#Scotch Honey

[sunnylighter]

Happy St Patrick’s Day!!

[gornackeaterofworlds]

WHAT DO YOU MEAN TRAGIC PART(S)?!?!?!

I just got my heart scotch taped back together!!! And that's some flimsy shit!!!

Oh dear, I'm afraid lucky(AA wait it wasn't lucky I told it to, it was the discord) knows more than you do maybe(from all the Mikey teasing). Uhh...

*glances at copious deaths, injuries, and torture* I didn't mean it I didn't mean it don't hurt me-

[yeyinde]

hands like barbed wire

John Price x Reader

18+ | dubcon that flirts heavily with noncon. fingering (in public). manipulation. slight corruption kink. sheltered reader forced into a wife-grooming speed run. lotsssssa good girl/sweet girl/baby abound. implied kidnapping.

You meet him in a bar.

He's sitting alone in the corner, body angled towards all the exits. There's a glass of scotch on the table that drip, drip, drips these big, teardrop-sized droplets of condensation down the glass, kept cradled between a thick, grizzled hand. The scabs on his knuckles remind you of ripe, sour cherries when they flex under the coarse dusting of hair.

There's something about his hands that catches your attention first. Keeps it.

Your daddy used to say there was a lot to learn about a man by the shape of his hands. And his, this magnetic stranger's, are rough. Worn. Dangerous. Blistered and torn up. Caution tape in pale peach. Dirt under his nails. Ash on his forefinger. Stay away, it says. Run.

But the flicker of orange sparking up in the gloom draws you in like a moth to a flame. Stupid girl—

(just like daddy always said)

He doesn’t look up when you step closer. Little moth drawn to that orange light, the shift of those fingers wet with condensation. But you catch the slightest shift of his chin from your periphery. A silent acknowledgement, but it’s all you get. He keeps his eyes glued to the newspaper he has spread out on the table. Disregarding you entirely. Ignoring you. 

(and you keep yours fixed on the clench of his hands—)

"Not supposed to smoke in here," you murmur, voice a little slip of a thing when it shudders out of your throat. 

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not sure why you do. The words roll to the tip of your tongue and drip down your chin when your mouth shifts on a small, soundless gasp. Beneath the scabs on his fingers, his skin is all scar tissue—

In an almost laughable contrast, he growls, purring like a tiger, a diesel engine, when he speaks. 

"m'not supposed to do a lot of things—" When you finally, finally, drag your eyes away from his hands (the flex of his fingers, wondering how they'd even fit inside—), you catch a flat, uneven line buried under untameable brown. But he still doesn’t look at you. "But who is gonna tell me that?"

You don't get it. Sheltered girl—little girl, he adds, all ugly and cruel; cold in his mockery because that's what you are to him: little—growing up buried in the mountains, left to rot on the fecund plains where your daddy sowed seeds and mama pickled the wares for the market. Barely scraping by on a farm doomed to fail. Some poor man's burial ground, the locals say. Cursed. But hindsight—the gold band on his ring finger, one half of a matching set belonging to a woman who isn't you; and the patch on his leather jacket, faded yellow and bold, 141 with a twisted skull—bring you to a neat conclusion:

he's a bad man. Stupid girl, daddy would bark. Ain't you know nothin'? Stay away from them folk. Bad news. Nothin' but trouble.

(Mama would laugh. And oh, honey, did trouble find you—)

Between the heavy thud of your heart, the words slip out. “Well, I just did.”

More gall. Cheek. You don't know where it comes from.

Mama would have washed your mouth with soap. Dragged you to the washroom, spitting about respect as she twisted her gnarled fingers into your lips, and tugged. 

You expect the same from him. Maybe worse. Much worse. But he just looks—

His eyes peel away from the article (train robbery down south, it says in bold, ugly letters), finally darting to take you in. There's shock, you think. Stupefied by your audacity. The disrespect. But when he rests his eyes on you—cold blue, like a glinting gem, a lagoon—the slow climb of his brows, drawn up high until three deep lines stretch across his skin, comes to a stop. 

He seems to pause for a beat. Just long enough for an exhale of smoke, twin funnels of dragon's breath, to pour out of his nose. They draw together, but it's not in anger. Scorn. It's a rough sort of contemplation. Eyes narrowing into slits as he stares at you. 

And the weight of his gaze is a palpable thing. Heavy. You try to fight the urge to fidget as he sizes you up, rolling your eyes down the length of his body above the table to skirt around intense, dizzying blue. 

But your avoidance makes him huff, and he leans back, sucking in another breath. 

"C'mere," he demands. Doesn't say, doesn't ask. Just growls the words out between the clench of his teeth buried in that cigar you tried to nitpick him about. "Come sit."

And you do. of course, you do (stupid girl).

But when you reach for the chair next to his, he scoffs. "Didn't tell you to sit beside me."

"Then where—"

He's pushing back in his seat before the words are out, thick thighs open wide (impolite mama would say), stretched tight over a pair of jeans. But even with the wide spread, you can't even see the cheap red plastic in the open v of his legs. When you don't move quick enough—head all thick, syrupy—he grunts. Reaches down mockingly and pats his thigh.

"Come sit, little girl—"

It's demeaning. Embarrassing. But there's something about him that seems to negate choice the closer he gets. Renders it into dust between his fingers. Head syrupy. Empty. No thoughts needed when he'll just think for you—

And oh. 

Oh. That thought does something to you. Static in your veins. An electric shock. Mind reeling, spinning around that single, wayward idea.

Your head is hot. Feverish. Everything inside is melted, liquified, and drips out of your ears to pool between your thighs. 

(Under the white cotton of your modest summer dress, they squeeze together, sliding in the gathering slick—)

When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he grunts. "Ain't gonna tell you again—"

And you listen. Obey. Because that's what you are: a good girl. You do what you're told, don't you?

So you slip onto his lap, letting those big, gnarled hands wrap around your waist. Holding you steady (keeping you trapped) as his thick, warm thigh splits yours apart. Wrenching you open for one of his rough, dirty hands to slide between.

His forearm anchors you to the broad, dizzying spill of his chest, head dipping to nuzzle against the shell of your ear. Shushing you softly as you squirm around the hard, thick press of his thigh against your core—cunt, he bites out, teeth nipping along the skin of your ear; can feel your hot little cunt, sweetheart—and grapple with the strange, dirty-wrong, sensation of sitting in a stranger's lap as he slowly pulls up the dress you wore to church this morning, fingers hot on your inner thigh. Chasing that sticky-slick dampness that makes him groan low in his throat when he first touches it. Softly still, a hoarse good girl—

But this isn't what good girls do.

Mama says no man is allowed to touch this hot, slick little place between your thighs until you're married. A sin, she called it. Wrong. The pastor, too. Only when you're married. Only as a wife.

You don't think he has any intention of marrying you, but he touches you like a man would a wife. Knuckle hard, firm against the thin, worn cotton of your panties. Grazing. Rubbing. All soft and slow. Not even much of a touch—just the whisper, the idea, of one.

The rasp of his smoke-scorched, whiskey-scented voice in your ear, peppering filth, sin, out as he tells you he can feel how wet your little pussy is. Feels it against his finger. And can you feel that, sweetheart? when he pushes a little harder, digging the peak of a bent knuckle into the seam of you. Can you feel him through your pretty little panties?

"Mm," he grunts, pushing harder. Arm tightening around your waist when you squirm, and squirm. "Can you?"

Yes, you think around a long breath. A little stretch. Your legs kick out under the table when he grazes over a spot that blooms a vicious, intense pleasure through your belly. Something that feels so good, that it makes you a little sick. Makes you want to run. Maybe that's why your legs kick and kick, and—

"Be good." It's a snarl. A warning. "Or I'll take you over my knee—"

Be good, he adds again when you whimper, softening the grit in his voice from granite to soot. The same tone Daddy uses when they bring him a broken horse. "Jus' wanna make you feel good, sweet girl, mm. Want that, don't you?"

"We're n-not supposed to do this if we're not—not married."

Shivering it out into the balmy, smoke-dense air of the bar feels almost like a release. Baptismal. Like maybe now you've said it, whatever spell has fallen over the two of you will be broken. He'll blink awake and right the wrong you've committed with a quick, decisive shake of his head. You'll go back to being a good girl, a simple girl from a simple family, and he'll be the stranger in a bar you think about sometimes, like the real man mama loved but her daddy wouldn't let her marry.

(A sweet little fever dream, she'd said fondly. Sadly. And then, scared, tense: don't tell daddy, though, okay?)

He hums around it, but it sounds accommodating. Placid. Like an adult entertaining the whims of a child.

"Want that, mm?" He digs the question in with a slip of his finger over the cheap lace lining the hem of your panties. "Want me to marry you?"

You're not sure. You don't know him, but he's touching you in public. Has you sat—spread—on his lap with his hand under your dress, touching you the way a husband would. There's a ring on his finger already. The suggestion of a wife. A life outside of this hovel where nothing grows, and you're just expected to roll over and grow old with whatever man daddy approves of.

"No," you stammer out because he's married already, and that's what daddy will say. "No—"

"Shame," he grunts, and his nail catches on the edge of coifed lace. Scraping it over slick, damp skin. "Jus' lost mine, you know. Been thinkin' 'bout takin' another."

A good little girl to warm my bed is said as his nail drags your panties over your swollen, slick folds.

It's instinctual to want to snap them shut. Keep him out. But his knee lifts like he's expecting that, keeping you spread. Open. His hand is hot on your skin. Burning. His thumb wedges into the hem of your panties, stretching the fabric to tuck the edges together, exposing your cunt to his wandering, blistering fingers.

There's no quarter. No choice. He doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a minute to breathe. It's just—

Skin on skin.

His knuckle slides between the seam of your swollen folds, parting them as he touches that slick, hot space cradled inside. Groaning, too, when he does; like he touched fire. Like you burned him. Hurt him even though you know you never could.

The noise balms the panic and clots thick tufts of cotton inside your ears. The low, rolling brass trembles in your belly. A small quake. You feel it in your cunt; a strange, throbbing little hum that makes you clench down twice on nothing but the idea of that sound. The echo.

He tells you he feels it. Feels how desperate you are for him.

Needy little thing, he rasps, and it isn't kind. It isn't nice. There's a reprimand needling in against the grain of his praise. An unspoken good girl said in the tone of a man who thinks you're anything but.

"Been thinkin' about takin' a wife," he says again, dragging the rough, scabbed tip of his knuckle across the powder-soft flesh of your folds. It's ticklish. Weird. Something that makes you want to giggle and cry. Pull your blankets over your head. Lean into it more. Spread your legs wider until he touches that spot that made you shake. "But the mistake I made the last time was not testin' 'er out before I married 'er. Turns out—" the tip digs in between your swollen folds, touching where you're hot and sticky and far too sensitive for such rough hands. "She wasn't as sweet as I thought she was."

And it's electric. The rough, calloused scrape of his finger stroking up and down your split seam (your clit, he mumbles into the hollow space behind your ear, giving it a little swirl that makes your toes curl; to your hole, nice and tight and so fuckin' wet f'him, mm?) is a jolt of that dizzying, too much-not enough pleasure. A shock. Mouth open, toes clenched tight. Legs kicking. Muscles seizing as he works you over with just the tip of a finger. Barely even a touch.

"But you're sweet, aren't you?"

It sounds like he's chiding you all over again, but the cotton puffing up against your eardrums, the pleasure buzzing in your belly, between your thighs, makes everything sound so sweet. Enticing. So you agree. Nod feverishly on a gasp when his finger trails down to where you clench tight around nothing, circling your opening with the tip of his finger, nail skimming over swollen, slick flesh.

You're not sure what this is. Don't even know where to begin to articulate what you want, need, but each pass makes you feel every bit of the needy little thing he called you earlier. An admonishment drenched in fondness. Wrapped up so tight in a soft, velvet cloth of amusement that you could barely feel the pricks of barbed wire nestled inside when it rubbed against your skin.

Sweet enough that it makes you turn your head into his bicep, nuzzling against the fabric of his jacket as he works his fingers between your wet, slick thighs. Thumb against your clit. A brand. Pressing down, down, and then softening when your legs kick out, too much. That dirty, awful kind of pleasure that makes you feel like a balloon being pumped too full, ready to burst. His finger slips inside. Just a tease. As gentle as a kiss. Only up to his cuticle. Barely even a knuckle.

He tells you all of his with his beard scraping against the flushed, damp skin of your cheek. Murmuring the words into the pool of blood throbbing against your cheekbones. Reinforces them with a sharp nip of his teeth when the shame trickles in—when the easy pump of his finger, not even a knuckle, makes a wet, sticky noise as it pushes into that pool of heat inside of you.

And it's all good girl, sweet girl against the sticky-slick shine of your raw cheek when your needy little cunt sucks him in deeper. Beggin' for it, and sweet little pussy wants it so bad, mm, needy girl? and don't worry, baby, m'gonna make you feel so good.

Baby. It catches, loops. Makes it easier to ignore the noise spilling out under the thick spread of his palm, finger digging in deeper (the first knuckle is a soft good girl, the second is a rough a doin' so good, sweetheart; and the third, slipped right up to last is a low, rumbling that's it, baby, takin' it so well, ain't you?), and the clatter around you. A semi-crowded bar.

You forgot, you think, squirming suddenly. Stiffening around him, on him, as the world sharpens into a whistle. Glass on worn wood. Thud, thud. Legs squealing against herringbone as a heavy chair is dragged back. Low murmurs. Laughter. Noise spilling out from the front of the room, calls for more beer. Another shot. Hey, bartender, gimme another Jack on the rocks—

"Shush-shush, baby," he coos, finger dragging out a lewd squelch when slides back inside of you, as deep as it'll go. The slap of his bent index and ring finger hitting your puffy, drenched folds when he thrusts. "They can't see you. Can't hear you. Jus' be good for me, mm? My sweet girl."

Nothin' matters except me, he adds, curling that finger inside of you until it hooks on a spot that makes you whimper into his arm, teeth sinking into leather. I own this bar, he promises, lifting his arm up as you cling to him with your teeth. A block against the world. Nothing but faded, aged leather and stale smoke. Gunpowder. The slick glide of his finger inside of you, the sting of the stretch dissolving into a wet, sticky pleasure.

His own teeth dig into the curve of your neck. A pinch. Sucking in a mouthful of skin as his ring finger extends, drags over your messy cunt until it's pushed up against your stuffed hole, nudging inside. A shallow dip. Lemme in, it says as he bites through blood vessels with the hard suck of his mouth. Lemme in because—

"I own this town. This bar. Jus' like I own this sweet little cunt."

A shove and he's in. All the way. To the last knuckle. Quick and sudden, the sting is an afterthought; the burn is a hazy, ephemeral throb in the back of your head. Balmed by the drag of his thumb over your pebbled clit.

It feels like a seesaw. Up and down. Bending your knees, feet planted into the ground, and then kicking up, up. Weightless. Over and over again. An ebb and flow. Higher and higher until you slowly fall down—

(—into his lap. the cup of his palm.)

You tell him as much. Mewled out into spit-drenched leather as he rumbles against your spine, his voice so deep, so full, you can feel it humming in your chest when he speaks.

