive yet again when he undoes his fly, rubbing himself through his boxers, thinking of you. It’s compulsive when he pulls himself out and smears the precum pearling at the tip, pretending it’s your gentle fingers touching his heated skin.

And it’s utterly deranged when he reaches for your panties and brings them to his face. If he could snort it all up, he would. Instead, he holds it against his nose, inhaling deeply, greedily. It’s dizzying—the smell of you, sweet and intimate, proof that this was yours.

His fingers tease the head first, gliding over the aching spot just beneath, and he twitches in his own hand. His mind, corrupt and rotten, throws him the worst of images for this occasion—or the best, depending on how he looks at it. You, bending over, the seam of your underwear glaring at him from beneath your skirt. Your mouth, speaking his name. Then moaning his name as his hand is buried between your thighs.

His grip tightens around his cock. At first, slow, as he breathes in the remnants of you. He strokes himself languidly, knees bent over the bed’s edge, feet pressing hard into the floor. His hips thrust up, chasing more—more of anything to quell the ache inside him, the iron grip that coils low in his belly.

Your name spills from his mouth, ragged and desperate. He imagines you here, above him, thighs caging his head as you press down onto his waiting tongue. The thought alone has his cock twitching in his hand again, and he lets out a filthy groan, gripping himself harder.

And even though shame still lingers somewhere in the periphery of his thoughts, he cannot help himself. He splays the fabric over his face and licks where your lips have been cradled. And kisses there. And takes it into his mouth, sucking on it—the poor substitute for your soft pussy.

“Ah—fuck—” His breath stutters, muscles winding tight as he fucks into his own hand now. Fast and hard. His imagination runs wild—your taste on his tongue, your fingers tugging his hair, the way you’d roll your hips to use his mouth like you need it. He lets himself drown in the fantasy, slutty moans spilling from his mouth so loud he doesn’t hear the knocking. Or the door to his dorm room creaking open. Or the soft sound of feet shuffling on the floor.

You do knock. And you do call out, until you mistake a noise coming from his bedroom for one of pain. You rush in, clutching a shirt he mistakenly gave you with your batch of white laundry to your chest. And then you freeze by the door, when you hear the sound of your own name stumbling from Viktor’s lips in the filthiest, most sultry tone you’ve ever heard from him. Oh—the door is ajar.

Not that you haven’t imagined him doing it. Many times, possibly too many to count. But to imagine it and to hear it—raw and real, seeping into your ears so sweetly—is a completely different thing.

For a moment, you squeeze your eyes shut before holding your breath and stepping in carefully. Viktor is writhing on the bed, unaware, unseeing, his trousers slipped down his thighs, and his face covered with—oh. One hand pushes the fabric into his nose and mouth, and the mere sight has your thighs clenching under your skirt as you step closer, transfixed.

Heat floods your cheeks when your gaze drops to his other hand, to his cock—hard and flushed at the tip, sliding in and out of his grip as his hips thrust helplessly. He looks so absolutely, utterly hot like this, you almost want to let him finish—just to see the vulgar act of him cumming all over his stomach. Until, again—oh. You notice it—the panties are yours.

"Viktor," you whisper, bewildered.

He freezes. "Fuck!" The curse rips from him, loud and raw as he throws the underwear away from him like it burned, rolling onto his stomach with light speed. "Fuck." Again, muffled against the mattress. Then your name, a plea. "I'm so... so sorry."

You step closer, gaze flicking to where the discarded fabric landed. Slowly, you bend down and pick it up between two fingers, holding it up as you muse, "I thought I was missing a pair."

Viktor drops his forehead to the mattress and groans, frustration and shame bleeding into the sound. "I can't believe this is happening, I—"

"For how long have you had them?" you ask. There’s no accusation, only curiosity.

He says nothing. You bite your lower lip, eyes drawn helplessly to the curve of his bare ass, the tension in his shoulders, the way his entire body seems locked in mortification.

"Viktor," you try again, softer this time. "Look at me. Turn over."

"I beg you, spare me," he rasps. "I promise I will apologize properly, but please, please, leave."

But you don’t. You see it now—clearly, undeniably. Viktor has been pining for you as much as you’ve pined for him. And so you dare, your mind stunted with the sight conjuring ideas beyond the realm of reason, as you crawl onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight and you settle beside him, sitting on the balls of your feet. Viktor presses his face harder into the sheets, as if willing either himself or you to disappear. "Please," he mutters, your name a breathless sigh, "this is mortifying."

You reach out, running a hand up his leg, fingertips tracing along the muscle, up to the swell of his ass in a gentle caress. Where you touch goosebumps prickle on his skin and you really, really have to resist the urge to bite on his pale cheek. "Viktor," you murmur, voice coaxing, "please look at me. I beg you."

He sighs into the bed, then slowly turns his head to face you, though he avoids your eyes. His face flushed all the way up to his cheeks, shame bleeding into skin. Swallowing hard, he says, “I am so sorry. I wasn’t… This is not—”

"Hey," you say softly, brushing the hair off his forehead. His eyes squeeze shut at the touch. You shift closer, lying on your belly beside him, and blow gently on his face. A breathy chuckle forces its way out of him, and finally—finally—he opens his eyes.

"Hi," you whisper.

"Hi yourself," Viktor murmurs, calmer now.

"I, uh—" you start, then bite your lip. "Can I… see you?" The words come out shyly, your breath held as you wait for his reaction.

"W-what?" Viktor turns, startled—only his torso, though. His hips remain stubbornly pressed to the mattress, much to your disappointment. His brows knit together as he waits for an explanation.

But you have no idea what to say, so you let your body speak for you. You exhale, closing the last bit of distance between you, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your forehead to his. "Please," you whisper, "you looked so… hot."

Your cheeks scald as you wait for his reaction, but disappointment and fear flee the moment Viktor's tongue swipes over his lips and—oh—he rolls over, revealing his pretty cock to you. It had been trapped in the crease of his thigh, held there by the dampness of his skin, still achingly hard.

You reach for him slowly, and he moans—his brows knitting—before you even touch him. Your fingers, palm facing down, trace over his balls before gliding up, the heel of your hand pressing along his length, your thumb circling beneath the head.

“Your cock is so pretty,” you whisper a quiet praise, and he shudders, pressing his nose into your cheek, his lips brushing yours, mouths hanging open. As your hand moves in tender strokes, Viktor can’t help himself, it’s invitation enough. His fingers tangle into your hair, and he presses his tongue between your lips, kissing you sloppily, desperately. "Oh God, yes," he mutters into your mouth.

The sound alone makes you moan, spurring you to move with more intent. In no time, you have him so worked up that the neglected dampness between your legs almost doesn’t bother you—but then Viktor’s tongue grows more insistent, his hands roam your body, and your hips buck involuntarily. He clocks it immediately, rasping into your mouth, “Sit on my face. Please.”

You choke on a sound between a gasp and a moan, barely having time to process his words before Viktor’s hands find your hips, guiding you forward. He shifts beneath you, pressing his back flat against the mattress, and tugs at you again, insistent and needy. His breath is hot against your skin as he urges, “Come here, please.”

Your legs tremble as you move, suddenly all shy and hesitant. You come to straddle his chest first, but oh, Viktor’s shame has melted into impatience once encouraged—his hands slide up, gripping your thighs to pull you the rest of the way until you hover above his face. His parted lips are so close that you can feel the ghost of his breath and it’s so unbearably warm you barely resist the urge to sink into him.

What’s in front of you, is his cock, still flushed and leaking, laying thick on his navel. Swallowing your nerves, you lean forward, bracing your hands on his sharp hips as you lower your mouth to him, wrapping your fingers around the base. Viktor groans beneath you, the vibration rippling against your skin and you can feel yourself leaking obscenely when he whines out his famous last words—“Fuck, you are so wet,” and his hot mouth meets your sex.

It's a sinful swipe, that first one. Has you gasping and gripping his cock tighter, before you remember what is it that you are holding. Your eyes widen, mouth huffing warm air over his length as you try to regain your bearings. But Viktor is relentless, thorough, as if he’s intent on devouring the very essence of you, memorising every crevice. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you down, grinding you against his mouth, burying himself in you.

It’s a thousand times better than a mouthful of your underwear—no comparison, really. Not that Viktor can think straight enough to measure the difference, not when his tongue finds its rhythm, plunging in and out of your hole. His head wrenches back into the mattress, chin teasing your clit, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. And then—he groans, a loud, wrecked sound, because your mouth has just wrapped itself around his cock.

Your lips part around the head, tongue flicking over the slit as your hand works the base, thumb pressing along the thick vein running underneath. He twitches so beautifully under your touch that you pause, pulling off with a quiet pop. Watching him glisten in your palm, this time it’s you who can’t help yourself—you glue your torso to his stomach, bury your face against his cock, and inhale long and deep through your mouth and nose.

Viktor shudders beneath you, a deep, broken groan muffled against your cunt. As if this were a conversation, you moan back, the vibration sending a shudder rolling through his muscles. Emboldened, he buries himself deeper, rubbing his chin against your sweet spot, fucking you with his tongue until your hips begin to move on their own, grinding down onto his face. And you—oh, you take him back into the warmth of your mouth, sinking down past the barrier of your throat. Drool spills down his length, slicking the ridges with every bob of your head.

What was merely an ember when you walked in on him now burns bright and hot in his loins. He snorts up whatever air you grant him between your movements, bracing himself for the blinding twist in his stomach that he knows is imminent. His muscles flex under your hands, and for a moment, he loses rhythm, parts his lips from you—and then he cums with a throat-wrenching moan, hard and heavy, spilling thick white into your mouth. You lick it all up, gulp on it, letting him make as many sounds as he likes, lifting your hips just enough so that your clit stays pressed against his chin.

When his cock begins to border on overstimulated, his hand finds your hair, and he tugs you gently, guiding you back to where you were—pressing you down onto his tongue. And you are so, so close. You straighten, brace yourself on his chest, and rut against him without restraint, dragging yourself over the flat of his tongue.

Viktor groans into you, his fingers digging into your thighs, keeping you where he wants you, letting you use him, consume him. Heat gathers and pools over in waves, tipping you beyond that edge—your body seizing as a raw, broken moan tears from your throat. With the sight of his pretty softening cock in front of you, his name spills from your lips, over and over, as you tremble and grind against his mouth. He holds you through it, drinking in every last shudder and cry until you finally collapse against him, spent and trembling.

Your ass slides off his face, splayed in front of his very eyes and Viktor suddenly realises something—all this time you’ve had no knickers on. “Why are you not wearing any underwear?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Hmm, I thought I miscalculated, but turns out you took my last pair,” you smirk against his hip where your cheek is cradled. You place a soft kiss there to the peak of his bone and whisper, “You can keep it.”