(feel it drip down your spine like hot wax where it pools between your thighs—)

"Good girl," he says, and you feel like anything but. Less like the girl who sat in the pew this morning, humming along to hymns in a modest, cotton dress and more like gum spat out onto the pavement. Squished down under his heel. Dragged along beneath his boot. Pretty, dizzy pinked up remora. "Bein' so good, mm? Maybe you deserve a reward."

It comes on the crook of his fingers twisting inside your slicked up cunt; blunt nails pressing against soft walls until it stings like the nip of his teeth over your cheek. You're not even sure if it feels good. It's just—

Pressure. A burning stretch. The foreign sensation of something detached from your body squirming inside of you, touching places you've never been able to reach before. Too deep and too full. His index finger is nearly double the width of your own.

It makes you mewl like a child. Twisting on his lap, trying to pull away from the place that parts for him so easily, opens up with just the crook of his finger. Leaks slick down his palm, drenching his pants. Makin' a mess, he growls, and pulls you back down on his lap. Feel it, sweet girl? Mm? Feel the mess you're makin'.

And you hate that you can. That each thrust of his hand between your thighs sounds wetter and wetter than it did before. That it pulls it out of you until it drips down your inner thighs and pools against the back of your dress. Stains his thighs. The hard thing—his cock, he tells you, dragging your ass over it with a grunt—under you that jerks and throbs and flattens up to a size that makes you want to curl into a ball and weep.

(that makes your knees twitch, wanting to spread wider—)

It's a lot. It's too much. You're not even sure you like it ("ain't nice to tell lies, little girl;") but he doesn't stop. Won't. Not even when tears drip down from the corners of your eyes, and you hide whimpers into the damp, sticky leather of his sleeve. It doesn't really matter because—

"mm, you look so pretty when you cry."

You feel drenched. Liquid. No longer a person but a puddle. Melted, leaking. Dripping down his lap and pooling onto the dirty barroom floor. A slippery little thing held together by the cup of his palm, the hook of his fingers sinking into you over and over again.

"Are you watchin'?" The arm wrapped around your waist shifts until his dry, rough hand is cupped under your wet, sticky chin, curling over your throat. "Look at us."

Between the spread of your thighs, white cotton dress rumpled and rucked up around your hips, the sight of his hand—masculine: dangerous; knuckles bruised and scarred, cherry red; big and rough and hairy—is obscene. Ugly. Wrong.

(a grunt: too tight. his fingers flex, spreading open inside of you, scissoring apart. loosen up, love, before you break 'em, mm.)

So, so wrong.

You feel small with that big, grizzled hand between your legs. Insignificant. A toy to play with. A thing to be used. And that's just what he does.

Shows you how he can play with your body when he peels his fingers out of you nice and slow until just the tips keep you open, skin shiny and wet. Glistening in the flushed, low light of the bar. And then slides them back inside, just as slow. The first knuckle. The second. The third. Wiggles them around. Scissors them apart.

Pulls them out faster now, and thrusts them back inside hard.

This cunt belongs to him, he grunts, words nestled beneath the slick, sticky-wet sound of him taking what he owns. Over and over again. That big, bearish hand works at your messy cunt until your thighs tremble, and your head throbs.

The hand on your throat is firm. Tight. And when it pulls away to slip inside your cotton dress, you realise you've forgotten how to breathe without him controlling every breath.

"Come on," he rasps, fingers working harder. Faster. His thumb catches your clit, rubbing small, tight circles; each pass brings a new, terrible pleasure rippling through you. A crescendo that builds and builds. Higher on the seesaw—up, up—

His hand is scorching as it cups your breast, index and middle finger scissoring over your nipple until it's caught between the two. A pluck. A pinch. It buzzes down your chest, sinks like a stone into the wet, muddled mess between your hips.

And that's all you are. Nothing but a soaked, hot mess of a thing in his lap. Putty. Messy girl. Silly girl. Sweet. Stupid. His.

(his low, growling voice in your ear: mine, mine, mine;) "aren't you, little girl?"

The leather between your teeth tastes like ash. Smells of gunpowder. Fresh hide in the summer's sun. Smoke. Tobacco. Potent. Masculine. Grizzled, like his hand between your thighs. The other cupped around your breast, pinching and pulling and kneading flesh you hadn't realised could feel so good when it was touched like this—

By his hands, palms hot enough to scorch, to brand. To melt you from the outside in until you leak all over his lap where you're cradled like a child. Obedient and docile.

Especially when he makes you come on his fingers. Tells you that's what you'll do before it happens—a grunt, a command, in your ear. Do it, sweetheart. I ain't askin' again—

And you do. Pulsing like a heartbeat around the thick stretch of two fingers digging deep inside of you, stabbing into that spot that makes you pant like an animal. Blooms more heat, more pleasure, that thickens inside your navel—molten. Spilling out from between your hips. Up, up, up on the seesaw—

"Good girl. Good fuckin' girl—"

He doesn't even sound like a man anymore. The rough, feverish grit of his voice pitches low into his throat, hums in his chest. Rattles like bones in the wind. Howls. Sharpens in the pit of your belly, another liquid pulse around his fingers. It sounds animal. Primal. Bearish as he claims you as his, as he curls his fingers around the heart of you, and tugs. Leaving you spun around those thick, grizzled fingers like fresh cotton candy, sticky and sweet. His to keep.

And that's what you are,

"aren't you?"

Good girl, he coos when you nod, sniffling into creased leather that smells of cade and motor oil. Too dizzy to make sense of what he's asking for, too incomplete.

Your neck feels cold without his touch, but you don't know how to ask for something you don't even think you really want. Shouldn't want.

You feel feverish, too, and it's an all-over thing. From the space between each toe, to the backs of your ears—everything is too hot, too cold. You're shivering, but you want to sink down into a pool of ice, a blanket of heat and warmth. Wrap yourself around the hot, oozing insides of a chest—like the hunter who slept inside his beloved horse—and bathe in the waters around the polynya. Icy and dark.

Mostly, though, you just feel raw. Wrong. Scraped out and hollowed. Broken into pieces and put back together with mismatched parts.

And it's worse, you think, when he pulls his fingers out of you, and you're reminded of what it feels like to be empty all over again.

"Shush, baby," he's cooing when you whimper. Chiding. "Let's have a taste, mm? Find out if you're really sweet."

His hand is drenched when he pulls it from between your thighs. Thick, clear strands make a bridge between his fingers when he splits them apart, rumbling low and brassy in his chest at the sight. Spits like a burning log, crackling sap in a dry fire, when he says, look, baby, got me all fuckin' wet—

But you can't. Not when he drags his hand up, up, over your shoulder, above your head, and sinks his fingers into his mouth with a groan that raffles through you, all the way down to your toes. Slurps on his hand, on the slick you left behind, like a man half-starved. Grunting at the taste. Cock throbbing beneath you like a heartbeat. Pulsing and angry. Enough that you cower a bit, flinching back into the broad expanse of his chest as his thick, fat cock twitches under you, eager for something you only really know about as an abstract concept. Knowledge gleaned through rummaging around in cupboards when no one was looking. Playground tales; cupped palms against the side of an ear. Stage whispers.

Husband and wife.

And oh, baby—

"you're the sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he rasps into your cheek, lips shiny and wet. Smearing spit and slick across your raw skin. "Looks like I found my new wife."

It doesn't make sense. Another abstract concept. Fragmented pieces. You want to say we can't get married, but all that comes out is a squeak. A whimper. Some shallow warble in the back of your throat that sounds like daddy, please.

But he's pulling his hand away from your breast, and clasping it tight around your neck before the words can make it through the panic clogging your throat. A firm squeeze snuffs those flames as quickly as they formed, and you swallow down the ash in the back of your throat before it can choke you.

Good girl, he says with a paper soft kiss to the bruised, burning apple of your cheek. Sweet girl, baby girl, and when he smoothes his damp hand across the rumpled fabric of your cotton dress, pulling it back over your thighs, you realise you forgot your own name.

(It doesn't matter, you suppose. You'll have his soon enough.)

When it's back in its proper spot, unblemished and pristine despite the ache between your thighs and the way your panties stick, uncomfortably, to swollen skin, he drags his hand back up your leg until his palm swallows your thigh. The warmth of his skin bleeds through the cotton, and his rough, calloused fingers catch on loose threads when he splays them wide, touch firm, possessive—as if he has the right to hold you like you're his.

But his skin is still wet, and when it catches in the light, you feel a sinking weight in your belly. An echo in the back of your head that says you already are.

His thumb strokes over cotton, and it's almost obscene, really: soft, virginal white against marled, cherry red and scarred peach; from his knuckles to the hem of his leather jacket, he's covered in a dense swath of hair. Veins bulge when he flexes, thick lines running down the back of his hand like little rivers of blue beneath raw peach flesh. He's just so—

Different.

Masculine. Big. Dangerous, you think again, and hear that muffled echo in the back of your head that said run, stay away.

(except now it sounds like stupid girl, you're much too late—)

Trapped like a fawn under his paw. One on your thigh, the other on your throat. The phantom burn, the hollow echo, of his fingers tearing through the too-tight space inside of you, making room for the heavy, fat length under you.

Soon, it seems to say, still as angry as it was when he feasted on your sweet taste.

His hand leaves your thigh, reaching up towards the half-drunk glass on the table beneath a puddle of condensation. It, too, is swallowed up under his bearish hand when he curls his fingers around it, tugging it closer, over your shoulder.

You smell whiskey as he takes the last swig, grunting at the burn, the sting. When he's finished, he leans forward, warm chest glueing to your spine, and places the empty glass back in the puddle.

The hollow thud of glass on wood seems to shake loose the cobwebs that spooled around your head. It feels like blinking to life. Waking up from a deep sleep.

The bar is still buzzing with noise, but you can hear it clearly now. A constant, endless press of voices and low hums, words you can't make sense of. You're too far back in the bar for anyone to have seen you—the bulk of his arm is a wall between you and the world—but you wonder just how much your whimpers carried under the static chatter. The wet, messy squelch—

"You're fine, sweetheart." A squeeze and the panic welling in your throat is choked under his palm. Snuffed out. "No one heard a thing."

You're not sure you believe him, but it keeps the embarrassment from eating you alive, and so you let it go with a slow, sleepy nod. A sniffle. Wet, weepy: I want to go home.

"S'right, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing another brittle kiss to your temple, one that feels the sting of a scraped knee. "We'll get you home."

(Chiding. Look at what you've done to yourself. Pitying. Patronising. Poor thing.)

His home isn't the same as the one cradled in the maw of a mountain, where the land is always barren, and your mother weeps when your father isn't around, but you relent when he tugs, pulling you into his arms. Holding you like a small child as he bites down on his cigar, and moves through the blanket of silence in the once rowdy bar. Hands firm, tight like shackles when they close around you.

Your father used to say you could tell a lot about a man by the look of his hands, and when he slips his fingers between the soft brackets of yours, filling the spaces you hadn't realised were empty, you know one thing:

these are not the sort to ever let go.

(bassbround. apodictic.)

and when he slips his ring on your finger and tells you to wear that little white cotton dress for him, you suppose you have no one else to blame but yourself.

[oceantornadoo]

dubcon, objectification, forced (?) threesome, f!reader

they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

ghost finds you ten months after your divorce, nursing a drink in a shithole of a pub. he doesn’t consider himself a good man, licking the tears on your cheeks when he fucks you for the first time, ignoring your whines of how “it’s been a while” and you’re “too tight.” he doesn’t like to keep birds around longer than a night, but something about how you wrap your leg around him in the morning makes him stay a little longer.

he lets you call him simon after you whine that you “can’t fuck him without knowing his name.” it takes a bit, but you get used to sleeping with someone who isn’t your ex-husband. he calls you bird instead of sweetheart, love instead of darling and after a while, the word honey loses its significance. when simon tells you he’s military, you try to leave his bed, only for him to pull you by the thigh, apologizing with his tongue in your cunt. simon doesn’t date and you aren’t ready for it, content to stay in your respective apartments, living for his occasional half-smiles and usual gruff admonishments. its a bit new to simon - he’s used his camera app more in the past weeks than he has in years. always pictures of you: his cum on your tits, the bruises he leaves on your hips, a rare photo of you sleeping. he even lets you corral him into taking a cheesy mirror picture, his arms dwarfing your waist with his face tucked into your neck, your jawline exposed as you turn to kiss his cheek.

it’s two months later when you promise to cook him a meal for the first time, a sunday roast he hasn’t tasted in years. “better not take too long, bird, ‘m starvin’.” simon murmurs in your ear, hands squeezing your stomach and waist as you fumble with your keys. “i’ve had it slow cooking before i left for yours last night. it’ll put us in a food coma.” you finally put the key in the lock, turning it with force before simon decides to fuck you against the door. he dips to bite your neck, sending you into your apartment giggling, swatting him off you. the weight of your divorce is finally off your shoulders, happy butterflies fluttering in your stomach formed by simon’s continuous presence.

the butterflies die when you see a familiar pair of boots at your door.

“stay here.” you order simon, a change from your usual dynamic. you can’t focus on his reaction, set on edge by the sounds of pots clanging in your kitchen. there’s no point in creeping - he knows you’re here. you turn the corner and there he is - your ex husband. “you’re just in time, sweetheart. nice ‘f you to make a roast.”

john’s standing there like he owns the place, like he knows this kitchen he’s never been in. he’s boiling potatoes on the stove, keeping an eye on the slow cooker timer. he’s even poured himself a fucking drink, a scotch he had to have brought since all you have is wine and simon’s whiskey. all smug and entitled in his civvies, commanding the room like he pays your rent. he's still as handsome as ever, darker eye bags the only indication he's been losing sleep.

“what the fuck are you doing here, john?” john doesn’t answer immediately, instead using a fork to test the potatoes. satisfied, he takes them off the burner and turns to the sink, dumping them out in a prepared strainer. “‘s our anniversary, sweetheart. thought that’s why you made the food.” you can sense simon still in the doorway, his presence unknown to your ex. it gives you strength, a guard dog at your back, and comfort that he’s letting you run this on your own. “our anniversary ended when we signed the papers. i don’t know how you got in here, but you need to leave.” he frowns at you and it almost tugs at your heart strings. your brain conjures images of his coldness and constant distance, and you shut that down real fast. unfortunately, he doesn’t get the memo. john takes a step closer, hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “honey, i-“ and that’s when ghost steps out of the darkness.

there’s a long pause. it boosts your ego a bit, showing john you’ve moved on, until the silence is so long that you start to worry. you chance a look at simon’s face and find it confused, not at all the guard dog you thought he was. a glance at john’s reveals the same. you’re about to ask your question when they answer it for you. “captain.” “lieutenant.” “what?”

the transformation happens in an instant. both men straighten to their full heights, wiping any emotion off their faces. their brows furrow as they flex their hands to control their instincts. how could you not see it before? simon only mentioned he was military, but the stamp of the SAS is clear as day. it was in the harsh lines he carried, a companionship with death, not unlike the one john had.

john started first, of course, always having to take control of the situation. “you fuckin’ my lieutenant, sweetheart? miss me that much?” you rolled your eyes at his cruel words, inching closer to simon. “whatever we do doesn’t concern you.” you emphasized the “you”, spitting it out with venom. john hums low, making you nervous. you turn to simon, but he's quiet and calculating, communicating silently with his captain.

"didn't know you had a wife, sir." you answer before john can. "we divorced a year ago." john chimes in. "to the day, actually. she served me on our anniversary." simon looks down at you, the man you thought you knew now gone. his eyes are black pits, targeting you like you're prey. "that's cruel, bird." you sputter, backing into the kitchen cabinets. you walk until your back hits the sink, each man on either side of you. john has his arms crossed and head cocked to the side, like you're about to get chewed out by the school principal. simon looks...no longer human. unrestrained. whatever spark you two had has gone out, replaced by sheer loyalty to his captain. "show the captain what he's been missin', love. y've been starvin' him." he moves at lightning speed, picking you up and dropping you on the island counter, sunday roast long forgotten.

"simon?" he doesn't answer, scarred hands squeezing up and down your body as john watches from behind him, arms crossed and eyes searching. your mind is telling you one thing but your body wants another. some twisted part of your brain reminds you that john came to visit on your anniversary, even though you threw him out a year ago. simon's no better, coaxing your sweater off your torso, leaving you exposed in a lacy bra. your nipples harden and john sees, making a clicking noise with his tongue. "warm 'er up, lieutenant." simon obeys instantly, pulling down the cup of your bra to suck on your nipple. he's ravenous, no sunday roast in sight, and he's decided you're his meal instead. he sucks hard, a calloused hand reaching up to pull your other tit out so you're fully exposed to your two men. he squeezes it with reverence, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucks hard on the other one, not minding his own teeth.

it's dirty - watching john watch you. you hadn't fucked in the last months before the divorce. he was always too busy, on base or deployed, and you were so angry you couldn't let him near you. now, your ex-husband moves closer, taking in the sight of his lieutenant feasting. "miss me, sweetheart?" you shake your head on instinct. he sighs at your attitude. you're seated on the corner of the island, perfect for john to come up on your side, one large paw making its way towards your jaw, turning you towards him. "say it." you shake your head again. john sticks a thumb into your mouth, pushing against your teeth. you try to force him out, but simon bites your tit, making you gasp and let john in anyways. you suck his thumb defiantly, gazing at him with all the emotions you can't convey.

you look so pretty like this, john decides. laid out for his lieutenant, taking his orders as well as your emotions will allow. he decides to forgive you for your indiscretions with ghost - at least it was with one of his own men. they're practically an extension of himself. john hooks his thumb into the gap between your tongue and teeth and pulls, forcing you right into his space. "i reckon your cunt's nice an' wet, though. should i check? know she's missed me even if you won't admit it." your eyes go wide, giving him an answer he already knew. simon follows orders well, manhandling you into position by yanking off your jeans. there's a wet spot on the light fabric of your underwear. john can practically see your cunt clinging to it, begging for him to say hello.

"want ya to take 'em off y'self, bird." simon's finally speaking, the glaze in his eyes fading. he looks at you, then his captain, and it makes sense. how you're used to being led but refuse it all the same. how you're desperate for affection but won't date him because he's military. you're scarred from the chains of your marriage, so it only makes sense that he's the one you seek out - the opposite of husband material. more dog than human on his worst days. simon stares at you until you follow his command, meekly lifting up your hips as you take off your underwear. your cunt is sopping, in a way it only does when you’re ovulating, practically begging for it. your ex-husband whistles through his teeth like he’s praising a recruit. “knew she’d be happy to see me. hullo, darling.” you can’t find it in you to cringe. john starts running his fingers through your folds, inspecting, and all you can do is stare. stare at the veins in his forearm. stare at simon behind him, eyes trained on his captain’s movements. stare at the counter where your juices start to gather and wonder how the hell you got into this situation.

“pinch ‘er tit an’ watch ‘er flutter.” simon’s callous with his instructions but john follows them anyway, his unoccupied hand reaching up to pinch your nipple. you can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way your cunt flutters around john’s fingers. he hums thoughtfully. john decides you’ve been good, if not a bit quiet, and presses his thumb against your clit as a reward. he starts rubbing in that pattern that would get you off without fail during your marriage. he fits one finger into you easily as you grip the counter hard, the sudden sensation overwhelming. simon peers over his shoulder like a fucking scientist. “‘f she gets bratty, i pull back the hood til she screams.” like your cunt’s a machine and they have the two pieces of its manual. john’s movements are making you desperate, hips starting to buck against his fingers. he chuckles and adds another, not hiding a smile when you sigh in relief. simon’s hands come to your waist, helping you fuck yourself on price’s fingers. it feels so wrong, having them barely listen to your pleas, and yet being under their watch is the most right you’ve ever felt in your life. that’s what brings your orgasm - not john’s thick fingers on your cunt, his rough thumb in your clit - but two sets of hungry eyes on you, like you’re their last meal. john fucks you through your orgasm, simon not letting you out of his grasp until tears start to form, the embarrassment of your own wetness coming to the front of your mind. john slowly removes his fingers and brings them to simon’s mouth to taste, not satisfied until his lieutenant hums in agreement. the two men turn to you, naked save for your disheveled bra around your waist, somehow making the scene more depraved.

“‘ow ‘bout that roast, love?” simon murmurs gruffly.

good thing john never signed the divorce papers.

[luveline]

Missing hotchner reader❤️❤️

hotch and spencer have to work together to look after you when things get really hard. fem, 3.3k

cw cptsd episodes and descrips of abuse

Adoption isn’t as permanent as people might think —they can give you back anytime they want. So when the oldest Hotchner started hitting you, it wasn’t that different to a previous placement, nobody was watching over you, and you were so afraid of losing your new brother that you didn’t say a word. 

You knew, reasonably, that if Aaron was to find out about how his father (your father) had been treating you, he’d report it to your caseworker or the police or somebody and you would be removed from the Hotchner household. And Aaron was the first person you’d ever met to care about you, really care, maybe even love, so you hid it all away and you told him that things were fine. You do it for years.  

You move out, you go to college. Aaron moves you into a nice apartment a few streets away from his own, and for a while, life is good. You meet his coworker, Spencer, and you get along. Spencer takes you on dates to cinemas and patisseries and he buys you cuddly plushies with hearts sewn into their hands at Valentine’s. By all accounts, things should be good. 

You can’t breathe, is the problem. Somebody has their hand raised to hit you again and you can’t do anything about it, you just have to take it, because you’re useless, because you deserve it, because you’re a drain on everything and everyone and you aren’t worth the trouble, you deserve the hit. You’re so sorry.

“I know,” someone murmurs quietly, a sensation on your shoulder. You wait for it to close around the back of your neck. “I know. It’s alright.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say, barely, a breath of sound. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, you didn’t do anything wrong.” 

But you did, you did, he was in a bad mood to begin with and you hit his glass of scotch right off the table, smashed glass and wasted drink and a bad mood made worse. He should’ve hit you by now. He’s waiting for you to sit up. He doesn’t like to hit the back of your head, but he will if you cower long enough.

“Honey,” the voice says, right by your ear, “I’m not going to hit you, do you hear me? I am never, ever going to hit you.” 

“I’m really sorry.” 

“I don’t care that you knocked the glass over. I don’t care at all.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Can you look at me? I promise,” —he emphasises until his voice burns— “I am not going to hit you.” 

Aaron sounds upset enough to force your gaze. You look at him through your lashes, ready to shut your eyes if this is a trick, but he has his hands flat in front of you and he’s completely still. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, so unlike himself, “I wouldn’t hit you over a glass. I wouldn’t hit you if you did it on purpose. I wouldn’t hit you if you smashed every piece of glassware in this apartment for fun.” 

He’s hit you for less. 

“Sweetheart,” he says again, waiting for a reaction you can’t give, “do you want me to go away?” 

It’s a good question. Do you want him to leave? Immediately, everything inside of you says No. He’s gonna hit you just like the last time you smashed his drink, out of the blue, ‘cos didn’t mean to doesn’t matter. But you don’t want Aaron to go. He’s the only person who’s ever loved you properly. 

“It’s okay, just hit me,” you say, staring at him, pleading with him not to even as you ask for it, “it’s my fault.” 

“Not gonna hit you,” he says, reaching for you now, even when you flinch, he holds you by the arms and he stares at you hard. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not okay. It won’t fix anything.” 

“I deserve it.” 

“No, you don’t.” Aaron rubs your arms in tandem, shaking his head, a trace of panic in his eyes you’d missed until now. 

It’s Aaron. Aaron’s never hit you. 

“You never deserve to have someone put their hands on you,” he says, practically murmurs, “I’m sorry I let that happen.”

“I lied to you.” 

“I know. I know you did, honey.” He shakes his head gently. “It’s not your fault.” 

“I hit the glass over,” you say, And he hit me so hard I couldn’t hear right for hours. You still remember the way it shocked you, because you’d started to expect it but you were still surprised he’d bother with such a hard hit, that he could get that angry about it.

“I thought it was just me,” he murmurs, sorry, clutching at you like he needs you to listen. “I never should’ve left you in that house, but I thought it was just me. It was only ever… me.” 

You already know —you’ve had this conversation before. He’s apologised already. 

He cups your cheek. “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re not angry with me?” 

“No. I’m never angry with you.” 

You come to yourself in fits. You’re kneeling on the floor not far from the table, the mess of glass, half still intact and cupping a few sips of scotch. Aaron’s kneeling right next to you, still in his suit, hasn’t been home long, you were waiting for him. You used your key because you didn’t want to be home alone. Today’s been a bad day. You’ve felt stringy and strange for hours and you knew seeing Aaron would set it right. That Aaron would make you feel better through force of will. 

And then you’d knocked his drink off the table and both of you had startled, and he’d said, “Wait, don’t, you’ll hurt yourself,” but all your brain heard was You. 

You. What could be said to mean more than that? 

“You’re not gonna hit me,” you whisper. 

“Never.” 

“Can you help me up?” you ask, half apart from yourself. Your head is back, but your legs won’t cooperate. 

“Where do you want to go? The kitchen?” he asks, leaning so you can wrap your arms behind his head. He lifts you up with some effort on his part, adjusting you, and leading you together to the kitchen to sit you at the island bar. “Sit tight. I’ll clean the glass, okay? It won’t take long.” 

You don’t want him to go, but you don’t wanna say no. 

Time away from him is good, in a way. It makes you remember who you actually are outside of the bad memory. It hammers home that this is Aaron’s apartment, your big brother, your number one supporter. There’s a picture of you and Jack right there on the fridge stuck by an alphabet magnet. Aaron’s never hit you before and it’s not going to change now, because he is nothing like his dad. 

He’s never really seen you act like this, though, and you aren’t excited for what he has to say next. He has a penchant for seeing you at your worst and building you back up again. It shouldn’t be his problem, but it is. 

He brushes the glass into a dustpan and unloads it into a bag, which he trashes. You watch him wet a paper towel and wipe it across the floor for the shavings. 

When he’s drying his hands on a towel, you summon the courage to apologise. “Aaron, I’m… I’m sorry. Sorry.” 

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t look much like the other Hotchner’s. He’s dark-haired like his mother, and he smiles with all kindness. You never saw anything so soft at home, not unless he was there to visit. It’s a wonder he ever bothered getting to know you, already living his life very much outside of the household, and shouldn’t he have moved on? If it were you, if there were another kid in the house right now, could you go back? Knowing how you were treated? 

“I love you,” he says. “You know that?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Do you think you could understand why I don’t want you to say sorry, or be sorry, because of that?” 

You smile weakly. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah? Because if Jack were in here today, and he had hit that drink over, you couldn’t have hit him. Could you?” 

“Of course not.” 

He’s mildly guilty for the example, you can tell, but it cements the sentiment in your mind and he can see that. “When you love someone, you don’t hit them. We just can’t do it.” 

“I just… just– you– I got all mixed up in my head.” 

“I know.” 

“Thought you were him,” you say tightly, quietly. 

“I know. Is that the first time you’ve had something like that happen? Like you weren’t sure where you were?” 

Your face crumples of its own accord, heat clogging your nose and throat and lining the backs of your eyes. “No… but it hasn’t been that many times…”

“The bad panic attack at work a few weeks ago, was that like this?” 

“No, that was just that I couldn’t breathe right. I– I had one with Spencer.”

Aaron frowns, but he speaks kindly, “When was that?” 

“A couple of days ago…” You stare at your hands.

“We don’t have to talk about it. But I need to make sure you’re okay.” 

“He told me to tell you, but it– I thought he’d break up with me, after, but he hasn’t, so I’ve just been waiting.” 

“Honey, I don’t think this is the sort of thing that could make Spencer break up with you. He cares too much.” 

“You don’t understand, I– I begged him not to touch me, Aaron. I really scared him.” 

With Spencer, it was late. You asked him to stay the night on a limb, and you’d forgotten he was there sleeping beside you, met him in a dark hallway, where he asked what you were doing out of bed. It’s late. You shouldn’t be up. 

His hand had settled just behind your neck. He won’t touch you there anymore. 

“If there’s something you want to tell me–”

“I want it to go away,” you say. 

“It’s not going to be that easy.” He takes a big, deep breath. “You could’ve told me this was happening,” he promises. 

“I didn’t want you to know that I– lied so much. Sometimes I can’t believe I let him do it.” 

Your tone, quiet and calm and a juxtaposition to the ache in your chest, couldn’t hurt him worse. You're familiar with the pain on Aaron’s face, how it makes him do this sorry smile, how he tries hard not to give it away. “If anyone let him hurt you, it was me.” 

“What?” 

“I knew he was unkind to you. I knew he shouted. I didn’t try hard enough to get you away.” 

“Aaron–”

“If you’re going to blame someone, it has to be me.” 

It’s ridiculous. If you hadn’t had Aaron, you would’ve been completely miserable to the marrow of your bones. He’s the last person on earth you’d blame for the way you’re feeling now, so when a tear wells in your eyes, when it hits your cheek in a splash, you let him tut and wrap his arms behind you. 

“It’s my fault,” you insist, hiding your face in his shoulder. 

“No.” 

“It’s my fault, I hit the glass–”

“No, no, it’s not your fault.” 

“I’m really s–sorry.” 

“It’s gonna be okay, honey. Just breathe. Just take a deep breath for me. I promise you I’m not mad about the glass.” 

“Maybe you should be.” 

He holds your forehead to his chin, clutching you to him, reassuring and a little too tight. “I’m not mad at you.” 

You can’t make yourself believe him. 

—

Spencer isn’t expecting to get waylaid by Hotch at Rossi’s dinner party. He can’t think of what he did wrong. You’re happy with him, clingy lately, which he loves, and as smart and sweet as ever, and work is great. Spencer’s a good agent and a better profiler. 

Hotch looks so serious that he follows him in silence, squeezing his coke neck like a lifeline. 

“I want Y/N to be assessed for PTSD, and I need to know that you’re going to support her,” he says simply. 

Spencer searches the backyard for you. You’re laying down in the grass with Jack, Henry, and Penelope. It’s getting late, barely any sunshine left, but nobody’s wanted to ruin the fun and call it a night yet. You don’t fuss as Jack throws himself sideways across your chest. 