[mortalityplays]

Forgive me if I'm mistaking you for another person, but I remember you speaking at multiple points on the unsustainability of free social media services (I think especially in response to the cohost collapse?), and I'm curious on what your thoughts on bluesky are so far. I'm not an expert on the subject, but from what I've read previously it seemed like they were on track to be financially sustainable, but I don't know if the recent floods of users has thrown those projections off. Sorry if I'm mixing you up with someone else on my timeline, in that case just ignore me.

bluesky will almost certainly follow the same trajectory of monetisation => bloat => enshittification => decline as every other major platform built on venture capital and user hoarding. it's a terrible model that only works in the short term as a mirage for attracting funding and making founders look good for a year or two before they sell.

you can see the same effect in the decline of all the subscription box services that came into vogue just before covid: they feel great to use for as long as the initial injection of venture funding lasts, because the purpose of that funding at that stage is to attract users and impress the next round of funders with how pleasant/intuitive/efficient/ethical/good value the service is. that's the stage where they're handing out freebies and bowling over influencers, and every ingredient in the box is fresh and high quality and locally sourced. wow what a good deal, what a great system!!! why hasn't anyone done this before? the answer is because it's unsustainable by design. they rack up good reviews, sign on a billion new users, attract new funding from a bunch of much more credulous investors, and then gut all of the expensive parts. portions get smaller, ingredients get worse, packaging gets flimsier, prices go up, freebies turn into "5% off your first 9 boxes when you invite 3 friends", and customer service vanishes.

with social media (and platforms like discord) the logic is the same, it's just a little less glaringly obvious to the end user because they're not coming home to leaking packages of rancid chicken on the doorstep. bluesky has an advantage over tiny operations like cohost because it was founded by a billionaire making a point for the sake of his own image. it got a really significant chunk of startup funding, and the owner had existing connections and rep in the space to attract more. That's why it has survived the goldrush period, why it still feels good to use, and why users who have been burned so many times before are finally accepting it as a stable, reliable option. It's still in its venture capital honeymoon phase where the only thing worth spending money on is making the service attractive to users.

What I expect we will see next, with another mass influx of users from twitter and new funding from a rogue's gallery of tech venture sickos led by Blockchain Capital is a strong ramp up into monetising that userbase. They've already been pretty forthright about how they plan to do this, and I think it's a solid roadmap of how Bluesky will bloat and decay over the next few years:

this is a huge lol. don't worry, we're not going to hyperfinancialize the social experience through NFTs. the thing even crypto freaks started feigning amnesia about a year ago. real "our health conscious sodas are 100% arsenic free" messaging here. They know perfectly well that rubes users are suspicious of their typical 5 dimensional tech finance chess games and are patting our hands about last week's bogeymen so nobody worries too hard about whatever 'decentralised developer ecosystem' just happens to be helmed by a bunch of crypto guys. this definitely means something good and based and not a google-like single sign on user data harvesting operation.

This is the same shit that's currently rotting the floorboards of discord. Bluntly, there is no way to run a platform on this scale without gating functionality behind paid services. Discord has been squeezing free-tier file uploads and call quality etc. down steadily and cranking up subscription costs over the last year or two, throwing in chaff like animated avatar frames to try and justify the user cost. They're also doing the same misdirection thing again here, pointing to Thing We All Hate to deflect from thing we might not like very much when they do it. Booo elon booo we all hate elon!!! wait how do we feel about subscription models again,

watch out for this to kill porn on bsky like it has killed porn on every other social platform 👍 boooo we hate elon boooo stupid idiot and his 'everything app' booooo wait why do you need my tax information, what's that about mastercard,

Look, we are all aware social media is a money pit. Let's not forget dorsey was looking to sell twitter in the first place, long before elon's very public plunge into total online derangement. Subscription services are not going to plug the hole, so we are gradually going to see more and more spaghetti thrown at the wall while early funders shuffle cards and do their pyramid scheme bit bringing in stupider and stupider investments. this is the window in which bluesky will be temporarily worth using for us, for the idiot public, the poorly rendered crowd jpegs in the background of their venture capital MOBA. it's in their interests to slow and pad the decline as much as possible, because that is how they get maximally paid.

Given the scale of the money involved, and dorsey's weird ego investment, I think bluesky will probably manage a controlled drift for a good few years before it gets really bloated and painful. and by then we will all be so used to the *checks notes* decentralised developer ecosystem that we'll just be posting through it, watching another generation of columnists call another collapsing platform 'their beloved hellsite' and passing around that meme about not getting out of our chairs no sir until idk we all get on a fediverse neurolink alternative to stick it to the elongated muskrat and our brains pop peacefully in our sleep. which I guess is the closest thing to viability any social media platform can achieve.

anyway diogenes the cynic is also on bluesky

[utilitycaster]

Watching the Mighty Nein conversations and seeing people post about Watch Machina I really am struck by how much like...generally well-meaning misunderstandings or accidentally insensitive statements or even just two valid but conflicting viewpoints come up in conversation from the very start, and how utterly vital this is to the characters feeling so real and having such clear motivations.

Molly accidentally says the worst things possible to Nott every time, because while he needs to believe he is not the person who was put in a grave and who Cree knew, just a different person who happens to share the same body (that he's endeavored to make his own), she needs to believe that despite being in a different body she is still able to be Veth Brenatto, a halfling woman from Felderwin. Fjord has designed his entire current persona about being someone who commands respect after a powerless childhood in which he was bullied and abused and an adulthood in which he was horribly, even lethally, betrayed, and so the others aren't wrong about his tusks (and, notably, he's even able to listen) but it's part of that precarious scaffolding, along with the accent; and people like Caleb and Yasha in turn (as many people have said in the notes) need to know that someone else can move forward from their past, even though they can't yet.

With the conversation about Kima, Vex - victim of racism over her mixed heritage and having experienced an early adulthood as a homeless wanderer who was undoubtedly treated with suspicion simply for being new in town too many times to count - needs Keyleth to have more than just "vibes"; Keyleth, on the other hand, is terrified she lacks leadership qualities not just of intuition ("vibes") but also expressing that to others. Much later on, Scanlan's outburst in A Bard's Lament is both very real - Scanlan feels (and might even be right) that if he'd never met Vox Machina, he'd be less powerful but he also wouldn't have died twice, and he wouldn't have to care so much about others and he might not even know about Kaylie - but in expressing that he blames the rest of Vox Machina for caring back and making that attempt to disconnect impossible.

These are all in my opinion either absolutely necessary groundwork for characters who develop satisfyingly over the course of a campaign, and remarkably efficient too: each of these serves to set up both the characters as individuals (even if we as the audience did not know the entire story at the time, which, in many of these cases, we didn't) and their relationships with each other.

And I think, and I would apologize for making so many posts about where Campaign 3 fails where the other two succeed but I find it personally helpful to do so and I'm not going to stop until it no longer is, that this is perhaps its greatest failure point: there was no space given, in the narrative or by much of the fandom, to work through well-intentioned insensitivity or disagreement. Especially with the examples of the Mighty Nein, this doesn't even need to rise to the level of outright conflict! Molly and Nott's conversation is at most prickly, and the conversation with Fjord is even supportive, and Vox Machina had, notably, much more time with each other than the Mighty Nein had had at the time of both those conversations and could go much harder without destroying a nascent social connection.

And, of course, the Mighty Nein were also not without more outright conflict - we've already seen Fjord (life ruined and nearly destroyed entirely by someone deviating from the plan in a high pressure situation and betraying the group) threaten Caleb (pretty much solely motivated by the pursuit of arcane knowledge and Nott at this point, history of extensive abuse) and Nott (family saved because she went off-book), and Bowlgate (Beau's value of personal freedom vs. Caleb's suspicion of strangers' intentions, both informed by their pasts) is coming up fast. And clearly, it is not uniquely a campaign 3 issue that the fandom decided that one person was right and one was wrong instead of understanding that these are people with two separate perspectives - that stretches back to Vox Machina (the initial source of much Keyleth hate was that conversation about Kima), and the cast is still joking about Bowlgate - but I am struck by how there was pretty much no one who both loves Bells Hells and embraces this sort of misunderstanding. I still recall the seething hatred towards Orym's mother Alma for an utterly innocent statement re: the Ashari avoiding any Ruidusborn children even though she is personally entirely unaware of Imogen's past and the end state of the world ends up being...no more Ruidusborn ever.

We've seen what happens when everyone takes those misunderstandings and instead of trying to dig into them with empathy for both sides (Vax re: the argument about Kima) or talking it over after the fact even in veiled terms (the team conversation with Nott immediately in episode 13, and the oblique conversation between Fjord and Caleb in 14 and several much later ones and more explicit ones re: Swordgate) tries to just skip past them and maintain an illusion of peace. Ironically, instead of having heroic assholes who can deal with the fallout of the problems they cause and who learn to take unintentional insensitivity in good faith, you simply end up with regular old assholes, who can't, and who as a result treat most outsiders with disdain.

[nothorses]

So I'm thinking of going on low dose T, and ofc I'll get more feedback from doctors when I see them, but I know one of the changes is that you run warmer and have lower heat tolerance, and I'm already kind of heat sensitive (sweating is a sensory ick). Do you or your followers have any kind of coping strategies that have helped with that?

I ran warm before, too, and I'm definitely warmer now! I also have Raynaud's which kind of makes the whole experience a clusterfuck, but that's besides the point. lmao.

I live in a pretty cool/temperate area, so it isn't normally an issue except in the (increasingly horrible) summers, but I've found that the hardest time to stay cool has been at night. I share a bed with my partner who runs even warmer, and it's been 2.5 years of struggling to figure out how to be a comfortable temperature together.

The best advice I can give you is to just stay as far away from synthetic fibers as you can; "sweat wicking" and "cooling" and "athletic" stuff included. It's a lie. They're all plastic, and while they might feel cool to the touch at first, plastic doesn't breathe. It'll trap heat and moisture against your skin after enough time, especially in the form of blankets. (Fuck the Rest Evercool. Worst recommendation I've ever gotten.)

Look for 100% linen, or 100% cotton. I've heard wool also works well, but I haven't had luck with that personally. Woven fabrics are going to be cooler and more breathable than sateen, and waffle weave is like, the single most breathable weave afaik (it's more common in blankets, but some clothes are waffle).

Some of these things can be pretty scratchy at first, and I recommend a couple of washes on a high heat & some fabric softener before you start using them. We were able to break in our waffle blanket super quickly this way! (I know some folks recommend against softener for breathability reasons, but it's the only thing that actually worked for us, and it hasn't impacted breathability). After you break them in, though, cotton and linen fabrics are SUPER soft!

I also recommend staying away from leather. It's natural, but trust me: it's not breathable. It's coveted in outdoor rec spaces BECAUSE it's somewhat waterproof.

Outside of that, I'd really encourage you to lean towards multiple light layers that you can change/remove throughout the day to suit your needs (ex: light tee + fleece + wind/rain layer, maybe throw in a flannel somewhere), instead of one or two heavy ones (ex: shirt + big puffy cold weather jacket). It's a strategy common in the PNW that works great for regulating your temperature when you're dealing with humidity and somewhat unpredictable weather, and imo, it also really translates if you're just generally sensitive to heat and sweat.

Outside of that... depending on where you live, I really recommend having an AC/dehumidifier. Don't bother with trying to rig up a swamp cooler if you're sensitive to sweat- the increased humidity will make things worse. The general advice I heard when researching a good AC was that window units will always be more efficient than portable units (and a mini split is better than either), but if you have to go with a portable unit, go with a dual-hose. They'll be more efficient just because they don't create a vacuum that pulls in warm air from outside. This is the model we settled on- it was really highly recommended and cost effective for what it is, and it's been absolutely fantastic this summer.

Idk how you are about pits, but I wash mine with a benzoyl body wash and then use a deodorant with antiperspirant every day, and I virtually never smell or sweat. 🤷‍♂️ ymmv though

I'm sure folks will have things to add, so check the notes on this post- and good luck!

[whump-imagines]

You're Just Talented

Connor x reader

WC: 1400 ish

Reader falls while Connor is at work. She calls him to come help her.