“Did something happen?” Spencer asks. 

“She had an… event. She told me about a similar incident with you the other night. That she panicked and got confused about who you were.” 

Spencer nods. “Yeah, I– yeah. I caught her by surprise.” 

“That’s the only time it’s happened?” 

“Yeah. She’s told me a little about it.” 

“About the episode?” 

“Everything. And it’s obvious?” He enthuses it with apology, worried he’ll offend Hotch if he says something too blatant, but desperate to be honest. “Most of the time she’s this– she’s amazing, she’s like this light, and then sometimes it’s like she thinks I don’t like her? Like I don’t want to be near her, or like she thinks I’m gonna hurt her.” 

Hotch lets his eyebrows rise a little. “Yeah.” 

“She cried so much that I didn’t know what to do.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about that part, she already told me you made her feel better,” Hotch says quietly. Neither of them mention what they know, how you’d begged Spencer to stay after the episode, how sorry you’d been, how desperate Spencer was to calm you down. “But if you can’t do it in the long run, you need to know now. I can’t start this with her and have you duck out halfway through. I know,” —Hotch gives him a fond smile, half-knocking the wind from him— “that you care about her, and I know it’s not my place to come to you on her behalf, but I’m going to do it anyhow, and you know why I am.” 

“What do you mean?” he says, though he knows. 

“I’m saying I think she’s going to get worse before she gets better. She’s not well right now.” 

“I know she isn’t.” 

“I trust you, Spencer. I care about you, too. But she’s going to be my priority, and if you can’t be there for her then it has to be done now... I’m worried she’s going to get really low.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says genuinely. Spencer’s not defensive, only urgent. “Hotch, I more than care about her.” 

Hotch nods. “Okay. Good, because I need your help. You have to vet these doctors for me, I have a preliminary list. I’ll send it to you.” 

“Wait, have you talked to her about this?” 

“I said we’d talk to a doctor. I promised I’d talk to you about it. She’s… I don’t know, she’s scared.” 

Spencer straightens up. You have nothing to be scared of with him, not his reaction, not his lack of support. He wishes Hotch had had more faith in him, but none of this is about him. Someone hurt you, and now you have to put yourself back together again. 

The kids have disappeared. Penelope’s climbing onto her feet and offering you a hand, but you stay laying down in the grass. 

“I really care about her,” Spencer says. 

Hotch clasps his shoulder. “Are you going, or am I?” 

“I’ll take this one, please.” 

“Sure.” 

Spencer trudges around the side of the yard, past the bench and the tables and the string lights on the patio to where you’re laying in the bluegrass, eyes nearly closed. “Is this seat taken?” he asks, nudging your hip with his shoe lightly. 

“No, sir.” 

Spencer sits down in the grass. He finds your wrist to hold. 

“You okay?” 

“Did Aaron talk to you about the doctor?” 

“Yeah, he did. You want to go?” 

“What do you think?” 

Spencer rubs your pulse. “I think it’s good. If you were having headaches, we’d go to the doctor.” 

“Headaches that make me not know who you are.” 

“Especially that kind.” 

You turn a bit and give him an amused smile. “Sorry I was too scared to say more about it.” 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Spencer brings a cautious hand to your cheek. He sees the flicker of hurt it brings —you don’t like that he’s careful how, but how can he not be, remembering the way he’d touched your neck and the wound it seemed to inflict in the dark— but he tries to caress it away. “I’m with you,” he says, “I care about you. I want to take care of you, as much or as little as you might need that from me.” 

Your eyes fall closed. “It might be nice.” 

“What would?” 

“To be taken care of by you.” 

“I’ll try my best.” 

You cover his hand with your own. JJ laughs across the yard, and Jack and Henry shout battle cries. Hotch says, “Jack! Not so rough, buddy!” and makes you laugh. 

“Did he intimidate you?” you ask. 

“No more than usual. He said I have to decide if I can do this with you.” 

You squirm and attempt to sit. If Spencer weren’t nervous about touching you, he’d force you back down. “He shouldn’t have.”

“No, he should. But I already decided.” Spencer finds your fingers, lacing them with his. “It wasn’t really a decision, actually. I want to do this with you, but only if that’s okay with you.” 

You nod slowly. “I already said it’d be nice if you took care of me,” you whisper, letting your face dip downward. 

He chances a kiss pressed to your temple. 

You laugh under your breath. “I know you didn’t sign up for this.” 

“Did you?” he asks, giving your back a rub like a wave. 

“It’s different. I knew what was happening to me.” 

“Angel, you didn’t have a choice,” he says, so quiet he’s surprised when you hear it. “I know you’re… What?” he asks, perturbed when you shake your head. 

“You and Aaron…” 

You never finish. Spencer can’t make you. He holds your shoulder until the tension under his hand unfurls, relaxing his touch when you decide to lay down in the grass again, quietly asking him to lay with you. 

“Be ready for Jack to use you like a trampoline,” you warn, taking his hand. 

He has a feeling Hotch will keep Jack away for a while. 

Spencer traces the back of your hand with his thumb, over and over. He’s sorry he didn’t know you five years ago, sorry you were alone, sorry someone put their hands on you. He’s sorry you learned to anticipate physical abuse in the wake of mistakes. He’s sorry he can’t take it away from you, ‘cos from the second you took his hand at that park a street from his apartment he’s been a goner, all you had to do was jump up on the lip of the fountain and trust him not to let you fall. He remembers how that felt, the zinging sparks travelling from the palm of your hand into his, the romanticism of two arms stretched apart and your slow circle. And when you fell in, you didn’t blame him, you just laughed and scrambled back out, squealing excitedly about your wet shoes. 

It’ll get better, he thinks. Even if it gets worse first. You’ll feel better soon. 

He turns his cheek into the grass and beckons you forward for a kunik kiss, nose pressed to yours, wanting to kiss you like he would if you were at home together, and knowing this is enough too. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“It’s getting cold.” 

Spencer agrees, but neither of you attempt to move. 

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Merry Christmas, Baby

Summary: You're not sure what to get Javi for Christmas, until he gives you an idea for a gift you can't put under the tree

Word Count: 3.3K (I wrote this in two hours, the thots do be thotin)

Paring: Husband!Javi x Wife!reader

Warnings: SMUT (18+) unprotected p in v sex (whoops), breeding kink (I'll say it once and I'll say it again, you KNOW this man deserves 17 kids) vaginal fingering, creampie (big time), family planning, Javi gets so excited about the idea of another baby he literally can't control himself, terrible, sexual Christmas puns, cute and sweet Christmas fluff bc I love this family more than life and you know they give their kids the most magical Christmases 🥺

A/N: I'll take Javier Peña with a big fat breeding kink for a thousand, please!!! I was feeling in a writing rut, until I read @notjustjavierpena Husband Javi Christmas fic last night, and lord have MERCY, consider me inspired 🫡 I'll never shut up about the fact that this man wants a football team, and every Christmas will ask to put another baby in you as his only Christmas gift BYEEEEEEE I need to be institutionalized at this point sorry this is poorly beta'd, it's me, I'm allergic to editing!!!

Forever and Always Masterlist Never Too Late Masterlist

“Javier Peña, there has to be something you want for Christmas.” 

“As long as all my girls are happy, that’s all I want.” 

“Unfortunately, I can’t wrap your sappy sentiment, Javi.” 

There was nothing more that you enjoyed than showering Javi with gifts for the holidays. There were few people on earth you could imagine being more deserving than your husband- you’d find a way to wrap the moon and top it with a bow, if that’s what he wanted. Unfortunately for you, Javi was so sweet, it made buying gifts for him nearly impossible, considering there was rarely ever a tangible item on his wishlist. 

“I don’t need anything, baby.” Javi smiled, reaching for the roll of bright pink and sparkly wrapping paper in front of him to start covering the new Barbie Dream House Lucy had been begging for all year long. “Toss me the tape.” 

“Well obviously I have things for you, but I always wanna make sure I’m getting you things that you want.” You sighed, gently throwing the roll of Scotch tape you had been using over the pile of gifts between you and Javi you were working on wrapping while your daughters were asleep. 

After six Christmases under your belts, you and Javi had learned from the one grave mistake of waiting until Christmas Eve to wrap all your daughter’s presents, now taking a few nights before the big day to wrap and assemble any gifts being left under the tree for your own sanity. 

Now that your girls, Lucy, Elliot and Harper, were six, four and two, it made Christmas even more magical, knowing that they were beginning to understand the concept of what the holiday meant, and all the joyous anticipation that led up to the 25th of December. 

It also meant that there were a lot more presents to wrap- 1, because Lucy and Elliot knew that they could ask for gifts they wanted, and 2, because Javi would say he’d be done buying presents and then show up the next day after work with another toy for his girls. 

“Honey, you get great gifts, for me, but especially for the girls, too. Fuck, I forgot this needs batteries…” Javi mumbled to himself, carefully undoing the wrapping paper he had started working on, “You make a very good Santa.” 

“I think the girls like your version of Santa better, since that’s how they end up with double the gifts under the tree.” You giggled, playfully rolling your eyes at Javi before reaching for the next toy in the pile, “I’m being serious, Javi. I love spoiling those girls just as much as you, but you also deserve to be spoiled too, ya know.” 

“You’re my wife, gave me three beautiful daughters, and tolerate me on a daily basis. Baby, that’s plenty fucking spoiled, if you ask me.” Javi grinned, giving you a reassuring nod and little shrug of his shoulders. 

“You’re much more than tolerable, you goof.” You laughed, cheeks pink at the warmth of your husband’s words, never failing to make you melt a little more each day. “Will you please just tell me one thing you want? Then I’ll let it go, I promise.” 

Javi sat quietly for a moment, fiddling with the edges of the wrapping paper he was working on before a boyish smile began to creep into the corners of his cheeks. 

“Uh oh.” You laughed to yourself, immediately recognizing the goofy grin Javi was trying to contain, “What is it, Peña?” 

“You’re not gonna like it.” Javi snickered to himself, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Jav, if it’s another dog, I told you, when the girls are older and-” 

“No, it’s not another dog.” He smirked, still softly laughing to himself as you tilted your head at him in confusion, trying to piece together what kind of gift Javi would want that would take any convincing from you, crossing your arms over your chest as you attempted to decipher the devious splayed across his face. 

It only took about two seconds and that look to figure out what Javi was in the market for.  

“Javi…” You sighed, your tone jokingly stern. 

“Osita?” He responded back, trying to downplay his giddiness now that you had figured out his gift suggestion. 

“Javi, four kids is a lot of kids. One more, and they’re doubling us in ranks.” 

You had always been on the fence about having a fourth baby. Not because you didn’t love having kids, or that you didn’t think you couldn’t handle it, mentally or financially, but because your brain worked in logistics- adding one more member to your family was getting you to the point where you’d have so many kids, you wouldn’t even all fit in Javi’s truck anymore, unless someone got demoted to the trunk, which, in all honesty, you were sure Elliot wouldn’t mind. 

For Javi, on the other hand, there was no need to worry about logistics- the two of you would figure it out sooner or later. The only logistics he was worried about was instigating the baby making process.  

“You asked what I wanted!” Javi replied, chuckling as he held his hands up in defense, “I think I’ve been a very good boy all year, if you ask me.” 

“What you’re asking for is definitely putting you on the naughty list.” You huffed, trying to distract yourself with finishing wrapping the present you were working on to hide the fact you were genuinely considering Javi’s present suggestion. “You really think we can handle four kids, Jav?” 

It took everything in you not to laugh at the way Javi instantly perked up when your first response to his gift idea wasn’t rejection, eyeing you up and down and gently biting down on his lower lip. 

“Mhmmm.” He nodded, slowly making his way around the pile of presents to scooch closer to you, “I’ll take care of everything, mi amor. You, the girls, the baby, I can ask for less hours at work so I can help around here, whatever you want, you know I’ll give it to you.” 

“You really want this baby, huh?” You giggled, smirking at Javi as he crawled next to you, hungry look in his eyes while he began to cage his body over yours, carefully laying you down on the floor beneath him. 

“Fuck, I wanna knock you up again so bad. You’re so fucking sexy when you’re pregnant.” Javi groaned, planking overtop you, his hot breath dancing across your skin in between his soft nips at your pulse point. “Let me fuck another baby into you, Osita. Please.” 

Any inhibitions you would have had in protest had completely flown out the window, arousal soaking the fabric of your underwear as Javi kissed up your neck and across your collarbone, softly palming at your breasts under one of his old sweatshirts you had thrown on. 

Truth be told, you and Javi had talked about baby number four enough that you were already leaning towards saying 'yes' anyways, but that wouldn’t stop you from having a little fun in seeing how badly Javi really wanted the Christmas gift he was asking you for. 

“Tell me how badly you want it, Javi. Tell me how much you wanna fuck another baby into me.” You devilishly whispered into his ear, smiling to yourself at the pathetic groan that rumbled from his chest in response. 

“Fuck me-” Javi moaned, hands feverishly groping your body, “Fuck, I want it so bad, quierda. Wanna fill you up ‘till it has no choice but to fucking take, fuck this pussy so full of me, let everyone know who it belongs to, watching you carry our baby. Please, Osita.” 

It was a good thing you were already prepared to be easily swayed, because even if you weren’t, listening to the way Javi was begging to put another baby in you would have easily been enough. 

“Okay. Merry Christmas, Papí.” 

Your green light was all Javi needed to spark something completely feral in him, practically ripping your clothes off you in the middle of the living room, sprawled out on the carpet. 

“Javi, we can go upstairs and-” 

“No. Fuck, I need to fuck you right now, just like this.” He grunted, shedding his clothes before his hand was cupping over your underwear, jaw going slack at how absolutely soaked the fabric was under the pads of his fingers. “Apparently you do too, huh, Momma? She’s so wet for me, isn’t she? Pretty pussy wants me to fill her up so bad.” 

Your stomach churned in arousal as Javi ripped your panties down your legs, revealing the puffy, glistening mess beneath. Javi had barely touched you, and you could already feel the way you’re dripping, admittedly just as turned on as him at the idea of letting him add another addition to your family. 

“Christ, baby.” Javi muttered, settling between your legs. Letting his hands run up the insides of your thighs, he took his thumbs and slid them between your folds, spreading you open to get a full view of the way your slick was coating your cunt. “Making a fucking mess for me already.” 

“I think I’m ovulating soon.” You sigh, doing some quick math in your head, trying to account for just how worked up you were, Javi’s eyes so going wide at the realization, you were worried they may just pop out of his skull. 

“Oh, fuck me.” Javi groaned, shaking his head in disbelief at his luck, “You’re right, Merry fuckin’ Christmas to me then.” 

Swirling the pads of his fingers against your clit, your back arched against the floor at the shockwaves the pleasure sent through your body, making you gasp so loud, you were worried you risked a real possibility of waking up your daughters. 

“F-Fuck, Javi-” You whimpered, already bucking your bottom half towards him as he sunk his two fingers into your cunt while the heel of his palm rubbed deliciously against your clit. Reaching up, your grasp wrapped around Javi’s bicep, muscles flexing with each pulse of his fingers as you left half-crescent moons in his skin. 