@juneofdoom day 4 whimper

------

You weren't even sure what had happened. One minute you were walking into the living room and the next you were on the ground and your arm was bent at a very unnatural angle. You weren't sure if you had ever been in so much pain.

You wiped at your face with your good arm, trying to clear the wetness from your still falling tears. Taking deep breaths, you tried to breathe through the pain.

You grabbed your phone from where it had landed near you on the floor, thankful to find it wasn't broken. You tapped on the phone app and tapped your most recent call: Connor. As the ringtone droned on, you worried that he might be in surgery or otherwise unavailable. The voicemail picked up and you hung up trying not to panic.

Before you could consider who to call next, your phone rang and your favorite picture of Connor filled your screen. “Hello?” you answered, trying to contain your emotions.

“Hey, baby. Sorry I wasn't quick enough, what's up?”

You sniffled and tried to even your voice. “A-are you in surgery?”

“No, I just finished,” he explained. “What's wrong, sweetheart?”

“Um, can you come home?” You hiccuped as you finally lost control of the tears once more. “I fell. I don't know what happened but I was just walking to the couch and then I don't know. I, uh, I tripped, I think?” you rambled on, unable to stop the word vomit.

“Okay, alright, take a deep breath for me, sweetheart,” he requested. “I'm coming right now. Are you hurt?”

You took a couple deep breaths before answering. “My–my arm. Pretty sure it's broken.” You sniffled again. “It hurts so much, Connor.”

“Oh, baby. I'm so sorry. I'm almost to my car, I'll be there in five minutes,” he explained. “Just keep talking to me.”

You had never been so grateful to live so close to the hospital as you were now. “Okay. Um, how was surgery?”

He chuckled. “It went perfectly.” He continued to talk about how well the procedure he'd just finished had gone. You spaced out as he talked, allowing the sound of his voice to sooth you and distract you from the pain radiating through your arm.

“I'm in the elevator, I'll be there in a second.” Moments later, you heard the thunk of the deadbolt unlatching. You dropped the phone from your ear as Connor came into view. “Hi, sweetheart.”

You sagged in relief against the couch and let go. You couldn't hold back your tears anymore and you hiccuped as you cried. Connor crouched down and pulled you into his chest, careful not to jostle your injured arm.

“Just breathe,” he tried. “I know it hurts, but I need you to breathe.”

You realized you were basically hyperventilating as you cried. It took a couple tries, but you managed to suck in a couple deeper breaths and get yourself a little more under control.

“Okay, let me take a look.” He shifted back so he could examine your arm. Your forearm was bent backwards in a completely unnatural position and already had substantial bruising blooming across your skin. He placed his fingers against your wrist to check the pulse in your hand. You saw the worry in his eyes even as he tried to school his expression. “I'll be right back.”

Only a minute later, he was back with a towel, medical tape, and the triangle bandage from the first aid kit he kept in the bathroom.

He quickly and carefully braced your arm with the towel and wrapped tape around above and below the break to keep it in place. Next, he pulled the triangle bandage out of its packaging and efficiently placed and tied it into a sling to hold your arm against your torso. You bit your bottom lip to keep from crying out in pain as he moved your arm how he needed to. “I'm sorry,” he'd repeated over and over.

“This sucks,” you whined. “I don't even know how I tripped.”

He smirked. “You're just talented.”

You rolled your eyes at him.

He shifted to your other side and knelt in a position to help you up off the floor. “Let's do this carefully. Just let me take most of your weight, okay?”

“‘Kay.” You shifted your feet so they were flat on the floor and braced yourself to move.

“One, two, three,” he stood, lifting you along with him. He shifted his arm around your lower back to steady you. “You good?”

“Mmhmm.” You nodded. “Good.”

He kept his arm around you as he walked you to his car and then helped you settle into the passenger seat. He reached across you to buckle your seatbelt for you before rounding the car and climbing behind the wheel.

As he drove, you had your eyes cinched closed as you tried your best to breathe through the pain the jostling of the road was causing.

After what felt like the longest drive of your life, he pulled up to the guest parking outside the ED. He helped you out of the car and walked you towards the sliding doors with his arm wrapped around your back.

“Treatment six is ready for you,” Maggie announced as soon as you walked in. “Will! Six.”

“Got it,” Will said, heading to meet you in the room. “What happened, Y/N?”

“I apparently tripped over my own feet,” you explained.

“Did you catch yourself on the floor or did you hit something?” Will asked.

“My arm caught the coffee table.”

“Displaced forearm fracture,” Connor informed Will. “There was no radial pulse but I didn't want to try to reduce it without an x-ray.”

“What?” you asked, now panicked over the new information.

“It's okay. We're going to fix it. You'll be fine,” Connor soothed.

“Unwrap it and I'll grab the doppler to recheck,” Will said, turning to grab it from the drawers behind him.

Connor untied the makeshift sling and cut the tap holding the towel splint to your arm. “Can you set your arm here?” He slid a wheeled tray beside the bed where you could reach without moving.

You set your arm on the tray and winced as pain shot through your arm.

“Doris, push 25 micrograms of fentanyl, please,” Will requested. He powered on the doppler and pressed it firmly against your wrist. He and Connor locked eyes but neither said anything.

“Is it bad? Am I gonna lose my hand?”

“No.” Connor hooked a finger under your chin and forced you to meet his eyes. “We need an x-ray and then we pop it back in place. Your hand is fine. I promise.”

They had you covered with a lead shield moments later as the radiology tech told you how to position your arm and took all the necessary pictures.

Will and Connor discussed the x-ray while you started to feel a bit like you were floating. The pain meds were kicking in and you were suddenly feeling exponentially better if a bit sleepy.

“How is the pain now?” Will asked.

You giggled.

Will smiled. “You're a lightweight.”

Connor took your good hand and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Will is going to reset your arm and then schedule you for surgery to get you fixed up. Sound good?”

“Okie dokie pokie!” You gave Connor a dopey smile.

It took them a moment to prepare. They shifted you into a better position and Ethan came in to help hold traction on your arm so that Connor could keep you distracted.

“All set,” Will announced. “This might hurt for a second but then it should feel better, okay?”

You nodded. “Mmkay.”

You whimpered as pain shot through your arm and your fingers tingled with pins and needles. “Ow.”

“It's done.” Will pressed his index and middle fingers to your wrist. “Good radial pulse.”

“Yay!” You cheered as your eyes started to slide closed. “You saved my hand!”

Will just chuckled as he placed a splint. “You just get some rest. It’ll be a few hours before we send you up to the OR.”

Your eyes flashed open again and you gripped Connor's hand with all the strength you could muster. “You're not going back to work, right?”

“No, baby,” he said before kissing your knuckles. “I'll be right here. Just sleep.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled, relaxing once more.

“You don't have to thank me for taking care of you.”

“Love you,” you slurred.

The last thing you heard as sleep took you was Connor whispering, “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

[kirlicues]

J & M Legacy Home | Sims 2 Lot Download

This spacious home is built on a 4x3 lot and has a traditional look that incorporates modern touches with plenty of room for all. This lot is very lightly furnished and costs §109,656.

This lot was originally built as an upgraded house for a Legacy challenge family one of my kids was playing years ago--J and M are the initials of the founder, and his wife (who I'm pretty sure was Melissa Fancy). I've redone the upstairs, which required putting on a new roof, and I'm happy to say that for the moment I'm really pleased with how it turned out. Here's a look at the back. The white fence is a Maxis "Lost & Found" object. I'll pop a link near the lot download so you can grab it for your game too if you haven't already.

The lot looks awfully small for a legacy family you might say, and you'd be right! 🤣 I rebuilt the home on a smaller (4x3) lot so it would run faster and be more efficient for playing.

Let's take a look inside and see the floor plan! I'm using a default replacement for the Euro set porch railings so that they are plain white and don't have that ugly neon blue stripe on them. Along those same lines I've also got a default replacement for the Hydrangea shrub to make the eye-searing, neon blue flowers look more realistic. I'll have a link near the bottom of the post if you need to have them in your game too.

1st Floor: Clockwise from bottom left: Dining room, bathroom/laundry, kitchen, back entryway with office nook, family room/music room, entryway, stairs, and living room. Oh yeah, there's a garage in there too, but I bet you can pick out which space that is. 🤭

2nd Floor: Clockwise from bottom left: Master bedroom, master bathroom, kids room 1, bathroom, kids bedroom 2/nursery, kids bedroom 3, upstairs landing, and kids bedroom 4.

As usual, if you don't like something or it doesn't fit your style, tear it out and put something different in.

J & M Legacy Home: MF | SFS

All EPs and SPs are required.

*I highly recommend that you have the PerfectPlants mod from TwoJeffs*

I’ve run this home through the Lot Compressor so any random references to sims that aren’t there should be removed. I have also run it through the Lot Cleaner to remove any bits of buggy code. This lot comes with a shiny custom thumbnail so it has even more curb appeal in your Lots and Houses bin! 😄

This home uses 3 pieces of CC which you may already have in your game. They can easily be replaced or omitted if you don’t want them though.

CC List (Included): -Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims -Functional Washer and Dryer by MustLuvCatz at ModtheSims

CC List (Not Included): -Maxis "Lost & Found" PineGultcher White Rail Fence at ModtheSims

Default Replacements Shown: -Lupin shrub from @peppermint-ginger If you don’t have these in your game your Lupin will look more “plastic”. -Hydrangea shrub from @peppermint-ginger If you don’t have these in your game your Hydrangea shrub's flowers will look neon blue. -Plain white default of the OFB Euro stairs and fence rail by Rosie (Rosebine at MTS2) -White Wall Top Texture Replacement by Maranatah at Mod the Sims

I ALWAYS recommend using the Sims 2 Pack Clean installer to install lot files.

Want to improve the look of your game, or grab some “Lost & Found” Maxis objects? Check out this post.

[swan2swan]

One of the things Skeleton Crew nailed more than most other Star Wars projects is the efficiency of the character design on the kids.

Neel is obviously an alien. He's got blue skin. And a trunk. Those big black eyes. He wobbles. This infuses the show with a diversity we haven't had since Resistance, something unique to the toybox we're playing in.

Then there's KB. She's got a cool Space Visor...which is not Essential, a la Geordi in Star Trek, but does give her an immediately recognizable face in a way we haven't seen since Sabine in Rebels (which may also not count because she's just got a Mandalorian helmet, which was already associated with Boba Fett...in fact, I'd call this Completely New). She's also got the white hair that falls across her face, and while if you put a gun to my head and told me to draw her clothes, I'd die, that's not necessary for her design: she can swap clothes whenever and she'll be identifiable.

Fern looks pretty basic, but she's got a Cool Jacket. That ties her in with Kay, Han, and Cassian (I'm gonna be honest, I think they were trying for something similar with Poe's jacket and Finn in the sequels, but they never really pulled it off for myriad reasons). The dark color of the jacket contrasts well with her pale skin, dark hair, and bright shirt (orange below, white for the main story). The blue patch also makes it have Instantly Identifiable Potential.

And then there's...um...um...*sweats*...Protagonist Kid.

He's probably got the most easily-forgettable design, but that's okay, he's the protagonist, he's meant to have some Audience Imprinting. A little subtlety can go a long way there, it's been a staple of Star Wars. But his hair has a VERY distinctive silhouette, and that's enough. Worked for Luke Skywalker back in the day, after all...and Anakin later. From bowl cut to that stupid Padawan cut to the moppy mullet foreshadowing that of his son. Sometimes all you need is "It's the guy with the Long Hair" and you're golden. As long as he doesn't pull an Ezra and lop that off to ruin his look entirely (yeah, I'm still not over that, I get it, but I really think Ezra's design suffered in the later seasons), he's Good Forever.