It took everything in you not to scream as a third finger joined the first two, stretching you out as he bumped against your g-spot, tension already beginning to build in your core. A sudden gasp escaped your chest, surprised by the newfound emptiness that had you clenching around nothing, looking up to see Javi reaching down to wrap his hand around his cock, stroking it a few times before lining it up with your entrance. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I need to fucking feel you, baby. Swear you’ve got me feeling like I’m about to bust like a fucking teenager.” Javi grunted, running his tip against your clit and down your cunt, collecting your arousal before thrusting himself inside you, filling you to the brim with every inch of him. 

Unless you were desperately pressed for time, Javi normally had a bare bones minimum of pulling at least one orgasm out of you before he fucked you, but seeing how worked up and needy he was to feel you wrapped around him, it was about as close to an orgasm you could get withtout actually having one. 

“Oh fuck, Javi!” you whined, feeling the tip of his head kiss your cervix as he began to thrust in and out of you, feeling dizzy from his fullness. You could tell he was trying to hold himself together, his hips slamming into you in deep, slow thrusts, breath hitching in the back of your throat every time he buries himself deeper inside you. 

“Fuck, you feel so good. So fucking tight. Fuck, I can’t wait to fill her up, give you every last fucking drop. Taking me so fucking well.” Javi moaned through gritted teeth, already scrunching his face in concentration through his pussy drunk babbling.  

Running his hands up the back of your thighs, Javi pushed your knees to your chest, pinning your legs in place against your stomach to stretch you out even further, letting him sink himself even deeper to hit the spot he knew drove you just as crazy as it drove him. 

Despite how lost in pleasure the two of you were, Javi was at least conscious enough to realize how loud you had gotten, quickly reaching up cup your mouth, catching your muffled moans in the palm of his hand. 

“I know, hermosa. Fuck, I love hearing you, but we gotta keep quiet enough, baby.” Javi huffed, snaking the hand covering your mouth between your bodies, circling at your clit, almost as if he was putting you through some sort of cruel test to see how far he could push you before he had you screaming at the top of your lungs. 

“Fuck- fuck, I know. You feel so good, Javi.” You whined, hand pressed against his bare chest, his warmth and weight pinning your body below him. 

You feel the way Javi’s thrusts become quicker and harsher, filling himself as deep as he could as your cunt began to clench around his length, sucking him in with your warmth and wetness. Your eyes had been scrunched, so lost in your own pleasure that you hadn’t even noticed the nearly pained look on Javi’s face, furrowing his brow in deep concentration with each slap of his hips against yours. 

“You okay, Javi?” You asked, panting out each word as he pounded into you, circling your clit faster and faster as his grip tightened around your thighs, trying to keep himself grounded. 

“Yeah, I- Fuck- fuck me, I’m trying so hard not to finish before you do. Pussy feels so fucking good. Wanna cum so fucking deep inside you.” Javi moaned, the rhythm of his hips already starting to falter thinking about his endgame. 

If you weren’t so lost in your own ecstasy, you probably would have giggled at Javi’s admission, giving him shit about how he couldn’t hold it together for even just a few minutes, knowing he could finally try to get you pregnant again. But right now, you’re just shocked you can even get any words to form coherent thoughts to string together, let alone tease him. 

“Put a baby in me, Javi. Fuck, want you to cum so deep inside me, please, baby.” 

You could barely finish the whimpers of your sentence before Javi’s pace became sloppy and erratic, hips stuttering before his jaw went slack, letting a low, long groan escape from his chest. 

“Oh, f-fuck-” Javi stammered, flushing his hips against yours as you felt his warm spend coat your walls, pressed so deep inside you, you were convinced it’d have no choice but to stick, in a few weeks finding out baby number four would be on the way. 

Javi’s chest rose and fell, looking down at the way your bodies melted together beneath him, igniting something primal in him to see the mix of your arousal seeping around where the two of you met. His eyes darkened, looking down at you with a feral sort of smirk, not even giving you the chance to speak before his lips were crashing into yours again, hips slowly thrusting while his fingers rubbed at your sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“J-Javi, what are you-” You muttered, cut off by the messy dancing of tongues and teeth in your mouths. 

“I’m not done yet, Momma. Not until I fuck myself so deep in there we know it fucking takes. Wanna keep you stuffed so fucking full of me.” Javi grunted, rubbing your clit faster at the way he could feel the walls of your pussy starting to flutter around him, determined to make sure he wasn’t the only one who finished. “Cum for me, baby. I know you’re close. Can feel how tight she’s getting for me.” 

You knew just as well as he did that the tingle that had been building at the base of your spine had slowly begun to flow to every inch of your body, building up through your legs and into your core, clenching down harder and harder around Javi’s cock, knowing there was no doubt the mess between your legs was surley just as wet as it sounded as he slid in and out of you. 

“Oh fuck, Javi, oh fuck- fuck, fuckfuckfuck- ah!” 

It didn't take long before your orgasm crashed through you, lighting up every inch of you in radiating pleasure, your cunt clamping down so hard around Javi’s cock, it made him let out a strangled gasp as he choked out curses under his breath. 

“Jesus, fuck. Gonna squeeze every last fucking drop outta me, huh? My greedy fuckin’ girl.” Javi smirked, planting a soft kiss on your lips before he slumped on top of you, your chests rising and falling as one as you finished coming down from your high. 

The two of you laid there for a moment, catching your breaths and basking in bliss before Javi was pulling out of you with a hiss, one hand wrapped around his softening cock, the other scooping up the mix of your spend pooling between your legs before it dripped to the floor, carefully pushing it back inside you. 

“Fuck,” Javi laughed to himself quietly, sitting back on his haunches, admiring the slick, shiny mess your pussy had become, “Jesus, I can’t remember the last time I came that hard.” 

“Looks like Christmas came early this year… and so did you.” You giggled, making Javi roll his eyes, playfully shaking one of the legs still pressed to your chest. 

“Shut up.” He sighed, shaking his head at you before laying back down beside you, shifting so that his chest was pressed to your back, spooning you in his grasp. “Gotta make sure Santa’s not the only thing coming down the chimney this year.” 

“Jesus Christ, Javi.” You can’t help but snort, ashamed of how easily amused you are by his stupid puns. 

“What? You let me get my gift early, least I can do is stuff your stocking for you.” 

“Oh my god, you are the worst.” 

The two of you giggled, basking in your laughter as you laid together on the floor, only spurred on by the fact you realized how ridiculous it was that the two of you were completely naked in the middle of your living room, surrounded by a sea of wrapping paper and presents. 

“Speaking of stocking stuffers, we should finish wrapping the rest of these gifts we have out before we go to bed. At least some of these presents should be wrapped, because the one you just gave me was most definitely not.” You teased, craning your neck to pepper ticklish kisses across Javi’s jaw. 

“It’s the gift that keeps on giving. I’ll give it to you tomorrow too, if you let me.” Javi grinned, giving you a playful wink before pressing a kiss into your messy hair and patting your hip, reaching over you to grab the pile of clothes the two of you had left next to you. “Seriously though, thank you. You and our girls are the best gift I could ever have, but adding one more would make me so fucking happy. I love you, Osita.” 

“I love you too, Javi. You guys are the best gift I could ask for, too. Although, I will say, your gift also selfishly works in my favor, too. Some presents are just better unwrapped.”

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @raspberrybesitos

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @vee-bees-blog

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @itsokbbygrl @javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

[bi-writes]

i wanna know about john n his pretty wife!! i have questions!!! how does she deal with the times he gets called in too much, their first big spat? gimme all the angsty details that end with him giving her a little shake 🥴

today marks 37 days. (18+)

he said he would be home 23 days ago, but it's still 36 days too long for you. you talked to him about this, you think.

no—that can't be it. you talked. john did not listen.

you're tired. you knew you would be. you knew it the first time john looked in your eyes when he came inside of you—really came inside of you. no condom, hand fixed against the bend of your jaw, blue eyes wide and focused. john was chasing something then, determined to make it to the finish line of a race, but the thing that always strikes you as strange is that he is always the only one running. there is no competition, and yet john treats your relationship that way.

he always has to win. the winner of the argument. the more expensive gift. the more thoughtful response. the heavier hand, the fatter wallet, the softer kiss—

but he can shove all of it up his fucking ass. he's a liar.

john likes the red carpet whenever he comes home. he likes routine. he likes stomping his boots out on the welcome mat, dropping his duffel by the door, and eating a big meal before he puts you on your back on the marble kitchen counter and eats you out with a voracious growl.

the ring placated you for a bit. big, sparkly thing, something you loved showing off to your friends, at the office, dangling it in front of the gossips at your spin class just to get them to shut the fuck up for once. it made you docile—you liked it for a little while. you liked playing dress-up.

frilly apron. dutch oven full of tender meat. big, wet eyes as you knelt between his legs and let him come on your tongue for being so brave, so good, such a hero. you put the rose-tinted glasses on and let a man fuck you so brain-dead, you forgot your own convictions.

and for what? a fucking BMW?

you're smiling to yourself when you pull into the garage. john's car is there, and you shut your car door with your heel as you make your way inside. you shut the door hard behind you, barely glancing at john's duffel bag by the door as you hang up your leather purse and drop your keys in the bowl.

john's in the dining room. he's sitting at the table, manspreading, and there's a bottle of some dark liquor and a glass sitting in front of him. there's also an ashtray there, where a fat cigar sits, and you scowl when you see it.

it's not allowed in the house.

he doesn't move when he hears your heels hit the hardwood. he does clench his jaw, however, when you pick up the bottle of liquor from in front of him and tip it upside down over the tray. you watch with a bored expression as you fill the ashtray with liquor until it overflows, putting out the cigar and flooding the wood table with a sodden cigar and ashy alcohol.

you take a swig from the bottle once you're satisfied, gritting your teeth as it goes down hard. scotch. fucking gross.

"welcome home," you say bitterly, wiping your hand off on his shirt before making your way into the kitchen. you reach into the freezer for a pint of ice cream, closing it with your hip as you fish out a spoon and pop the lid off.

john is standing in the doorway when you sit on the couch. he's angry, that much is clear, but you pretend that it doesn't bother you. you stick a spoonful of ice cream into your mouth before giving him your eyes. you smile.

"yes, john?"

"i don't ask for much," he starts. you laugh, tucking your feet up underneath you. you take another spoonful of ice cream—this is gonna be good. "do i, love?"

you raise a brow. "you're asking me, honey? or telling me?"

john crosses his arms over his chest, rocking on his feet as he walks further into the room.

"don't get smart with me, baby."

"oooo..." you laugh, and it makes him flinch. "i'm terrified, john."

"i'm not tryin' to scare you, i'm trying to make you listen," john snaps. you point the spoon at him and wink, nodding your head.

"mmm..." you smile. "now you have it, john. bingo. it feels good when your wife listens, doesn't it? and it fucking sucks when she doesn't, huh, honey? when she doesn't do what you expect her to? when she fibs...when she goes back on her word—"

"oh, that's what this is about?" john comes forward, bending low, cupping your jaw with a soft hand before he grips it tight between his fingers. his paw dwarfs your throat, and you glare up at him. "cause i'm late?"

"i feel lucky when you're late," you push his hand off of you. his brow furrows. "you could be dead for all i know, but at least when you're late, your sorry ass comes through the door and can just pretend all over again like everything is fine."

"you knew," john murmurs. "you knew what you were signing up for."

"i did!" you snap. you throw the spoon at him, but he just hits it away, letting it clatter onto the floor. your eyes water. "i did know, and i told you to let me go! i told you!"

"you knew that was never going to happen," john spits. you're startled by the way he snarls at you. john is normally so good at keeping his composure. he fights, but he does it with a smart mouth and a smug smile, but this—the idea of losing you, of letting you go—that pushes him over some edge? "you knew i was never going to let you go, so i don't even know why you fuckin' asked me to. if you think for one second that what we have isn't until death, i don't mind giving you a reminder."

"john," you whisper. your lip wobbles. "john, i love you more than anything in the world." you blink away tears, but they spill over anyways, unforgiving. "please...i can't do this anymore with you. i-i can't spend weeks in agony thinking that you're dead. i can't do it, john. i-i can't, i can't spend one more night in that bed without you—"

"oh, love."

you hate that the sex is so good. you hate more than anything that john is anything but a selfish lover. he might be a man with a few years on him, but his stamina endures. he tests your flexibility with the way he spreads your thighs to accommodate the width of himself, but you welcome the stretch. thick cock splitting you open, sweaty chest against yours, a big hand under your head to keep you close as he licks into your mouth and tells you how beautiful his wife looks, just like always.

how good she feels. how wet she is. how tight her pretty pussy is, how nice it'll feel when it's full of him—i'll keep you forever, i'll make it forever, in, in, in, inside you—

john tastes the way fine wine does. bitter, warm, better with time. it takes a bit to get used to him. it takes a bit of breathing and a bit of familiarity to realize what it is that you have in your hands, but you are just as bad.

he cannot let you go, and you cannot let him go. you claw, and you scream, and you beg for a life that's different from this one, but you won't walk away because it's just not possible.

but what is love if not something that mends what is broken? that drips glue into the spaces between the cracks and keeps what will come apart from falling into itself?

your kisses taste like chocolate, of course.

it's john's favorite.

[sunnylighter]

Time for pet Halloween costumes!!!

First up we have the dogs. For Honey and Rosie they got literal name costumes. Honey the honeybee and Rosie the Rose!

And for my bunnies…

He is vengeance! He is the night! He is BATBUN!

And It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Superbun!!!

Superbun and Batbun here to save the day!

[withwritersblock]

Blowing Smoke

~Blowing Smoke by Gracie Abrams~

Author's Note: requested! italics are flashbacks and how i met your mother is literally my favorite show of all time so when I saw this request nearly passed out. Summary: Quinn and Y/N have a complicated friends with "benefits" situation Warnings: implied smut Word Count: 4,136 Quinn Hughes x fm!reader

She sat down in the bar booth beside Quinn a groan leaving her lips. Kasey and Michael looked towards her suspiciously while Quinn was already watching her sit down. Frankie was off flirting with some girl in the bar, leaving the extra chair empty. 

“Hey honey, what’s wrong?” Kasey asked as she slid the small scotch glass towards her. Y/N immediately took a hold of it and chugged it. Quinn’s eyes widened as he watched her drink the whole thing. Michael tried to hide his smirk while he brought his own beer towards his lips.

“I hate my job,” she let out as she fought the burn of the scotch down her throat. “I swear I’m never having kids because of this job,” she slammed the glass down onto the table.

Quinn wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her towards his body. She rested her head onto his shoulder. Her lips fell into a pout as she met Kasey’s gaze. “What happened today?” Kasey asked.

The pair worked together for the last three years and is the whole reason why they in this booth together. Y/N was new to the area and needed a group of people to be with. Kasey was the only other person less than forty at the elementary school they taught at. 

“Three of my students got into a brawl and I got brought into the principal’s office,” she explained as she lifted her head from Quinn’s shoulder. She looked into his eye for a moment. 

Quinn cringed as he slide his drink towards her, “Maybe you need this a bit more than me,” he let out as he shifted his gaze towards around the bar. She gladly took a hold of it and chugged the remainder of the drink. She let out a hushed groan as she shook her head. “I’ll go get us another round,” Quinn offered as he stood up from the booth, tapping his hand against the table.

“You’re going to love them, it’s going to be a great group,” Kasey let out as she guided her inside the bar, the bar her and her friends hang at nearly every other night. Kasey began to guide them towards the group of three guys sitting in a booth that they seemed quite comfortable in.

Y/N held back looking towards the guy she hooked up with two weeks ago. Hooked up was a strong word but they had a lengthy make out and a romantic evening on a rooftop. He was looking at her with so much love for someone who was on a first date. She wasn’t looking for anything serious but by the way he was looking at her and kissing her; he was. She told him that she wanted it to be a one time thing and he listened and they haven’t spoken since.

“You okay?” Kasey asked as she spun around. Y/N blinked rapidly as she looked towards the three guys again.

“Those are your friends?” Y/N asked quietly. Kasey nodded, a small grin on her lips. 

“Oh god, did you hook up with Frankie? I’m so sorry-he’s-I don’t actually know why we’re friends with him,” Kasey explained while shaking her head.

“What about him?” she asked, her gaze on Quinn. Kasey followed her line of sight and her eyes widened. 

“Oh Quinn? Are you a Canucks fan? Of course you are, you’re from Vancouver-he’s harmless,” she ranted.

“No, I mean yes but we sort of-had a night together a few weeks ago. I don’t want to make this awkward, thank you for inviting me-I think I’ll just-”

“No, stay! Come on, there’s so much testosterone over there, I need someone to balance it out! Come on, he won’t make it weird,” she took a hold of Y/N’s arm and dragged her towards the table.

“I’m worried, I’ll make it weird,” she mumbled. Kasey chuckled as she walked towards the booth.

Quinn lifted his gaze and met her eye, he smirked as he squinted his eyes slightly as he brought the beer towards his lips fighting the grin. 

“Frankie, get up and get a chair,” Kasey asked, smacking her hand against his upper back.

“What? Why do I ha-” Frankie argued but Kasey smacked her hand against his back again before he stood up and walked away to get a chair. Kasey’s fiance moved and sat beside Quinn, letting the girls sit beside one another. 

“Boys this is Y/N, we work together and she is my newly found best friend so you better be nice and behave because I would like her to stick around,” Kasey said waving a finger between Quinn and Frankie, her finger staying pointed towards Frankie a little longer than Quinn.

Y/N smiled softly towards them before she brushed a few pieces of hair away from her face. “I’m going to go grab a drink,” she let out as she slipped out of the booth seat.

“I’ll join ya,” Quinn let out as he smiled towards Kasey, almost mockingly. 

“Behave,” Kasey whispered loudly. 

Y/N walked towards the bar, smiling towards the bartender ordering an espresso martini. Quinn leaned against the bartop, smiling towards her. She pursed her lips forward, keeping her gaze on the bartender, watching him make the drink.

“So have you changed your mind then?” he asked as he leaned his head into his hand. Turning her head, she met his eye fighting a grin forming to her lips.

“I didn’t know you were friends with Kasey when I agreed to hang out with her friends tonight,” she explained as the espresso martini was placed in front of her. Quinn gestured towards the bartender to put it on his tab. She furrowed her eyebrows as she looked into his eye.

“It’s my night for the tab,” he mumbled. The bartender placed a beer in front of him. 

“Thanks,” she mumbled as she brought the drink towards her lips, taking a small sip. “Are you okay with this?” she asked while glancing towards the table. Quinn looked into her eyes, almost searching for something.

“Yeah,” he said quite confidently, almost nervous. “As long as you don’t sleep with Frankie. You’ll be the third friend of Kasey’s to stop hanging out with us because of him,”

“Noted,” she let out laughing as the pair returned to their booth.

“I’m gonna get fired,” she let out as she rested her head into hands.

“They won’t fire you,” Kasey said as she rested her head onto Michael’s shoulder. “We’re in a teacher shortage, you know that,” she teased. Y/N rolled her eyes playful as she turned her gaze towards Quinn and a short blonde talking at the bar. He was flirting, she could tell by the way he was leaning against the bartop.

Her mood was already in the dumps but it was getting worse the more she was watching him flirt with a girl, he probably doesn’t even know the name off. Frankie stood behind the blonde, holding up a thumbs up towards Quinn. 

She felt the oxygen in her body dissipate as she continued to watch him talk with the girl. Their drinks were sitting on a tray in front of him but he was not attempting on bringing them over towards them.

Kasey turned around, “Oi Huggy bring me my beer!” she shouted. Quinn shifted his gaze towards the group, he began chuckling before he took the tray cautiously and began walking towards his booth table. The blonde girl huffed before she wandered towards a different corner in the bar.

“What if that was my future wife, Kase, you could’ve just ruined that,” Quinn expressed as he delicately placed the drinks down in front of them. He slammed the tray against his side as he looked into Kasey’s eyes.

“Sure Quinn, the girl with her tongue down Frank’s throat is your future wife. Sit,” she expressed. He spun his head around to see the blonde making out with Frankie against the bartop. Quinn laughed awkwardly as he left the tray on an empty table before he plopped back down beside Y/N. Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he pulled her towards him.She rested her head onto his shoulder as she took a deep breath.

It was a common routine between herself and Quinn. If she was asked about her feelings towards Quinn three years ago, she would say it was merely attraction, but now she was not so sure. There was a handful of nights over the years that reflected the first night they met. It never went past a sleezy make out with their clothes on. It always ended with them cuddling and falling asleep in each others arms.

She brought her espresso martini towards her lips, taking a tiny sip before she rested her head back onto Quinn’s shoulder. He ran his hand up and down her arm. “You’ll be alright,” he whispered before he pressed his lips to the top of her head. 

Michael and Kasey shared a glance before they awkwardly brought their beers to their lips. Frankie soon took a hold of the empty chair, spinning it around as he sat down. “Look what I got!” he sang as he showed a napkin with the blonde’s number on it. 

He spun it around, “Vanessa,” he sang before he ripped the napkin and let it fall to the floor. “Quinny, she wanted me to give it to but I guess I lost the napkin,” he teased as he smirked before he brought his scotch towards his lips. Quinn rolled his eyes as he pulled his phone from his pocket to see a text from his younger brother Jack. He pulled his arm away from Y/N as he began to reply.

~~~

She was laying on the couch, her feet draped over Kasey’s lap as they were both scrolling through their phones. Michael and Frankie were in front of them attempting to get a new high score on Just Dance. Quinn was pacing back and forth adjusting his collar and running his fingers through his hair repeatedly. 

“My hair look okay?” he stopped behind the couch, looking down towards Y/N. She pulled the phone away from her face, looking up towards him, she hummed before she returned her gaze back to her phone. “You wouldn’t lie to me right?” he pressed further. 

“Quinn, it looks good,” she let out a chuckle leaving her lips. He nodded before he walked back towards the bathroom.

Despite being the captain of the Canucks, money everywhere at his disposal, but he still lived with his first ever roommate in Vancouver. It was only a few seconds before he stepped out of the bathroom holding two bottles of cologne. “Y/N, which one is better?” 

He held both bottles in front of her face, rolling her eyes playfully she leaned up and smelled both bottles. She smiled after she looked at the blue glass bottle, “That one,” she muttered. He smiled as he sprayed a few across his entire body. 

“You’re the best, Y/N!” Quinn said while jogging away. Y/N nodded as she raised her eyebrows while trying not to laugh. 

“What’s the name of this one?” Michael asked loudly while panting as the song finished. Frankie clapped his hands together while pointing his finger guns towards Michael, “Start it again,” he forced out.

Frankie started the game again, “Your funeral Atkins,” Frankie said completely normal, no sense of being out of breath.

Quinn remerged adjusting his collar, “Her name is Josephine and we met at that coffee place down the street. She has no idea who I am, which is great,”

“Doesn’t sound creepy at all,” Y/N mumbled, getting a laugh from Kasey. 

“It’s not because this could be it guys! I’ve got a good feeling about this one,” He let out as he continued walking towards the door. “I’ll be back!” he sing-songed before he stepped out of the apartment. Y/N shook her head while she kept her gaze on her phone.

Kasey delicately tapped her hands against Y/N’s thigh. She lifted her gaze from her phone to meet Kasey’s gaze. “Are you okay?” Kasey asked softly. Y/N blinked a few times before shaking her head slightly.

“Yeah,” she mumbled, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kasey pouted her lips. 

“I’m fine,”

Kasey leaned towards her, practically getting on top of her, “The love of your life just walked out the door on a date with another woman,” Kasey whispered. 

“He’s hardly the love of my life,” she shot back quietly while looking into Kasey’s eyes. “I don’t have any feelings,” Y/N expressed. Kasey huffed and stood up from the couch, dodging Michael and Frankie in the process. She walked around towards the back of the couch. 

Kasey motioned towards her to follow her. Y/N reluctantly stood up from the couch, Michael nearly smacked her in the head. “Damn, Y/N, you know not to get in the way of Mikey and Gaga,” Frankie joked as she stumbled away from the pair.

“Alright, we’re going to head home, Quinn are you coming?” Kasey asked as she started to climb out of the booth. Michael started to slide out too. Quinn shook his head as he brought his water towards his lips.

“I’ll head back in a bit,” he mumbled. Michael and Kasey smiled towards him before they started walking out of the bar. Quinn’s gaze followed Frankie who was busy chatting up a red haired girl that was definitely way out of his league. She seemed interested enough.

Quinn lifted his gaze to see Kasey talking with Y/N for a moment before her and Michael walked out of the bar. Y/N didn’t need to look through the bar to find Quinn. They sat at the same booth every time they were there. Which was nearly every night. They would only drink two nights they were there but it was their hangout spot. 

She pouted her lips slightly as she slide into the booth, the same side as Quinn. 

“Why is it every time you come here you have a pout on your lips,” Quinn teased as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Y/N rested her head onto his shoulder, he ran his hand up and down her arm. 

“It’s not every time,” she mumbled fighting the grin on her lips.

Quinn’s face scrunched while smirking, “It’s almost every time.” He leaned his head against hers as he stared blankly ahead. 

“Well you… guys always make me feel better,” she mumbled. Quinn smiled to himself before he leaned towards her, pressing his lips to the top of her head for a second. 

After a few seconds she lifted her head to meet his eye. His hand glided up her arm, running through her hair as he took a hold of her neck. “What are you doing, Quinn?” she asked softly as she rested her forehead against his. Their hearts were beating out of their chest as they felt like they were in their own little bubble. 

“Quinn,” she mumbled before he leaned towards her, delicately kissing her. She hummed against his lips as she took a hold of his t-shirt, tugging it slightly. 

“You have an apartment upstairs, we should head to your apartment upstairs,” he mumbled against her lips. She giggled.

“Let’s go to my apartment upstairs,” she teased as she slowly glided out of the booth, holding out her hand for him. He gladly took a hold of it as she guided him towards the exit of the bar.

“Oh yeah!” Frankie shouted as he saw them walking out together. 

Once they were upstairs, her small studio apartment was always there “secret” spot together. She shut the door and twisted the lock as she pressed her back against the door. He stood in front of her, shyly shoving his hands into his pockets.

She reached her hands up and delicately took a hold of the base of his neck. She dragged her thumbs across his skin as she looked into his eyes He pressed his lips together as he scanned her features. 

“What are you thinking?” she asked as she tilted her head back against the door. 

He smirked as he inched towards her, “I’m not thinking,” he mumbled as he leaned towards her devouring her lips.

Kasey took a hold Y/N’s arm and guided her towards her bedroom, to talk without the boys hearing. Not that they were listening much anyway. “Frankie said that you two left the bar the other night holding hands and that he saw you guys be all close and cuddly,” Kasey whispered excitedly as she forced Y/N to sit down onto her bed.

Rolling her eyes she pursed her lips forward. “It’s not like we had sex,” she mumbled. 

Kasey let out a dramatica groan as she sat beside Y/N yet she also laid onto her back. Kasey pretended to punch the ceiling. “So you’re completely okay with making out with him and then watching him go on a string of first dates pretending to find the one. When we all know the one is you,” she explained while dramatically using her hands to make her point. 

“I don’t know about that,” Y/N let out barely above a whisper as she laid on her back, following Kasey in pursuit. 

“Do you have feelings for him?” she asked as she turned her head to meet Y/N’s gaze. 

She didn’t want to say yes. She knew that Quinn was special from the moment that she met him but she wasn’t ready. Still didn’t feel totally ready. Because what does being ready even mean?

“I’ll take your silence as a declaration of love,” Kasey teased. 

“It’s not, it’s an I don’t know,” she muttered. 

~~~

It had been a month since Quinn’s gone on any date. Josephine ended up being a huge Canucks fan and wanted nothing more than to be involved with the captain. Quinn swore off dating after that, he was honestly terrified of the stalking that came with girls like that. 

Quinn stumbled into the apartment after a win by the Canucks where he had the game winning goal. Despite his friends having season tickets that Quinn paid eighty percent for because they insisted on contributing; they didn’t end up going to the game that night. 

Kasey stumbled out of the bedroom, her pajamas covering her frame. She threw her hands to the side, “Why do you insist on playing good when we don’t go? That’s so unfair,” she let out somewhat jokingly. She jogged towards him, pulling into a tight bear hug. 

“Then you guys need to start coming to every game,” he muttered as he chuckled. His eyes scanned the apartment, furrowing his eyebrows. “No, Y/N or Frank?” he asked softly. 

“They went out to a club or something, said that they were going to be each other’s wingman,” Kasey said, somewhat instigating. Quinn’s eyes widened as he nodded, he ran his hand across his chin.

“They went-like- together?” Quinn asked softly, meeting Kasey’s gaze. She nodded slowly, fighting the grin forming to her lips. “Cool, that’s cool.”

“One more time and I’ll believe you,” she muttered, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s cool,” he let out. She smirked as she started stepping back towards her bedroom.

“Okay, goodnight Quinn,” she teased before she slipped back into her room. Quinn nodded before he slowly walked towards his bedroom, directly opposite of Kasey and Michael’s room.

He stepped inside of his room and every hit he took during the game suddenly overtook his body. His entire frame felt battered and bruised. He took in a shaky breath as he took a hold of the hoodie on his frame, he pulled it away from his body, tossing it towards the corner of his room. 

He walked towards the small mirror hanging above his dresser, taking note of the redden and bruising jagged spot on his ribs. Clenching his jaw, he delicately ran his fingers across the top of the skin. He sighed as his phone started to vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw that Y/N was calling him. 

Quinn lifted it up and brought it towards his ear, answering it. “Y/N, you alright?” he asked.

“Can I come in?” she asked softly. He furrowed his eyebrows as he felt his heart jump into his throat.

“You have a key to our place,” Quinn offered as he took in a deep breath. 

“Not what I meant,” she mumbled. He pressed his lips together as he fought a grin forming to his lips. He reached for the door and pulled it open. They both still had the phone up to their ears. He was the first to slowly pull it away from his ear, he quickly ended the call as he placed it onto the shelf beside him. 