[itwasrealtome]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 11 • Eye in the Sky

TAGLIST FORM

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary:

Content Warning: Usual SVU & Violent Crimes talk • crime scene, blood, getting shot, sniper, corpse, NYPD officers, witnesses, shooting in broad daylight, CSU, security consultant, SA, Abuse, threats, Mention of manipulation, fear, control, mention of obsessive boyfriend, mention of online harassment, being silenced, | Mention of being back at work too early | Mention of weapons such as a Glock and a rifle | Getting shot in the vest.

*

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 02

Midtown Manhattan — CRIME SCENE

03:48 PM

The sirens had long faded, leaving behind only the hum of police radios and the low murmur of uniformed officers pushing back the curious crowd. Bright yellow tape stretched across the sidewalk, fluttering in the breeze like a warning flag. It was still daylight, the winter sun casting long shadows through the city's narrow street. But there was nothing warm about the scene.

Alexis stepped out of the black Bureau SUV and adjusted the tactical vest across her chest, her breath visible in the crisp afternoon air. The familiar weight of her sidearm, the stiff collar of her neck warmer, the gravel under her boots–it all brought her right back to the tempo of stateside work.

She scanned the perimeter automatically, even as the wind tugged at the edges of her rainproof jacket. Her face still bore the marks of long months away–subtle sun-creased lines at the corners of her eyes, the faint shadow of a healing bruise under one cheekbone, and a gaze just a bit more hardened than before.

Her partner joined her a second later, slamming the passenger's door shut with one hand and adjusting his earpiece with the other. He glanced down the block at the swarm of patrol cars, then back at his friend, a grin already forming.

—Please, tell me you've unpacked more than just your toothbrush, he said, his voice somewhere between amused and exasperated. Because last time I set foot in your apartment, it looked more like a storage unit with delusions of being a home.

Alexis let out a huff, tugging on her gloves with brisk efficiency. The cold didn't bother her much, not after the months she'd spent overseas, but his commentary was another story. She didn't bother looking at him as she replied.

—It's not that bad.

—It's sterile, Miles shot back, following her as they stopped near the yellow tape. I've seen hotel lobbies with more soul.

Her apartment was quiet. Purposefully. The kind of place designed to take up as little emotional space as possible. Clean counters. Neutral walls. Furniture chosen for function, not comfort. It was the only place in her life she had full control over–why clutter it?

—I unpacked my shampoo. And my socks, she said flatly. That's practically nesting.

The man shook his head, giving a faint laugh as they took the time to take in the scene. Officers were moving with careful precision, already blocking off the street and logging evidence. The smell of city grit and something coppery lingered in the air.

—You live like you're one bug-out bag away from disappearing. Champ's corner has throw pillows, Lex. Your dog lives better than you.

—He has taste.

—And you've got the aesthetic of a monk, Miles added, catching the gloves she sent his way. I'm pretty sure your place echoes when you breathe.

Alexis tilted her head toward him, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at her lips.

—I have a shelf.

Miles paused, then straightened, narrowing his eyes at her.

—A shelf. Right. Let me guess–still the same sad little baseball sitting on it?

She didn't deny it. Instead, she stood a little taller, chin up like she was daring him to question her taste in sentimental keepsakes.

—Nolan Ryan. Rookie year. Signed. It's a damn good baseball.

Miles barked out a laugh.

—You're the only person I know who could make a legendary fastball feel like home décor.

She didn't answer. Just smirked, then turned back to the crime scene–her boots crunching softly over the pavement as they finally made their way under the yellow tape. The banter faded as the weight of their surroundings returned.

The victim, a man in his mid-thirties, lay sprawled on the concrete, partially hidden by a delivery truck that had screeched to a halt mid-block. His dress shirt was stained deep red at the collar, blood pooled around his head, seeping into the cracks between the pavement. No obvious signs of a robbery—his watch, wallet, and phone still on him.

—Single shot to the neck, one of the patrol officers briefed, his voice clipped. No casing found. Witnesses heard the pop but didn't see a shooter. Sniper's all we can guess.

Miles crouched next to the body, eyes scanning the rooftops above them.

—That's a hell of a shot. From this angle? Clean, deliberate.

—Targeted, Alexis added, her jaw tightening. He never even knew it was coming.

The street around them was chaos disguised as calm. A bus stalled a few feet down the block, passengers still inside. Uniforms were canvassing, interviewing a few lingering witnesses. A woman stood near a flower shop's shattered front window, shivering under a blanket, mascara streaked down her cheeks.

The SEAL took a slow breath and looked over at the agent.

—He was walking out of that building, right?

—Yeah. Corporate offices–security firms, I think. SVU flagged him on a joint task force yesterday, something about suspected trafficking through company assets. Name's Leo Navarro.

That got her attention.

—Navarro?

Miles nodded grimly.

—He was supposed to sit down with SVU this afternoon. Olivia's team. Word was he was about to flip–start naming names.

—Someone didn't want him talking.

Alexis exhaled slowly, her gaze scanning the windows above them. Her hand settled naturally on the grip of her weapon, not drawing in–yet–but letting the weight ground her. The tension in the air wasn't just about the murder anymore. It was instinct, and something more—a gut-deep certainty that this was only the beginning.

The soft screech of tires pulled her focus. A black unmarked SUV rolled to a stop just beyond the cordon, and the doors opened in near-perfect sync. Amanda was the first out, eyes already narrowed, her badge swinging from her belt. Olivia stepped out next, calm but charged with purpose, her expression unreadable until her gaze caught Alexis's across the street.

For a second, the commander forgot about the body. About the blood. About the open street and the dozens of eyes watching. Olivia was in slacks and a dark wool coat, her badge clipped to her hip, and something about the way she moved–steady, deliberate–made the noise around Alexis dull into background hum.

She turned toward her, arms folding across her chest, her tone dry but unmistakably warm.

—You again? Alexis called out, arms folded, the corner of her mouth tugging upward in that familiar, impossible-to-read smirk. We've really got to stop meeting like this, Lieutenant.

Olivia slowed her pace as she approached, her mouth twitching before she allowed a smile to break through.

—Believe me, she said, stepping under the crime scene tape without breaking stride. I've been trying.

Their eyes held for a beat too long—too knowing, too familiar. Alexis wasn't in uniform, but there was still something unmistakably commanding about her. Tactical vest snug against her frame, dark neck warmer tucked beneath the collar, her skin still showing the faded ghosts of bruises earned thousands of miles away. She looked like she'd never left. And like she'd never fully returned, either.

Behind them, Amanda stopped just inside the perimeter, scanning the scene with her usual sharp eye, but her gaze eventually drifted back toward Olivia and Alexis. She watched the exchange with mild amusement, then turned her head slightly to catch Miles's eye.

He didn't say anything. Just gave her a look–half smirk, half exasperated sigh–the universal expression for yep, this again.

The blonde raised her eyebrows, clearly fighting back a grin.

—So, she murmured under her breath, sliding up beside him. When were you planning on telling us she was back.

Miles shrugged, but his smile gave him away.

—Thought it'd be more fun to let the drama speak for itself.

Amanda chuckled, and the two of them watched as Olivia stepped closer to Alexis, her tone casual but lined with something quieter. Concern, maybe. Curiosity. Something harder to name.

—You weren't scheduled back until next week.

Alexis didn't answer right away. Her eyes flicked down the street, toward the rooftops where a sniper might've been. The wind pushed past them, lifting the edge of her coat and tugging at a stray strand of hair that had slipped loose from her braid. She reached up absently, tucking it behind her ear as if buying time.

Finally, she exhaled through her nose and offered Olivia a crooked half-smile.

—Yeah, well... you know me. Sitting still isn't exactly my strong suit.

The lieutenant's brow knit, just slightly. She'd heard those words before–too many times from people who used work to outrun something else. And Alexis Gray had always been good at running. From war zones. From grief. From herself, maybe.

—You were supposed to take some time, Liv said softly. Let your body catch up to the rest of you.

—My body's fine, Alexis replied quickly. Too quickly.

Olivia gave her a look, the kind that cut through defense mechanisms like they were paper. Her voice dropped lower, meant only for the brunette to hear.

—And your head?

That was harder to dodge. Alexis's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She glanced past the detective for a beat–at Amanda talking to CSU, at Miles crouched again near the body, barking something about the trajectory and the wind. Then she looked back at her, steadying herself.

—I needed to move, she said finally. To do something. Sitting at home, pretending I'm not thinking about it all anyway? That's not rest. That's hell.

Olivia didn't argue. She knew what that felt like–lying in bed with silence pressing in like a second skin. And she knew better than most that healing wasn't linear, and it sure as hell wasn't neat.

—Just promise me you'll tell someone if it gets too heavy, she said after a long beat. Doesn't have to be me.

Gray looked at her for a second too long, something flickering across her expression–gratitude, maybe. Maybe something else.

—I'll think about it, she said, which for her was practically a full-throated yes.

Before Olivia could respond, Miles stood, brushing his palms together, and called out.

—We've got something weird with the angle. CSU says the shooter must've been up high–but not in any of the windows directly facing the street. It's like he had a clear line of sight without ever stepping into view.

Amanda frowned and joined him.

—So either someone knew exactly how to avoid every camera on this block...

—Or it wasn't their first time doing this, Olivia finished grimly.

Alexis was already scanning the rooftops, instinct clicking into place. Something about the setup didn't sit right. Too clean. Too fast. The kind of kill that suggested more than just a warning.

Then her voice cut through, low and certain.

—This wasn't just about silencing a witness.

Olivia turned to her, catching the edge in her tone.

—You think it was meant for more?

The brunette nodded slowly.

—They're sending a message. And if they're watching... it means we're already behind.

The weight of her words settled over them like the clouds creeping in above.

And somewhere, from a rooftop none of them could yet see–someone watched through a scope, still waiting.

*

Leo Navarro had once worn the uniform of a U.S. Army Ranger–disciplined, sharp, and driven by the need to serve. After his honorable discharge, he'd tried to live a quieter life. He moved to New York from Wisconsin, determined to be closer to his daughter and maintain the joint custody agreement. The city was chaotic, but it offered him stability, a new start.

He took a job as a private security consultant with the Badwin family's firm–a sleek, well-connected company that promised high-end protection services to New York's elite. On paper, it seemed like a good fit. Navarro had the experience, the training, and the instincts. But it didn't take long before things started to feel wrong.

Within two months, Leo had already begun to see beneath the polished surface. Mike Baldwin, the charismatic man at the helm, didn't seem interested in preventing harm–he orchestrated it. He built threats, not barriers. Clients believed they were hiring protection, but what they were really buying was manipulation. Fear was a commodity, and Baldwin used it to control, extort, and dismantle lives from the inside out.

One of the worst cases had stayed with Leo–haunted him, really. It was the kind of thing you couldn't unsee, couldn't push out of your conscience no matter how many times you told yourself to move on.

A wealthy Manhattan father had hired the firm to 'protect' his teenage daughter. On paper, it looked like a routine assignment: threats from an obsessive ex-boyfriend, increased online harassment, and the occasional paparazzi-type lurking around their Upper East Side home. Baldwin Security stepped in with discretion and promise. Leo was one of the first agents placed on the case.

But it didn't take long before the details stopped adding up.

Baldwin twisted the narrative from the start, quietly shifting Leo off the assignment and replacing him with one of his own hand picked men–the kind who followed orders without asking questions. The girl's father, wealthy and influential, seemed more concerned about optics than his daughter's well-being. And Mike Baldwin knew how to use that.

Instead of protecting the young girl, Baldwin used her. Manipulated her isolation. Isolated her further from her friends, her school, even her mother, who had been quietly pushed out of the picture in a bitter divorce. She was vulnerable, barely sixteen, and completely dependent on the men who were supposed to keep her safe.

Leo had found out too late. He'd tried to intervene once, to bring it up discreetly inside the company, and was warned off. Threatened. Moved to another post. But the damage had already been done. He started keeping his own records after that. Dates, names, assignments. He knew there were more victims–different girls, different families, the same patterns.

And this case? This girl? She was the reason SVU had come sniffing around in the first place.

*

The information was still fresh–not yet in official reports, but whispered between agents and detectives. Olivia had pulled the file herself that morning, the case circling her desk like smoke that wouldn't clear. Leo Navarro hadn't just been a body on the street. He'd been trying to do the right thing. And someone had made damn sure he didn't.

Now, the four of them stood in the middle of Lexington Avenue, sunlight catching on the slick pavement where cleanup crews hadn't finished washing the blood away. Leo's body had already been taken, but the weight of what he left behind hung heavy. A folder of emails. Two phone calls made to Olivia's office. A third, unanswered call from the night before. They'd been this close to hearing everything.

Alexis stood near the marked circle where Leo's body had fallen, one boot just outside the yellow chalk. Her eyes were distant, mouth drawn tight behind her neck gaiter. She hadn't said much since Miles briefed them all again, but the tension in her posture spoke louder than anything else.

The blonde detective had her hands jammed into her coat pockets, rocking slightly on her heels.

—He knew too much. Knew enough to scare Baldwin into pulling the trigger.

—Or calling someone who would, her boss added grimly, her eyes on the rooftops. This wasn't just clean-up. This was a message.

—He was supposed to talk to SVU today. That's not a coincidence.

Alexis tilted her head slightly, her eyes scanning the buildings again.

—Someone didn't want him flipping, she murmured.

Then she stilled.

At first, no one noticed. She was always scanning, always a step ahead. But this time, she didn't move. Her whole body had gone sharp with focus, eyes fixed upward at a corner of one of the buildings across the street.

—Lex? Her partner asked, casually, like he didn't want to startle her.

She didn't answer.

Instead, her voice dropped low. Controlled. Urgent.

—Reflection. Third floor, left window. Everyone–get down!

She moved like lightning, shoving Olivia hard toward the sidewalk just as the crack of a rifle echoed down the narrow corridor of city buildings. The sound was sharp, violent, and sudden.

Alexis landed on top of Olivia with a heavy thud, her arms shielding the older woman's head as more officers scrambled into cover. The world turned into chaos around them–shouts, screams, the frantic burst of radios sparking to life.

A punch of pain shot through Alexis's back as her body jerked forward. The round had hit her square in the vest, driving the breath from her lungs, but it didn't go through.

—Are you hit? Olivia's voice was urgent beneath her, hands pressing at Alexis' sides, eyes wild.

—I'm fine. Vest took it.

—But you-

–Stay down, Alexis ordered, voice low but sharp. Don't move until I say.

Her hand shot up to press the comms mic clipped to her shoulder, but not before her other arm steadied Olivia, guiding her gently into a sitting position behind the cruiser they were using for cover. The chaos of the street blurred at the edges of Alexis's focus, but not Olivia—not her. She crouched close, one gloved hand briefly brushing Olivia's jaw, checking for blood, for any sign she'd been hit, even as her own back throbbed from the impact of the bullet caught in her vest. Her voice was low, urgent, but steady, her eyes scanning Olivia's face.

—You're good? she asked, her tumb momentarily resting just beneath the lieutenant's chin, tipping her face toward the light.

Only when Olivia gave a shaky nod did Alexis lean back slightly, exhale the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and press the mic on her shoulder. The steel returned to her spine as she straightened up, body shifting instinctively back into combat posture. The protector. The soldier. But even as she prepared to move, her hand lingered a second longer on Olivia's shoulder, grounding them both.

—Miles–sniper, third floor, left window. Across the street. Cover me. I'm going for the gear.

—Got you.

The agent was already moving. He dropped into a low crouch behind a patrol cruiser, drawing his weapon and zeroing in on the upper windows across the street.

—Rollins, with me. Watch the left flank.

—I'm on it, Amanda replied, sliding smoothly into place beside him. She drew her Glock and angled her body against the open door of a black-and-white. Go, Lex!

Alexis didn't need to be told twice.

She bolted from Olivia's side, boots pounding the pavement as another shot cracked through the air and splintered the windshield of a nearby parked car. Shards of glass exploded outward, but she didn't flinch, just kept running–low, fast, deliberate–toward the FBI SUV a few yards behind the police line.

Officers ducked behind barriers. Civilians were ushered behind makeshift cover. Chaos unfolded in the background, but Alexis had tunnel vision now.

She skidded to the back of the Bureau-issued vehicle, yanked the hatch open, and ducked into cover behind it. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, adrenaline buzzing under her skin. She shoved aside a sealed evidence kit and unlatched the tactical weapons case secured along the floor of the trunk.

Fingers steady despite the tension in her shoulders, she popped it open. Her rifle was nestled inside like a waiting hand. Familiar. Reliable.

She grabbed it, checked the chamber, clipped the scope into place with practiced ease, and dropped to one knee behind the rear bumper for partial concealment.

—Miles, how's my window? she asked over comms, already adjusting the dial on the scope to compensate for distance and elevation.

—Still active. Movement behind the glass, three o'clock. Amanda's suppressing fire's holding him, but not for long.

Alexis braced the butt of the rifle against her shoulder, peeking through the scope. The third floor window–dusty glass, cracked open just enough to allow a barrel through–was still there, but the glint was gone.

That didn't stop her.

—I've got him. He's moving right, probably repositioning.

Through the lens, she saw the faintest flicker of shadow shift behind the curtain. She adjusted her aim a fraction to the left.

—Come on, she murmured. Give me an angle.

Olivia, still crouched behind a patrol car near the sidewalk, pressed her comms.

—Lexi, wait–don't overcommit. We can fall back and-

—No time, Gray said, voice clipped. If he's repositioning, he'll take another shot in seconds. I'm not giving him a clean one.

The seconds dragged like hours. Wind picked up. Sirens whined distantly. And then-

Movement. A silhouette leaned too far into the window for just a breath.

—Gotcha.

Alexis squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang sharp and clean, echoing like a whip across the rooftops.

Through her scope, she saw the figure jerk backward violently, then disappear from view.

—Target down, she said into her comms, lowering the rifle. Window's clear.

Miles was the first to let out a low breath.

—Damn, Gray. You still got it.

—I never lost it, Alexis shrugged, slinging the rifle across her chest and finally standing up fully.

Amanda called over from her position, eyes still scanning the skyline.

—Scene's holding. Officers moving to secure the building now.

The SEAL exhaled sharply, her breath fogging in the cold air as she swept one last, meticulous glance across the rooftops. Her muscles remained taut beneath the weight of her vest, adrenaline still humming just beneath the surface of her skin. The silence that followed was thick and unforgiving, broken only by the distant wail of approaching sirens and the murmur of officers regrouping behind cover. No more shots. No more glints of light. Whoever had pulled the trigger was gone.

She lowered the rifle, not completely, but enough to let herself breathe again.

Her gaze snapped back to Olivia.

The lieutenant was slowly rising from behind the cruiser, her palm braced against the fender, her movements careful and deliberate. Dust clung to her coat. A scrape marked the side of her hand. But she was standing–alive. Visibly rattled, but composed in that quiet, defiant way that Olivia always was. The kind of composed that came after years of getting up, no matter how hard you were hit.

Alexis moved toward her in three brisk strides, boots crunching on scattered glass and debris.

—You okay?

Olivia nodded, but the moment her eyes met Alexis's, something in her expression flickered—gratitude, fear, anger at being caught off-guard, maybe all of it layered into a single breath.

Without hesitation, Alexis extended a hand. Olivia took it, and Alexis pulled her up in one smooth motion. For a beat too long, neither of them let go.

—You got hit, Olivia murmured, eyes narrowing as she glanced at the back of Alexis's vest. The impact mark was deep, slightly off-center–close enough to be lethal if the angle had been just a little different.

—Vest caught it.

Alexis brushed it off like she hadn't felt the wind knocked out of her when it happened. She could still feel the ache blooming across her spine like bruised thunder. But none of that mattered. Not when Olivia had been the target.

—Are you always this dramatic when you come back from deployment? Benson said, trying for levity but not quite hiding the emotion in her voice.

Alexis gave a tired, crooked smile. And for a moment, in the wreckage of spent bullets and scattered glass, the weight of what could've happened hung between them like smoke that hadn't cleared.

—Figured I'd make an entrance.

*

TAGLIST: @nciscmjunkie @makkaroni221 @thefatobsession @ginasbaby @certainlychaotic @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr @hi-i-1

[s-wave-entertainment]

...Hey so like. Who's J's admin now?

We know that the disassembly drones' previous admin was Cyn. I personally think Cyn and the Solver are two separate entities, and I have reason to believe that's true for a few reasons, but That's a later rant. Let's assume Cyn herself (≠ Solver) has 0 control over the drones and is only listed as their admin because the Solver's primary host was Cyn, who was completely unresponsive on her own. But now the Solver's primary host is Uzi, who is still VERY MUCH responsive on her own. Now, N and V were already changed to have Uzi as their admin by Uzi's own hand. But... did J's admin also change due to the host switch?

Basically. Prior primary Solver host = Cyn, Cyn = DD admin, [EP. 8 OCCURS], Cyn is destroyed, Uzi = current primary Solver host, Uzi = DD admin???? And if so. You guys think J experienced any significant change?

I think we have enough evidence to conclude that J didn't LOVE being a suck-up to the Solver, she did it to gain better circumstance and maybe to protect herself from getting hurt because people above her have only ever hurt her COUGH sorry that's a later post as well but anyway, it's likely it was either threatening her or just generally being a dick. Suddenly the space in her head where there was previously a manipulative threatening asshole is clear because the Solver is being actively reigned in by Uzi. It makes me wonder, if my theory is right... would J head to the outpost to get some answers? Possibly even closure?

Even if she didn't/doesn't, it's interesting to me to imagine J's reaction to suddenly having a new admin - and knowing her, I'm pretty damn sure she'd notice pretty quick. I imagine she's not exactly fond of not knowing everything about her own systems... y'know, to ensure efficiency remains maximized! Yeah...

Also also just a little extra thought about this - Cyn's heart was destroyed, effectively destroying Cyn, who we can assume was J's admin, yeah? We cool on that? Okay so take this next bit with a grain of salt as I'm no computer girly and know nothing about how this works, BUT, if she suddenly loses the piece of code/program she was dependent on for normal operation, would that not lead to her Error 606ing somewhere? Which we know didn't happen because we see her up and active in the post credits, and also, typically when/if the Solver fully takes over, it goes to constitute its material (eldritch) form, right? So J HAS to have an admin, and I only see one drone as a possible candidate. But, just a little ramble for you on this fine Thursday afternoon. Food for thought, if you will. Or oil. Whatever it is you consume <3

[anonymousewrites]

Logos and Pathos (Book 4) Epilogue

TOS! Spock x Empath! Spouse! Reader

Epilogue: Space, the Final Frontier

Summary: The Enterprise is united.