She slowly pulled her phone from her ear, smiling softly. Her body was covered in a tight red dress and her hair was pulled awy from her neck. He scanned her frame. 

“Are you drunk?” he asked softly as he stepped back into the room. She took that as an invitation and stepped inside. Swinging the door shut, it closed quietly. 

“It’s Wednesday, I don’t drink on school nights,” she said with a grin toying to her lips.

“What are you doing here then?” he asked barely above a whisper, a small grin on his lips. 

“I am not sure,” she mumbled as she let out a sudden breath. Quinn bit his bottom lip as he took a hold of her waist as he cautiously pushed her against the door. She let out a small gasp as her eyes widened slightly. Her eyes lowered towards his frame, taking note of his bruising frame. “Oh my god,” she muttered as she delicately traced her fingertips across his bruises.

“It’s not that bad,” he said while holding his breath. She tilted her head to the side while staring into his eyes. He nodded as he stepped back.

“Got my ass handed to me tonight,” he muttered. She chuckled as she watched him sit down onto his bed. She chuckled as she walked towards him. His gaze followed her intently.

“I can make you feel better,” she mumbled. He smirked as he scanned her frame.

“How do you plan on doing that?” he asked as he leaned back on his hands. She stood in front of him, a teasing smirk on her lips. “Y/N,” he let out barely above a whisper. She took a hold of his cheeks, lifting his head up. 

“I’m gonna-” she muttered before she leaned towards him kissing him desperately, almost as if they’ve never kissed before. He reached his hands towards her, taking a hold of her waist as he pulled her towards him. 

Her fingertips began to run through his hair as they began to devour each others lips. She slowly climbed onto his lap as his hands took a hold of her thighs. His fingertips glided along her skin as he slowly ran his hands higher and higher up her frame. She pulled her lips away from his as she pressed her forehead against his.

“I’m gonna say it,” she mumbled before she pressed her lips against his again. He hummed against her lips before he tilted his head back, slowly opening his eyes. She met his gaze as she continued to slowly run her fingers through the ends of his hair. 

“I’m waiting,” he let out teasingly before he pecked her lips.

“You know this is really hard for me right,” she muttered. He smirked before he took a hold of her thighs, and tossed her onto the bed. Her eyes widened as he started to climb on top of her. Scanning her features, he leaned down and delicately pressed his lips against her cheek.

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled as he leaned towards her, he brushed his lips against her ear, “But I need you to say it.” he pulled back and met her gaze. She rolled her eyes playfully before squeezing her eyes shut.

“I have feelings for you,” she muttered before she slowly opened her eyes. He had a grin on his face as he looked into her eyes.

“What kind of feelings?” he asked teasingly. 

“Oh shut up,” she said as she took a hold of his neck pulling him towards her. She kissed him urgently as a giggle fell from his lips.

“This feels a little out of nowhere,” he mumbled against her lips.

“If you think three years is a little out of nowhere, you are hopeless,” she let out before she kissed him urgently.

[ddejavvu]

Hiii! Could you write a Spencer Reid x fem reader who are dating & she’s super drunk, he needs to take care of her and she’s all “no I have a boyfriend who I love so much” and goes on a ramble about Spencer, not releasing she’s talking to him & he’s all heart eyes and giggly at her whilst trying to take care of her? Lots of fluff? Thank you!

The minute Spencer tries taking your hand to help you down from the booth you're squeezed into, you push his hand away, "No."

"No," You repeat, shaking your head with all the coordination of a baby deer, "Nooo sir. I am not going to be partaking in anything with you, because I have a boyfriend," You announce, your voice spanning over the entire table, even reaching Rossi who's at the head, "And I love him, and you're- just- fuck off."

Spencer's mouth falls open incredulously at your expletive, though a laugh escapes it rather than one of his own. "Oh, really? You've got a boyfriend?"

"Mhm." You nod proudly, settling back into your seat and burrowing away from his waiting hands into Emily's side, "He's tall, and he has a gun, so don't-" You choke on what Spencer presumes is a hiccup, but could very well be a belch, "Don't mess with me."

"You tell'im," Emily laughs, wrapping her arm around your shoulder and rubbing the chilly skin beneath the cutoff of your sleeves, "Do you want me to call Spencer for you, sweetheart? Have him come pick you up?"

"Yeah," You nod easily, your eyes set greedily on your friend's drink now that yours have been downed, "Can you tell him to bring me a blanket, too? I'm cold."

Unbeknownst to you, Penelope herds Spencer away to the edge of the patio your team is seated on, and there's a lingering smile on his face as he listens to what she whispers in his ear.

"I have a blanket in my car," She tells him, "It might have some cat hair on it, but you can totally take it! Go get it, and you can come back like we called you."

"Okay," Spencer's eager to take Penelope's keys from her when she shoves them into Spencer's hands, "Thanks, Garcia. Just make sure she doesn't drink any more, okay?"

A quick glance back at your table reveals Emily holding her glass to your lips, helping you tilt it backwards to dump the concoction down your throat.

"Uh- any more than that." Spencer clarifies. Penelope nods, rushing off to make sure you don't find Rossi's scotch.

Spencer returns barely two minutes later, discreetly dumping Penelope's keys back into her purse. Hotch and Morgan share a knowing smirk when Spencer pats you on the shoulder, and JJ pinches your side from across Emily to get you to notice the man standing beside you.

"Hi angel," Spencer croons, and your face lights up, shining brighter than the fairy lights strung above you, "Emily called me, she said you wanted me to come get you?"

"Spencer!" You cheer, and Emily shares her strength with you to hoist you into his arms where you cling to him like a koala bear, "Spence, you're here! There was this guy, and he tried holding my hand, and-"

"Oh, no," Spencer scrunches his nose, unable to stop himself from laughing when you take it as an invitation to smear yours against his own, "Not a guy! Are you okay, angel?"

"Mhm," You hum, tucking your face into his shoulder, "You're here now, Spence. And you brought a blanket, just like I asked."

"Of course I did," He beams, wrapping his arm tightly around your back as you settle over him like dead weight, "Uh- guys, can we get a bill?"

"Just go," Rossi waves him off, patting his pocket where you all know his rather thick wallet lies, "Take her home now, so that she can't run up my card with any more drinks, and I'll pay for the ones she already had."

"Thanks Rossi," Spencer grins awkwardly at him, flashing the man a strained thumbs-up before he has to use that hand to support the backs of your thighs once more, "Okay, honey, ready to go?"

You don't answer, and Derek leans sideways to peek at you.

"She's out," He snickers, "Pretty boy, make sure she's still breathing when you get home, alright?"

"Got it," Spencer chuckles breathily, "Okay, uh- bye guys."

There's a chorus of send-offs, and Hotch tilts his glass at Reid with an amused twinkle in his dark eyes, "Make sure you're both on time Monday. Hangovers don't excuse you from duty."

[cameronsbabydoll]

TIED TO TRADITION — ARRANGED MARRIAGE AU

WARNINGS: not proofread but just subtle boy talk and traditional aspects

The soft sound of music playing in the background filled the space as Rose and you continued to look through table cloth options. Rose was eagerly flipping through pages of bridal magazines, throwing out suggestions about flowers and fabrics, while you were mostly nodded absently. The entire atmosphere was forced cheerfulness, a veil over the growing anxiety in your mind.

“You know, I’m so excited for this, honey! It’s going to be perfect!” Rose exclaimed, her eyes twinkling as she looked through the pages of the wedding planner. “You’ll look stunning, and Rafe will just melt when he sees you walk down the aisle.”

You offered a half-smile, but your mind wandered, thinking back to Rafe’s indifferent attitude toward the wedding. Rafe wouldn’t care, you thought, and he definitely won’t care how you look.

Rose continued chatting, oblivious to the quiet discomfort settling into your chest. You were lost in the fantasy of a perfect wedding.

—

Rafe leaned back in the lounge chair on the deck, the cool night air mixing with the warmth from the low firepit crackling in front of them. He’d kicked his shoes off, letting his feet rest on the railing as the haze of cigar smoke curled around the group. Topper, Kelce, and a couple of other guys from their circle were lounging around, each nursing a drink, laughing too loud, and making the kind of jokes that wouldn’t fly in front of his father or any of the high-society folks they mingled with.

He exhaled a plume of smoke and took a long sip from his glass, the burn of whiskey soothing the tension he’d been carrying all day. It wasn’t about the marriage—well, not exactly. It was more about how his father had handled it. He’d felt like a puppet, strings pulled by the men who had been shaping his life since he was a kid. But right now, with his friends and a few drinks in his system, the whole thing seemed... bearable.

Kelce kicked his feet up, letting his beer bottle rest on his stomach, his eyes drifting toward the house. “So, what’s the deal with the wedding? They’re really putting it all together, huh?”

Topper let out a laugh, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, I heard they’ve got the venue locked down. You’re really gonna settle down with this one, huh?”

Rafe smirked, his mind drifting to you. He didn’t really know you that well—at least not the way he knew women he’d had fun with in the past. But he knew enough. You were the perfect match for what his family expected. Sweet. Polite. The daughter of a man who only wore Ralph Lauren and made small talk over scotch and cigars at the country club. You’d fit right into the role of a wife.

“You’ll make her a good wife, Rafe,” Kelce said, his tone shifting to something more playful. “She’s perfect for that.”

Rafe shot him a look, his lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but not a frown either. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Topper leaned in, his fingers tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. “She’s got that... whole, you know, sheltered vibe. Looks like a poster girl for ‘good wife’ material. Your dad’s gotta be thrilled.”

Rafe exhaled a laugh, swirling his drink. “I’m sure he is. Everything’s lining up the way he wanted.”

Kelce grinned, clearly enjoying the conversation. “I’ve seen her around the club a few times. Definitely fits the bill. She’s all about that ‘traditional’ look. You know, the quiet type.”

The more they spoke, the more Rafe felt his mood shift, not to irritation, but to something darker—something like... amusement. It wasn’t so much the marriage that had him feeling tense anymore. It was the fact that they all saw it the same way: a transaction. Something that made sense on paper.

“You’re not worried about the whole... settling down thing?” Topper asked, the grin not leaving his face. “You’ve had your fun. I know you’re not a one-woman kind of guy.”

Rafe took another drink, the burn of the alcohol feeling right for the moment. “No,” he said, with a hint of cockiness, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not worried.”

“I bet she’s a good girl, though. Just what your dad wanted. She’s probably gonna make your life nice and easy. You know, get the house in order, keep the family dinners perfect.”

Rafe’s lips twitched again, his thoughts drifting to you. Maybe you were all of that and more. But he wasn’t going to admit it to them. Not yet, anyway.

“You think she’s gonna be a real dutiful wife?” Kelce teased, raising an eyebrow.

Rafe rolled his eyes, taking in the scene. “I don’t know. She’s in there planning the whole wedding with Rose, doing all that ‘girly’ shit. So, yeah, I guess.”

“Damn,” Topper said, sitting up straighter, the light from the fire casting shadows on his face. “You’re really getting the full package, huh? She’s gonna be good at playing the part. You know, the kind that knows when to smile, when to be quiet, and when to look like she’s got it all together.”

There was a silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Rafe didn’t even need to answer. He knew how they all saw it. He could picture you in the kitchen right now, making something like tea or whatever, fitting the image of what everyone expected.

“She’s good for you, man,” Kelce said, his voice a little softer now. “She’s got the looks, the family backing, and she’ll keep your world from falling apart.”

Rafe leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire. “Yeah,” he said, his voice lower now, thoughtful. “She’ll keep things... in line.”

—

The conversation on the deck shifted as the guys continued to drink and laugh, the noise growing fainter as the night wore on. Rafe sat back in his chair, half-listening, his thoughts drifting to the house. To you.

Inside, the soft glow of the living room lamp illuminated the space where you were curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, your head resting gently against the cushions. Rose had long since gone to bed, leaving you to your thoughts and the faint hum of a rom-com playing softly on the TV.

You weren’t really watching, your eyes half-lidded, the weight of the day finally catching up with you. You’d been running around planning, discussing details, and putting everything together—everything his family wanted. And now, with the house quiet and no one around to expect anything from you, it felt nice to just... relax.

Your breathing evened out, your eyelids fluttering closed as you slowly drifted off, still wrapped in your blanket, the TV’s soft chatter the only sound in the room.

It wasn’t long before Rafe quietly entered the room, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the carpet. He glanced over at you, his gaze softening at the sight of you slumped against the couch, the blanket bunched around your shoulders.

He walked over, bending down with a quiet grunt to scoop you up in his arms, careful not to disturb your peaceful slumber. You barely stirred, your head resting against his chest as he carried you toward the bedroom, the warmth of his body a comforting contrast to the chill in the house.

“You’re really going to make this easy on me, huh?” he muttered, more to himself than to you as he made his way down the hall, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He gently laid you down on the bed, pulling the blanket over you, his gaze lingering for just a moment before he stood up and walked out, leaving you to sleep undisturbed.

TAGLIST: @vanessa-rafesgirl @lolasangelz @malibuhearts @popou61 @jaasworld @slut4you @drewrry

[thanosmilk]

he loves me, he loves me not ✿

DARK!CHOI SU BONG X F!READER

warnings : —MDNI angst, manipulation, verbal abuse, physical abuse, swearing, body shaming, swearing, sexual language, implied public sex, cheating, not proofread, crack

sum : you’re in an abusive relationship with su-bong but you still love him. not like you can leave anyway.

a/n : YALL IM GETTING INTO FICS NOW, ARE YALL PROUD 🥹 my vocabulary is bad I don’t know much complicated words im sorry 😭😭

w/c : 1-2k?? (i guessed)

another warning : if you don’t like or don’t feel comfy with dark content please don’t read this! this contains many things that I explicitly do not support in real life. this is just fictional, please be safe lovelies xx (*^‿^*)

“when it hurts but it hurts so good”

su-bongs slaps are like kisses. you swear he loves you. no matter how much times he hurts you, you love him, and he loves you too. right?

“y/n. where’s my cross?” he calls out to you. you pause as you remember throwing his cross full of pills in the toilet and flushing them out when he passed out last night. fear slowly envelops you.

“your cross? i don’t know what you’re talking about, honey.” su-bong darts his eyes at you, slowly standing up from the couch. “bitch, don’t give me that bullshit. where. are. my. pills.”

you flinch at his now angry tone. “su-bong—i swear, i have no idea…!” you lie between your teeth. su-bong stands there before walking up to you, backing you up into the kitchen counter.

“lie again and see what happens.” he places his two wrists beside you on the kitchen counter, trapping you inside his arms.

“okay—okay! i-i… i—“ he cuts you off. “spill it, you dirty whore.” he mocks your stuttering. “i flushed it down the toilet last night…” tears start threatening to spill.

“you…” he didn’t even finish his sentence before slapping your head hard, making you fall to the ground. “do you even know how much those cost?!” your nose was bleeding and your bottom lip was quivering, holding the place he had hit. “im sorry—i-its killing you!” you started crying.

“i fucking need it!” he roared. you always blamed yourself. you shouldn’t have flushed his cross. “im sorry, su-bong… please forgive me.” su-bong’s eyes softened before he sighed. “get the fuck up. you’ll make it up to me tonight.”

you already imagined ‘tonight’. him fucking the shit out of you and slapping your pretty face occasionally while your eyes were crying a waterfall. this is the life you live and will always live, su-bong would say. you’re his.