Mouse Note: And with that, Logos and Pathos concludes! It's been such an honor to have so much support so far, and I'm so amazed by how many of you have enjoyed yourselves reading this. I never thought Stark trek would get this attention, and it's been so much fun sharing with you all. This series has meant so much to me, and I've loved writing for it. Perhaps someday we'll get a prologue to it with Strange New Worlds, but currently, I am considering this series finished. Gold and Spock will always mean a lot to me, and so will all of you! I hope to see you guys in my other stories, perhaps even the Supernatural fic releasing Wednesday. But, for now, goodbye!

            “Thank you for your hospitality,” said Saavik politely as she sat across from (Y/N) and Spock.

            “Of course,” said (Y/N), ladling plomeek soup into Saavik’s bowl.

            On another plate, a tiramisu-like dessert made from Celian plants sat ready to eat. They had small trees that grew “beans” that created bitter liquids, but the color…well, pink was a really pretty coffee color, wasn’t it?

            “How are you?” asked (Y/N).

            “My work with reassessing the Genesis project after its failure has been productive,” said Saavik. “I have trained other scientists with Dr. Marcus. It is classified, still, so I cannot discuss more.”

            (Y/N) smiled in amusement. They already knew too much about the Genesis project, so they didn’t mind Saavik not disclosing more. Plus, it was very Vulcan of her to keep to the rules. “Of course,” they said.

            “What is your current assignment?” said Spock.

            “Starfleet has not alerted me to a new assignment yet,” said Saavik. “Diplomatic negotiations with the Klingon Empire took precedence.”

            (Y/N) cleared their throat. “Yes, it did.” They and Spock had been forbidden to talk about anything from those incidents until the trials and negotiations were officially finished. They took a sip of soup and glanced at Spock. “We wanted to speak to you about that.”

            Saavik raised a brow and glanced at Spock inquisitively. “Oh?”

            “Indeed,” said Spock. He set down his spoon, and Saavik watched him as he prepared his words. “You have shown yourself to be an efficient, intelligent, productive officer.”

            Saavik nodded. It was a compliment, but Vulcans did not exaggerate. Saavik knew her capability.

            “Your career has potential,” said Spock. “And I—We—” he looked at (Y/N), who smiled “—want you to be in the best position for that potential.”

            “Your mentoring and advice—” Saavik had gotten both from Spock and (Y/N), who had taken the young Vulcan under her wing “—has been helpful.”

            “We’re glad,” said (Y/N). They grinned. “I hear you’ve started doing more than just working with coworkers. Helena told me she convinced you to go to a party with her. She had a lot of fun with you.”

            Saavik straightened. “I have been at headquarters for some time waiting for my new assignment, and people have…invited me to pass the time with them.”

            “Having friends is good,” said (Y/N), though they suspected a bit more than friendship was blossoming between Helena and Saavik. “A well-rounded officer can do their job and has time for their personal needs, too, and friendship is one of them.” It was an important lesson.

            “I have…friends,” said Saavik.

            The word implied emotion, which was odd for a Vulcan, but Saavik was honest. And she looked up to (Y/N), seeing the same wisdom Spock had long ago embraced. Emotions could be controlled, but they did not need to be an enemy to be beaten.

            “We’re happy for you, Saavik,” said (Y/N).

            “Yes,” said Spock. “And we want you to continue being…satisfied with your situation.” He wouldn’t use the word “happy.” It wasn’t a Vulcan word.

            “I hope to be content at my next assignment,” said Saavik, nodding.

            Spock laced his fingers. “That is what we wish to discuss. Saavik, we are retiring from the Enterprise in two months.”

            Saavik nodded.

            “And we want to make sure the right officers succeed us,” said Spock. “Saavik, I believe you would do well on the Enterprise.”

            “I am a command-track officer,” said Saavik. “I cannot take your position.”

            “You’d take mine,” said (Y/N). “Though a lieutenant.”

            “A Vulcan replacing a Celian empath?” said Saavik. She knew people would talk.

            “We care about people being in the right situation for themself and the right person being part of the crew,” said (Y/N) firmly. “You’re the right choice. Your race does not matter.” They smiled. “In fact, Spock and I are going to speak to Helena for a science position.”

            “Some people may judge a Celian on the science track, as they did when (Y/N) chose command instead of health, but that does not discount one’s ability,” said Spock.

            “So, Saavik, we’re not going to make you take any job,” said (Y/N). “But if you are interested, we want you to join the Enterprise crew.”

            Saavik looked between (Y/N) and Spock, the two people who had really taken care of her while she joined Starfleet. “…I am honored.”

            (Y/N) smiled, and Spock nodded. “We’re glad,” said (Y/N). “You’re going to do amazing things.”

            Spock and (Y/N) had served Starfleet for years. They’d built a life and strong reputation. They’d served an amazing ship with a crew that became family. Now it was nearly time to hand that down to deserving young officers. Like Saavik. Like Elpis. Like so many others. The future would be safe in their hands. Besides, Spock and (Y/N) weren’t gone. They were still there to do work. It would just be…different. Good, but different. New. Full of opportunity.

l

            “I’m glad Saavik accepted your offer,” said Spock while (Y/N) snacked some more on their delicious pink dessert.

            “She’s going to do great,” said (Y/N). “I know Vulcans don’t consider themselves ‘kind,’ just logical, but Saavik…her temperament is meant for command. She understands people more than she thinks.”

            Spock nodded. “Indeed. I’ve seen reports of her working on conflict resolution. She’s capable.”

            “And hopefully, Helena will take your offer for the science position,” said (Y/N). “She’s smart, analytical, and able to problem solve in new situations quickly.”

            “From evaluations, she also uses her empathy well when working with others,” said Spock. “She reads when they’re worried and gives them facts to calm anxiety before it harms a mission.”

            “She works hard,” said (Y/N). “Introverted but knows her strength is intelligence, so she uses it.” They smiled. “And, best of all, Saavik and Helena are friends. They’d made a good pair.”

            Spock raised a brow. “Of colleagues?” He knew his spouse’s thinking well.

            “If you call us colleagues when we worked together,” said (Y/N), smiling.

            “Ah, so this is matchmaking,” said Spock, a slight tease in his voice.

            “Mmmmmaybe,” said (Y/N). “But I wouldn’t put that over my job. I found out about their friendship after their skills.”

            Spock knew (Y/N) wouldn’t harm the future Enterprise crew for matchmaking. That was a happy side effect of their work.

            “I think we’ve got a good crew coming together,” said (Y/N). “Kirk, Bones, Scotty, Uhura, they’re all giving insight, finding people, talking to them. Chekov is going to be the captain. I think things are working out. All that work, all those years…it’s all going to mean something.” Spock walked to (Y/N), and they leaned against him with a soft smile. “We did a good job building a future.”

            “We did,” said Spock. “We served Starfleet as officers. We completed missions. We saved lives. And now we move on to another part of life and give the next generation their time.”

            “They’re going to do amazing,” said (Y/N), already proud. “And the Enterprise is going to be okay. The future is going to be okay.” They traced Spock’s fingers with theirs. “And we still have each other. Our family. Us.”

            “We always will,” said Spock softly, raising their hand to kiss the palm, an intimate, loving gesture. “And our lives are still continuing. It is simply a new phase. But this—” he kissed the back of their hand “—will not change.”

            “I know.” (Y/N) slid their hand so they could kiss his. Spock shivered slightly, and (Y/N) smiled. “And that’s how I know we’re going to be okay, no matter what. Because I love you. I always will.”

            “And I love you, T’hy’la,” said Spock. “Always. Across all time and all universes. I will always love you.”

            (Y/N) smiled, pulled him in, and kissed him. The future would be just fine. Starfleet had new officers. They could guide the next generations. They had logic and love. And they had one another.

l

            “You know, as reports come out, they’re saying we saved civilization as we know it,” said Kirk, leaning on the back of Spock and (Y/N)’s chairs.

            (Y/N) smiled at their friends—their family. This was their last voyage together. In space, that is. They had dinner plans to “mourn” their return already made (and they planned to make it into a party like the world hadn’t seen before).

            “Captain, that happened a month ago,” said Spock. “Must we harp on it?”

            “Hey, the headlines are coming out now. It’s fresh news,” said Bones, grinning proudly. “And the best news is that they’re not gonna prosecute us.”

            “You mean you don’t want to visit your friends in Rura Penthe?” said (Y/N) innocently.

            Kirk and Bones shuddered.

            “They might as well have prosecuted us. I felt like all those conspirators,” said Uhura. “I didn’t trust the Klingons.” She shook her head, ashamed of herself.

            “Well, they don’t arrest people for having feelings,” said Bones. He paused awkwardly and looked at (Y/N). “Do they?”

            (Y/N) laughed. “No, not at all.”

            “And it’s a good thing, too. If they did, we’d all have to turn ourselves in,” said Chekov, grimacing.

            “Aye,” agreed Scotty. “But I find a couple drinks of scotch alongside a Klingon cleared up my feelings on the matter.”

            “Mr. Scott, that is hardly protocol for diplomacy,” said Spock.

            “Nay, but it’s fun,” said Scotty.

            Kirk chuckled and looked at his beloved, loyal crew. “I think it’s time we got underway.” He sat down in his chair, and his friends smiled.

            “Captain, Starfleet wants to know our flight plans because we are scheduled to be decommissioned in the near future,” said Uhura, scoffing slightly.

            Bones rolled his eyes, and Scotty scowled. Chekov groaned. (Y/N) shook their head and laughed. There was no way they were following that instruction. This was their last adventure. They intended to have fun.

            “If I were human,” began Spock, and everyone looked at him. “I believe my response would be ‘Go to hell!’ ” He paused. “If I were human.”

            The entire bridge grinned and laughed. Spock smiled ever-so-slightly.

            “Course heading, Captain?” said Chekov, grinning widely.

            “Second star to the right, and straight on ‘til morning,” said Kirk, leaning back with a fond smile.

            (Y/N) reached out as the Enterprise flew forward. They brushed their first two fingers against Spock’s. “I love you, my dear,” they said.

            Spock looked back at them and pressed his fingers back in a Vulcan kiss. “I love you, too, T’hy’la.” That was the truest fact he knew.

Captain’s Log: This is the final cruise of the Starship Enterprise under my command. This ship and her history will shortly become the care of another crew. To them and their posterity will we commit our future. They will continue the voyages we have begun and journey to all the undiscovered countries, boldly going where no man, where no one, ...has gone before.

l

Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.

Taglist:

@a-ofzest

@grippleback-galaxy

@genderfluid-anime-goth

@groovy-lady

@im-making-an-effort

@unending-screaming

@h-l-vlovesvintage

@neenieweenie

@keylimeconstellation

@wormwig

@technikerin23

@ilyatan

@nthdarkqueen

@kyalov

@starlit-cass

@rookietrek

@gingertimelord

@snowy-violet

@jaguarthecat

@jac012

[my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction]

Vampire L lawliet x reader ficlet

a brief and intimate conversation between vampire L and his lover

Warnings: assumed blood-drinking, this was barely proof read, I wrote this half asleep, there really aren't any warnings

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ok I AM working on the series, I just really wanted to put this out 😭 damn you vampire L!

"what are you sulking for," you sigh, settling yourself next to L. He was seated on the couch, as usual, and you filled the empty space beside him.

"I'm not sulking," he muttered. He reached for his tea, the pinkish liquid already staining his lips. His mouth always had that tint to it, it was his diet that did it.

"I know when you're sulking. Tell me."

He glanced over to you, and set his teacup on its little plate. "I'm only thinking of the case. Nothing more."

You lean in, and rest your head on his shoulder. "So many cases. When do you plan on retiring?"

He's silent, and takes your hand to fidget with your fingers. You watch as he settles it in his palm, as he gently traces the shape of each of your newly done nails with his index finger. "This is important work. I won't retire for a long time."

He can feel your face turn to nuzzle into his neck, and when you do, he rewards the action by lifting your hand to kiss your knuckles, one by one.

He didn't used to be so affectionate. It took time to get him here, to see just how much he adored you. After so long, you would think he would get tired of you, and vice versa. However, it seemed to bring you closer together.

He reaches your thumb, and presses his lips to each section in feather-light touches. Your nail...your knuckle...the bone at the base of it...

When he reaches the end, he turns your hand to kiss at your wrist. He could feeling your pulse there.

Alive, beating, warm.

"Not now."

You feel as his breath fans against your hand, a protesting sigh, but in the end he eases the appendage into his lap.

"I know it's not just the case." Your words vibrate against the skin of his shoulder, and in order to coax an answer out of him, you begin to kiss up the side of his neck.

"I'm only considering our options."

Our. As if you somehow did just as much as he did.

"I cannot afford to make more mistakes."

You groan. "Oh, is this about Jack again? You were young, inexperienced, stop beating yourself up about it."

"No," he snips. "...but...if it was, my age would be no excuse."

You give a wry snicker. "It is then. Enough of that," you plead, holding his face still while you kiss his cheek. "You know, if it hadn't gone wrong, you would never have met me."

The muscles in his jaw relax at that, a softening reserved only for your reasoning. "That is true," L murmurs. He turns to face you, and catches your lips in a tender, chaste kiss. When he pulls away, you grin.

"Remember that? How pretty I was." How you missed those gowns. They suited you so nicely, the weight of them was worth it.

L himself had to admit the attire was congenial to his preferences. The off-the-shoulder neckline truly made things more efficient, and you did look lovely.

"You are pretty," he soothes. "Time has done little to change you, my love."

You frown, just a little. "You have to say that. You're stuck with me."

Now it's his turn to frown. "I chose you because I knew you would be best suited to me. I'd rather you not negate that decision."

"...I suppose that is unfair. What did you do, in all of that time without me?"

He looks away, off to some distant time and place. "Many things. Lonely things."

"You had Watari."

"I did. Watari has always been important to me. But you provide a different kind of companionship."

Your smile returns, and he toys with the ends of your hair as he presses a gentle kiss to your cheek. Then, across your jaw.

He reaches your neck, and takes a moment to breath in your scent. You always smelled so distinct. It was what drew him to you in the first place. Your skin was like nectar and musk, so human, but beneath...beneath you were saccharin. Sugary sweet, like candy. He closed the distance, and met the junction of your shoulder and neck with his tongue to drag a long, slow strip up to your ear.

"Don't get yourself worked up," you chide. Despite your vocal reaction, the hand in his hair and the relaxing of your body told him otherwise.

There was the beating again, right against his mouth. "I only want the taste."

"Drink your tea."

He knew you were right. Reluctantly, he sat back, and picked up his teacup. His hands shook as he sipped on the warm liquid, so thin compared to what he really wanted. At least it was yours, in part.

Sometimes, hunger filled him deeper than he liked to admit. It gnawed at his ribs, it slithered up his throat, it ate away at him like cavity in tooth, like flame on paper, like worm in apple.

But tonight, he was fine. Tonight, he could sip his tea while his beloved toyed with his hair, and he could suppress the urge to consume and be consumed.

He could be, for an evening, human.

[chiropteracupola]

hello saw your tag about not knowing a skill for a job interview and i literally JUST got done talking to some ppl who did interviews at the cafe (coffee shop/indoor playground, my parents own it and run it, i help, that's all) and working thru the answers and this is probably a wildly different job than the one you're interviewing for but i hope at least the advice is applicable in some way - if you can judge the place you're working at in particular and see where the money is, if they are overstaffed, or only a few people work there, etc, what they can afford to do, you can figure out how to navigate it. when we were last hiring we needed people who already knew how to barista so we could focus on training other things and not have to spend extra shift allowance on someone who could train the news on coffee, but made an exception for someone who did not know how to barista but had experience with party planning and things like that which is also necessary, AND (this is crucial i'm pretty sure) they conducted themself in a way that made clear that they were happy to be taught the skills and that once they were taught they would become efficient/independent quickly and basically just showed that they were going to use the information and skills very well and exactly like how they needed to, they just needed to learn. SO LIKE I SAID not immediately applicable maybe but if you believe there is space for you to learn any missing skills then i would say be super up front about it but in a way that clearly shows your ability to use your skills and knowledge (which might be like.. showing off your ability/expertise with specific techniques, having examples of applying your knowledge). being honest abt where you're at but confident that it should not be a problem to reach where they want you to be (but only with their employment and training see it's flattery built in lol) is a really good bet!!!

augh you are so kind and this was really lovely to wake up to! and your points are so true and helpful and reassuring also!! bc a lot of the Point of the thing I'm being interviewed for is about Learning how to do it (it's an apprenticeship) and I am really hoping that enthusiasm about learning and learning from these specific people will get me where I want to be.

[gittetj]

Another goddamn sleepless night where I'm lamenting that I can't sit at a computer and focus and work on my giant mp100 fic, so I'll just lie here and second guess if I'm being too mean to Suzuki Shou. The answer is that no, I'm not, but man, I'm gonna be really mean. (Gitte, you have already been pretty mean to him, you say, and yeah, I know, but hold on as I make it worse)

The thing is.. I feel like most fanworks I've seen that are actually interested in challenging Shou's character come from a standpoint of either feeling deeply sorry for him or wanting him to feel better as quickly as possible, which is totally valid, but also kind of does his character a disservice, in my opinion? I don't think Shou is comfortable with anyone feeling sorry for him. In the manga, we hear vague fragments of all these heinous things he's been subjected to, and then even more heinous things happen to him on-screen, and he's barely given space to react to any of it - not by the story, but certainly not by himself either.

In most of his scenes, he has to readjust to everything from his plans going askew to having his entire world view flipped upside down, and he just does it, quickly and efficiently, and moves on every time. But... Nobody works like that. Especially not a teenager. In my experience, people can do that for a while, especially under high-stress circumstances, but the longer they keep it up without getting the time or opportunity to process and react to what happened to them, the uglier it will be when they eventually crash.

I don't even remember if End of the World started out being about that, but it sure is now. Just a weird outlet for this pattern I've seen many, many times in people I know and have known and in myself. You gotta crash, openly and honestly, and you gotta survive that and make it out on the other side or it will consume you.

I've also really enjoyed focusing on other angles of it with the other characters. Serizawa who's going through it before anyone else has a chance to. Touichirou trying to piece himself back together with logic. Ootsuki who I've given a history of going through the same awful, toxic spiral over and over and over again. Satsune falling apart in parallel with Shou but actually acknowledging what's happening to her. Fukuda who has somehow managed to shut himself down for 40 years. Higashio who was there a long time ago and lived. Kawasaki who will break and refuse to be quiet about it.

And Iida who is a litte bit... irreversibly consumed.

I just really like these characterssss you know

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Hi, can I request comfort fic with Frank? I just don't really like how my life looks right now... I don't like my job, but don't know what else I can do so I'm stuck here... and I feel really lonely recently and like I don't know what to do with my life... and reading fics are one of the few things that brings me joy...

So I thought about a fic where reader is sad and to cheer her up Frank planned a whole day for them to distract her from not kind thoughts?

And I'm sorry that I kinda dumpt it on you... I have trouble with expressing/describing my emotions and I think that was the first time I expressed those feelings to someone... Of course if you don't feel like writing this you can freely ignore this message, thank you 🫶🏻

Anon, I absolutely feel your pain. I’ve been dealing with my own work drama for months now and some days it feels like I’m going to have to completely start over to be happy. I hope I did your request justice, and if you ever need to rant to someone, my DMs are open :)

pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader 

summary:  Frank helps you when work is breaking your spirit.

warnings: swearing, hints of smut but nothing graphic

w/c: 3k

Digging your jagged nails into the flesh of your palms, you forced yourself to tune out the overwhelming plethora of stimuli that was currently bombarding you on the subway. Screaming children, the heat of bodies crowding around you, the shrieking of wheels on metal tracks, some old guy coughing up a lung at the back of the car, the bright fluorescent lights beating down on the dozens of people crammed in here like sardines. Fuck, you hated the subway. 

It was especially unbearable on days where you were already overtired from work—which, recently, seemed to be every day. This job was supposed to be your ticket to a good life and a stable future, but instead it was a joyless, energy-sapping, waste of your fucking time. Your coworkers were catty, your boss far too demanding for the bottom of the barrel wages you received, and the work itself was dreary. Each day you sat in that cubicle, you could feel the light inside you flickering, just waiting for one more lackluster employee review to be completely snuffed out. 

Clearly, you weren’t the only one who felt this way about your place of employment, given that over a third of the staff at your level had quit in the last two months. Unfortunately for you, this meant longer hours and crankier conversations with your superiors, who were consistently disappointed in your performance despite you efficiently accomplishing everything that was asked of you. 

Not only did longer hours lead to you getting overstimulated on the subway, but it meant you’d been spending less time at home with your boyfriend. You’d barely seen Frank this month, between his trips out of town and your rigorous schedule, and it was driving you up a wall. All you wanted was to let him wrap himself around you, petting your hair as you cried and holding you tight when you eventually fell asleep. Though, with the way your days were going lately, most of the time you didn’t want to be touched. You just wanted to shove crap food in your mouth and pass out before you had to go back to that hellscape in the morning. 

Frank was the kindest, most thoughtful partner you’d ever had, so he gave you plenty of space on the days you came home in an emotion-filled silence. He could read your moods pretty well at this point, and always respected your wishes, even if it meant he’d be nursing a beer in the living room alone until he went to sleep. You’d hoped that today would grant you enough energy to enjoy some time with him, but the world wasn’t that charitable. 

Shuffling off the subway amongst the masses, you let your body droop slightly as you trudged back to your apartment. Practically crawling up the stairs, you eventually reached the door—shoving it open in frustration as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. 

Instantly, you were greeted with the sound of soft music and the smell of onions and garlic cooking. Frank was in the kitchen, swaying almost imperceptibly to the song he was listening to, stirring a pot of what looked like tomatoes.  

“Hey, doll,” He greeted you softly, throwing you a smile over his shoulder but remaining planted at the stove, probably in an attempt to give you space.

“Hi.” Your voice was breathy and small, your stony face accented with glassy eyes. 

Frank knew better than to expect that everything would change in a day, but the sight of your crumpling face broke his heart. Stepping towards you with a furrowed brow, he tried for a small smile. “Another bad day?” 

You nodded, the force of the movement drawing two parallel tears down your cheeks. Sniffling, you didn’t respond, confident that your voice would crack if you did. 

“Do you want a hug?” Frank asked, hesitating a few feet from you as he waited for your answer. 

“I’m n-not sure, Frankie.” You admitted, more tears pooling as you did. “Not r-right now, I think.” 

Nodding in understanding, Frank crossed his arms, as if to keep himself from hugging you anyway. “Alright, sweet girl. Not a problem. Why don’t you go lay down while I finish dinner, hm?” 