—

the next night, you two decided to go out for dinner. a steakhouse. su-bong had booked a reservation before coming. the waitress led you two to a table. su-bong never sat across from you, always beside you, holding your soft thigh.

you were picking something to eat before su-bong interrupts you. “hurry up.” he taps his finger against the table impatiently. you decide to settle on a scotch. su-bong rolls his eyes. “don’t you think you need something healthier? you’re getting fat. have a salad or something.” he complains. “oh… I’ll just get a salad then, thanks.” you obeyed. the waitress raised a brow at su-bong. “you sure?” she looked back at you and you nodded. su-bong glared at the waitress, his eyes shouting at her to leave already. the waitress glared back at him before leaving with your meals on the notepad.

su-bong gripped onto your thigh. “hey, why so nervous?” he stared at you so intensely, you were sweating. “no reason.” he grabs your jaw, laughing. “you’re gonna make a scene, baby. calm down.” you nod rapidly. “ok—ok.” you fiddle with your fingers under the table as he then wraps an arm around your shoulders, still staring at you before his attention goes to something else.

minutes later, your food and drinks come by. the same waitress had brung two glasses of coke and two scotches. su-bong raised a brow at the other scotch that you ‘didn’t’ ask for. “oi, lady! what the fuck is this? she asked for a salad, didn’t she?” su-bong slammed a fist on the table, making the cokes spill a bit. he starts catching attention from other customers.

the waitress narrowed her eyes. “sorry, we couldn’t make that salad.” su-bongs eyebrows furrowed. “why not?” the waitress decided to tell him straight. “because she obviously doesn’t want it.” su-bong was shocked at her back-talk. “bitch—“ he stopped before turning to you. “baby, do you want that scotch?” you sat there for a couple seconds, thinking about what could happen after you say yes or no. you silently nod. su-bongs eyes narrowed. “oh, really? well, guess what? you’re not getting that because you’re too chubby. so, you’re getting a salad tonight.” his grip on your thigh would probably bruise next morning. “now move it, lady!” he shouts at the waitress before she groaned annoyingly, taking the scotch back and bringing a salad. she couldn’t risk her job when she was already quite broke herself. :(

you were silently eating your salad as su-bong was eating his steak with a grin on his face. you just wanted to be you, but then again, you loved him. the waitress looked at you from afar while waiting for any upcoming customers. she looked away to go assist new customers. su-bong had sat you on his lap, taking a hold of your breast. you two were somewhat lucky since your table was in a corner where no one really noticed.

“i think you can make it up to me right here for trying to get that fucking steak when I clearly said no.” he lifts the back of your skirt up, looking down to slowly pull your panties down. he would take you anytime, anywhere. “s-su-bong, we’ll definitely get caught here…!” you panic, holding a hand to his chest. su-bongs eyes went sharp and he tilted his head. “do you think i care? at least they’ll know you belong to me.” he slightly lifts his hips up and lower her pants and boxers down to let his member free, then resting right below your bare pussy.

— sorry no smut

su-bong had fucked you right in that restaurant. almost proudly—no. proudly. when someone walked past their table he had just hold you and tuck your skirt below your ass, pretending you two were cuddling or something. something you two would never do aside from now. sadly for su-bong, he could get jailed for having sex publicly. he couldn’t risk you escaping.

—

you were sitting on your couch, watching some TV before su-bong walks in the living room, looking all ready-to-go-out outfit. he was going to the club again. you don’t know what he does there but you never ask. that’ll only earn you some bruises. “im going out.” is all he says. “bye, be safe.” you reply before continuing. “love you.” he doesn’t acknowledge that and just leaves. was this one-sided? does he even love you? you just want him to love you back.

su-bong was at the club just drinking, smoking, having drugs and definitely cheating on you. he would fuck a girl in a private room every time he’d go to the club while snorting some c0ke. you never knew. even if you did know and confront him, he would proudly admit that he did, not caring at all. all he had to do was fuck you and ‘apologize’ and you’d forget all about it.

you wait, wait and wait until you hear the door unlocking and opening from the living room. you checked your phone. it was 3am in the morning. you go to the door, welcoming him. “welcome back…” your smile being weak. “move out of the fucking way, slut…” he pushed your shoulder before walking to the bedroom and falling onto the soft sheets, sleeping almost immediately.

you smile and pull him onto the bed properly and tug the blanket on the both of you before holding him. no matter how much bruises painted your body by him, you’ll always love him. you believe that he’ll change sooner or later. hopefully.

this was just a lil test to see how i write angst, part 2 maybe?

@truefandemonium :)

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

i have never had a Thought of havings kids until cpt John Price and like fuckkk don't do this to me. thank god he isn't real bc i'd be holding a child in my arms and another in my belly. never a man made me so fucking hormonal or somethg like that and i am wishing no irl man will ever do .

Trust me, I’m the same way honey but have this little drabble of the 141 boys with a preggo reader🤭

If I was with any of the fictional men I’ve pined for, I’d be round with like 70 kids by now.

-Masterlist-

John Price:

Price sat across from you at the table, cradling his glass of scotch as he chuckled. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he murmured, the crinkles around his eyes deepening. “You, all broody and soft over the idea of kids.” You glared at him playfully, but he only leaned forward, his hand covering yours. “It’s a nice thought, though, innit? A little one running about, causing trouble. Maybe a second on the way.” The low timbre of his voice and the way his thumb traced slow circles against your skin made you shiver. Damn him. Damn that man for making your hormones scream and your heart ache.

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

Simon had his back against the couch, his mask pulled up just enough to reveal his lips. His head was tilted toward you as he held a sleeping toddler in his arms, the baby’s tiny hand clutching the strap of his tactical vest like it was their most prized possession. You tried not to stare, but the sight had you biting back a grin. “What?” he asked quietly, raising an eyebrow. You shook your head, biting your lip. “Nothing.” Simon’s lips twitched as he shifted the baby slightly, his eyes softening. “Yeah? ‘Cause you’re looking at me like you want one of your own.”

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish:

“Two?” Johnny’s voice shot up an octave, and he stared at you with wide eyes. “One in your arms and one in your belly? Christ, bonnie, you trying to send me to an early grave?” He plopped down beside you on the bed, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Though I gotta admit…” He trailed off, glancing at your stomach with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Little MacTavishes running about? Bet they’d be just as loud as me.” You smacked his arm, but he caught your hand, tugging you closer. “Think about it, love. Me, you, and a brood of tiny rascals taking over the world.”

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick:

Kyle leaned against the nursery doorframe, arms crossed as he watched you cradle the neighbor’s baby. “You’re a natural, you know that?” he said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You glanced up at him, feeling warmth spread across your cheeks. “Don’t get any ideas,” you teased, though the thought was already planted firmly in your mind. Kyle chuckled as he walked over, crouching beside you. “Too late,” he said, his fingers brushing against the baby’s tiny fist. His gaze flicked to yours, full of something you couldn’t quite place. “Maybe someday, yeah?”

[weirdbookweeb]

more Simon Riley (Ghost) Headcanons

cause he's just so damn pretty (and i accidentally took a nap until 9pm, so I got time, honey.)

He is a big fan of dark liquors. Whiskey, Cognac, Bourbon, Scotch. He got introduced to it from a former superior officer and got a taste for it. He always takes it on the rocks, and drinks it slows. He has a few bottles stored up in his room for special occasions.

He's got a crooked smile, and it's the sweetest thing. He's been in combat for years, so he's bound to have some damage to his face. Because of it, he's got an uneven smile. He doesn't smile a lot because of it. But when he forgets to be insecure? Oh my, does his smile bring unsuspecting people to their knees.

He liked to watch old-school, black-and-white foreign films with his grandparents when he was a kid, so he has a soft spot for them. He learned a bit of french watching french noir style films, and loves watching old Hollywood movies (He calls them foreign because he's British.) Miracle on 34th street is one of his favorite Christmas films, but only in black and white.

He never ends a phone call with his s/o without saying some version of "I love you" or "I'll come back soon". The habit started when he was going on a mission and you were working and instead of ending the call immediately, he had waited a few moments before quietly whispering into the phone: "I promise I'll come home to you, darling."

He really doesn't like cauliflower and canned green beans. Like, even just seeing them makes him gag. He cannot stand them. Canned green beans ate a common staple in the military and he hates them with a burning passion now. And he just hates the taste of cauliflower (because he says it has none).

He is an advocate for well-fitted clothing. He doesn't care if it's trendy or not. He cares if his pants fall to the right length, if his shirts fit nicely around his arms, and if his pants are sitting at the right place. He hates seeing people wear the wrong fitted clothes while trying to wear the proper fit and ending up looking scruffy. It's his only fashion hill he will die on.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Monster, Inc. 6

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss is an asshole, you know this. But what happens when he turns his wrath upon you? (plus!reader)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, this reader is known as Missie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

Maestro’s is a nice place. Your dress feels even louder in the high-end restaurant. And you feel even more tired as the dim lighting softens the edges of your vision. Mr. Hansen looms there too, ushering you after the hostess as she leads you to your reserved booth. 

A man awaits you. He doesn’t stand or offer Lloyd a handshake. He simply finishes his martini and shoves the empty glass at the hostess, keeping the olive to chew on. 

“’Bout time,” he mutters at Hansen around the garnish. 

“Nice to see you too, Hugh,” Hansen nudges you ahead of him. You slide onto the curved bench silently. The man finally looks up from his glowing phone. He scoffs in your direction. “Who’s the grade school teacher?” 

“Assistant,” Hansen drops down and glides in close to you. “She’ll keep minutes.” 

“Really? Alright,” he snorts. 

“Well, you want an investment so... it’s business, isn’t it?” 

“Thought we were getting drinks and steak,” the other man he called Hugh sits back casually. 

“Missie, Ransom, Ransom, Missie. There, all introduced,” Hansen picks up the liquor menu and pets his mustache. You notice how he toys particular with the shining silver strand. 

“Nice to meet you, uh, Ransom,” you intone. 

“Yeah, sure,” he sniffs and rolls his eyes. You’re an intruder, if not an imposter. Not just at this table but in this restaurant. You should be with Peter getting your sandwich with extra pickles. 

The men are silent. You look between them as the tension rise. A waitress reappears with a fresh martini and puts it before Ransom. Hansen sits up and puts down the small menu.  

“Scotch, top shelf for me, and a vodka tonic for the lady. She’s watching those hips,” he orders. You don’t put in that you’d rather not drink. You doubt he’ll notice if you touch it or not. Besides, it’s a courtesy you don’t expect of him. 

“You going to the reunion?” Ransom asks over his martini. 

“Nah, stuff’s sad. Bunch of washed out legacies and stringy armed pledges.” Hansen retorts. 

“Mr. Big Stuff’s too cool for school,” Ransom chortles. “Imagine this, honey,” he gestures to you with his stemmed glass. “Big boss man used to be the frat’s treasurer. Penny pincher. Kept a fucking stranglehold over every penny. Wouldn’t even put out for cups for beer pong--” 

“Not all of have grandaddy’s trust fund to fall back on--” 

“Bro, don’t even. Your mom is loaded.” 

“Where do you think I got my good sense from?” Hansen counters. The server returns with your drinks and sets them down, offering a food menu. The men wave those away. Your stomach growls. 

Hansen slides the sparkling vodka in front of you. He sips his own dark liquor and you let yours sit on ice. He huffs and flicks the brim of your glass, “drink.” 

“Sir,” you lift the glass and take a tiny sip. 

“Don’t be ungrateful,” he pushes on the bottom until you gulp. You nearly gag on the bitterness of the tonic and alcohol. 

“So what’s going on here?” Ransom leans his elbows on the table. 

“Business, talk about your damn books,” Hansen demands with the snap of his fingers. 

“New imprint. So long as I can get the backers,” Ransom shrugs. “Grandfather says I have to put work in. Mom says the same.” 

“Oh, and how is the insatiable Mrs. Thrombey?” 

“Hey,” Ransom warns. 

Hansen cackles, “now that’s a woman. Tall, domineering—you know, she still got it--” 

“Would you quit?” 

“I’m having fun,” Hansen chuckles and drains his glass. He takes out his phone and Ransom sighs, nursing his own drink in agitation. 

You squirm in the roiling air. You wet your lips as you wait for them to continue. Neither of them do. 

“That’s a nice ring...” you comment, just to ease the silence. 

Ransom twists the mother of pearl band then fidgets with his hands, “thank, er...” 

“So you went to school together?” You prompt, afraid of another simmering tension. 

“Pfft, no. Do I look old?” Ransom sneers. “I only heard the stories. After. L-Dog made quite the name for himself.” 

“Hugh,” Hansen puts his phone screen down. 

“What? I’m making conversation since you can’t be bothered,” he shrugs and leans forward, focusing on you. “What’s it like working for him? He a tight ass? I mean, he’s got you here past six. I’m thinking so.” 

“She’s here to take notes,” Hansen insists. “It’s her job.” 

“Suuuuure,” Ransom drags out the word. “Still the same as you ever were, huh.” 

“Shut up.” 

“This guy, oh, everyone knew what he liked. Really chubby ch--” 

Hansen slaps the table and it jolts as he kicks Ransom underneath, “you want me to back your nepotistic venture or what?” 

Ransom laughs and reaches to rubs his shin, “you know, this could’ve been an email.” 

“Could’ve,” Hansen signals for the server. “But I prefer to deal with you with a dash of good scotch.” He taps your glass again, “finish that.” 

The waitress reappears and Hansen orders another round for the table. You deflate just a little. You hoped you might get out early enough to meet Peter, or at least call him and explain. You’re not sure your frantic apology via text made sense. 

“You’re too nice for him,” Ransom says. “And it’s me saying so.” 

“Get on with it,” Hansen sneers. 

“Fine. Erotic thrillers. Granddad’s scandalised but I told him, times are changing. People like horny with their fear.” 

You stay quiet. You’re rather content to do so. Let them chatter. You take out your phone and take notes; trying to translate his crass explanation into business speak. Hansen gets his second drink and yawns. 

The more you transcribe there blustering chirping, the more you feel that needling in your head. You shouldn’t be here. Neither of them need you here. You know it’s punishment; because you saw your boss at his weakest, but when did you ever step a toe out of line with Hansen. You’ve ever been loyal. You are sitting at that table after all. 

“Hips, if you’re not gonna drink, don’t let it go to waste,” Hansen snatches your untouched refill and slurps it down. 

Concern tickles behind your ears. He’s drinking a lot and fast. The longer you’re here, the more he knocks back, you’re assured that you won’t be catching up with Peter tonight.  

You quickly flip out of your notes app and check your conversation. You deleted Hansen’s message but not before it was read. Even so, Peter’s response is ‘understood, we’ll do another night’. You reply to him quickly 

‘Sorry again. Boss has important stuff. Maybe this weekend?’ 

You switch back to your notes as Hansen slaps his chest and stifle a belch. Ransom sucks on the gin soaked olive and shakes his head again. Looks like you’re going to be the adult at the table.