Sighing, you nodded once, padding to the bedroom and collapsing into the blankets with a poorly stifled sob. Frank winced at the sound, his hands burning with an ache to hold you, to make everything better, but he couldn’t do that until you were ready. 

You’d only given him glimpses of the nightmare you were living. Whether you didn’t talk to him about it because you were worried it would scare him away, or because you didn’t trust him, he wasn’t sure—though the dark parts of his mind were convinced it was the latter. Regardless, Frank did his best to maintain a cozy home for you. It couldn’t be easy to have a mass-murderer-turned-government-hit-man as a partner, waiting around on your own for days while he worked odd jobs for Madani, but you’d never let it impact your love for him. 

You were thoughtful, sweet, and adorably shy—not to mention you balanced him out in ways he’d never expected. The pair of you brought out the best in each other, despite your peculiar relationship. You’d never made him feel distant or guilty for leaving, simply welcoming him back from his trips with open arms and eager eyes. Yet, the past few months your job had been eating at you, sapping the life from your beautiful eyes and leaving a listless husk of his girlfriend behind. 

He didn’t want to pry, far too afraid of snapping your already fragile composure and ruining the bond you shared. But every day you came home holding back tears, and it was going to kill him. He’d rip your office apart with his bare hands if it would end your misery, though he knew you’d never ask him to do that. 

So, instead, he did as much as he could—laying out his softest sweatshirt on your bed, playing quiet music, making a warm meal for the two of you to share—all in an effort to take something off of your plate, to remove an ounce of weight from your shoulders. After a week with no indication that any of this was helpful, he’d started scheming. 

Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too much begging to convince you to take an extra day off…

Stirring the tomato sauce one final time as he removed it from the heat, he tilted the pot over the cooked pasta, letting a ribbon of sauce drape over the noodles before giving it a quick stir. Scraping a dollop of sauce out of the pot with his finger, he popped the digit in his mouth, eyes closing in satisfaction at the array of flavors. 

Brushing his hands across his jeans, he plated two generous helpings of pasta, assuming you had worked through lunch once again, and set them in front of two chairs at your table. Steeling himself for the sight of your tear streaked face, he shuffled over to the bedroom and knocked softly. 

“Darlin’? You ready to eat?” Keeping his voice low, he gingerly opened the door. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light that managed to slip through your curtains, his heart squeezed at the sight of you sleeping, curled in fetal position. Your delicate hands clenched around your covers like they were your lifeline, your damp face squashed against his pillow. Biting his lip in thought, he returned to the main room to cover the pasta. 

Spending very little time tidying up, he wandered back into the bedroom, stripping out of his clothes in exchange for a pair of sweats and a worn Henley. Settling behind you with a book in hand, he slipped under the covers as unobtrusively as possible before his inner monologue made him pause. Would you even want him beside you? Was he crossing a line?

Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about that for long as your sleeping form unconsciously wrapped around him, a small sigh falling from your lips as you nuzzled into his stomach. Smiling down at you, his free hand came up to stroke over your hair, his own grin widening when the soft touch made your lips twitch up in a sleepy smile. He thumbed through about a chapter of his book before you began to stir, shining lashes fluttering as your eyes opened. As the sleep disappeared from your eyes, Frank felt another wave of apprehension cresting in his chest, but the tide was quickly settled by your sweet gaze. Nestling into his side more deeply, you hummed in appreciation. “Hi, Frankie.” 

“Hi, sweet girl. Did you have a good nap?” A teasing mirth danced in his gaze, making you avert your eyes bashfully. 

“Mmm hmm. Sorry.” You murmured, rubbing your face against the fabric of his shirt. 

Clucking his tongue, Frank slid down to face you, tracing a thumb over your cheek. “No reason to be sorry, dollface. I’m glad you slept, you’ve been tired.” 

Sighing deeply, you traced the buttons on his shirt. “Work’s been a lot, recently.” 

“I figured as much, doll. Ya don’t gotta tell me anything, but I’m always here to listen, yah?” The tip of his thumb caressed your ear. 

Blinking back tears, you looked up at him apologetically, “I didn’t mean to keep you in the dark, Frank, it’s just so stupid and I—“

“Hey, hey, it ain’t stupid.” Frank tugged you impossibly closer, brushing tears off your face carefully. “If it bothers ya, it’s not.” 

“You just…” You drew in a ragged breath, the inhale catching on a sob. “You have so much to worry about already, and I don’t want to be a burden!” Bawling now, you felt your chest constricting at the thought of dumping more work onto Frank’s already overflowing to-do list. 

“You’re not a burden.” Frank spoke fiercely, looking deep into your eyes. “You have never been a burden, doll. Never.”

His words were a promise, you drank in his commitment with immense desperation, praying to forces you didn’t believe in that he was being truthful. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Frankie,” Your voice cracked on the admission. “I’m fine at my job, but nobody can see that, and I don’t feel satisfied by the work that I’m doing but it’s all I know! I can’t just quit, I don’t have any other plan, this is everything I’ve worked for and—“ Your ramble broke off into sobs, your breath hitching as Frank shushed you quietly. 

“I know, I know, doll. It sucks right now and I’m so sorry.” Rubbing a hand over your back, Frank encouraged you to breathe, waiting until your lungs could actually take in oxygen before continuing. “Sweetheart, if ya wanna quit, I’ll support ya. If ya wanna stick it out, I’ll support ya. Regardless of what you choose, I’ll be right here at the end of the day.” 

“I can’t quit, Frank, we need the money.” You whimpered. 

“Hey, we can figure it out if we need to. It ain’t a problem.” 

Nodding against his palm, you considered your options. “For now, I’ll stick it out. But, thank you.” 

“No need to thank me, honey. It’s my job to look out for ya, remember?” His sappy remark sparked a tiny smile from you. “You’re my girl, sweetheart. I’m always gonna take care of my girl.” 

Nuzzling into his chest, you stifled a yawn before abruptly looking up at him with wide eyes. “Shit, Frankie, what time is it? Did I miss dinner?” Wriggling out of his embrace, you wiped the lingering tears off your face before sitting up. Frank bit his tongue to keep from chuckling at your genuine concern. 

“Dinner is waiting for us, sweet girl. I’m in no rush.” Cradling your neck, Frank pressed a languid kiss to your lips, taking advantage of your distraction and flipping you on top of him. 

“Frank!” You squealed, beaming down at him with more happiness than he’d seen from you in weeks. 

“What?” He questioned innocently, gently leading your face back to his for another kiss. 

“What’s gotten into you?” You wondered aloud, returning the kiss but looking at him with feigned exasperation. 

“I ain’t allowed to love on you now?” Frank asked, raising an eyebrow at you. 

You rolled your eyes, shuffling off of him and out of the bed. “C’mon, you sap. Let’s eat the dinner you made before it’s ruined.” 

As the night sky populated with stars, Frank doted on you insistently. He’d reheated your dinner, turned on your favorite movie, even brought you a pint of your favorite ice cream for dessert. You’d gratefully accepted his comforts, yet he still seemed to be holding back. As he puttered around in the kitchen, doing the dishes alone (he’d staunchly refused your help), you could see the wheels turning in his brain. 

“Frank, is something wrong?” You asked, picking at a stray thread along the seam of the blanket he’d wrapped around your shoulders, gazing over at him as your heart rate pounded anxiously.

“Huh?” Your timid question snapped him out of his thoughts, his hands nearly flinging the soapy dish across the room as he spun towards you. “Oh, uh, no. Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart.” 

Unconvinced, you nodded, nibbling on a hangnail poking out from your thumb. In an attempt to self-soothe, you shifted your attention back to the tv, but Frank’s energy still seemed out of place. 

Placing the last plate in the dishrack, Frank dried his hands, ambling over to you with a hesitant smile. “I gotta ask ya something, doll.”

Nervousness spiking, you nodded, tilting your head in anticipation of his query.

“If I asked ya to call in sick tomorrow, what would ya say?” Frank’s jaw was tight as he asked, clearly expecting anger in response.

“I’d say absolutely, love. Why do you ask?” “I was hopin’ you’d wanna take an extra day, to escape those assholes and maybe do something fun?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say Frank Castle looked nervous. His eyes flirted between your gaze and his lap, his trigger finger twitching. 

“Oh, Frank, I’d love that!” You gushed, throwing your arms around him. He grunted in surprise, his own hands coming up to hold you in place so you didn’t topple off the couch. “I’ve been hesitant to take sick days because everyone’s been so on edge lately, will you sit with me when I call in?” 

“Course I will. If anyone gives ya trouble, they’ll have me to answer to.” Frank assured you with a menacing glint in his eye. Kissing his nose, you stroked a knuckle over his stubbled cheek. 

“Thank you, handsome.” 

“Anything for my girl.” 

True to his word, Frank made sure you were seated comfortably in his lap when you called in sick, both so that he could rub reassuring circles along your waist, and so that he could hook his chin over your shoulder to listen for any flack you might be given. Fortunately for your boss, they grumbled an “ok” and hung up quickly. Anything ruder than that, and they might have been on The Punisher’s shit list. 

Sinking backwards into your boyfriend’s sturdy chest, you shuddered. “Glad that’s over with.” Breathing deeply, you took a moment to collect your anxious self before standing to get ready for the day. Or, trying to stand, at least. 

A set of strong hands caught your hips, yanking them backwards to hold you in Frank’s lap. 

“Frank!” A small fit of giggles burst out of you as his fingers pressed into your ticklish skin. 

“What’s the hurry, doll? We’ve got all day.” Planting heated kisses along your neck, you felt Frank smile when you mewled in response. “Attagirl, let me make ya feel good, hmm?” 

Whisking you back to the bedroom, Frank helped you forget all about your shitty job. 

Slightly breathless following your morning exercise, you hummed happily as Frank continued to press his lips to the exposed flesh of your body, taking care to show every piece of you as much love as possible. Boxing you in with his massive arms, he molded his beautifully crooked nose against yours, finishing his trail of kisses with a lengthy kiss to your lips. 

“So, what did you have planned for today?” You asked against his lips, threading a hand in his hair. 

“Nothin’ much. I was thinkin’ maybe nice coffee and a trip to that museum you’ve been talkin’ about?” A blush crept over his cheeks. “Sorry, doll, I, uh, I ain’t too good with this…” He gestured between the two of you. 

“Aw, Frankie,” You scolded gently, kissing him tenderly. “You’re plenty good at ‘this’.” You mirrored his gesture and he rolled his eyes. “I’m serious, honey. You’re the most romantic partner I’ve ever had. And that plan sounds lovely. Let me clean up and we can go for coffee.” 

As you curled into a seated position, Frank caught your wrist. “Hey! Where do you think you’re goin’?” 

“To wash up!” You giggled, striding back over to the bed where he slotted you between his legs. 

“Nah, you’re gonna sit right here while I draw you a bath. And I’m gonna run to the coffee place across the street and get ya one of those sugary drinks ya like so much. Then we can go out, if ya feel up to it.” His demanding tone made you smirk, his military tendencies tended to come out when he was concerned about you. 

“That sounds perfect, love.” You kissed his cheek, sitting on the bed as he headed to the bathroom. 

The rest of the day passed quickly, leaving you longing for more cozy time with Frank. Though he considered himself lacking in the romance department, he’d provided you nothing but pure love on your day off, indulging your every whim just to see you smile. 

And as you fell asleep at the end of the day, you clung tightly to him, trusting him to get you through whatever life threw your way.