#but how have they not expected any of this?

[beloveds-embrace]

(p2 of john price x reader who basically manifests him into her life)

It turns out that Captain John Price is, unfortunately, not a fever dream conjured by stress and blackberry pie. He is very real, very present, and very much making himself at home in your cottage.

The next morning, you wake to the unmistakable sound of your mother cooing like a particularly smitten dove. Your heart sinks as you stumble out of your room, still trying to rub sleep from your eyes.

There, at your kitchen table, sits John- completely at ease, like he’s been your husband for years. He’s drinking your favorite tea blend, bulky frame almost dwarfing the chair, and he’s listening attentively as your mother babbles on about your so-called “devotion.”

“Oh, she was absolutely heartbroken when she thought you wouldn’t come back,” your mother gushes, practically swooning, and your father nods his sagely alongside her tale. “You should have seen her, sitting by the window with her knitting, sighing over those letters. I’ve never seen a girl more in love. My poor daughter!”

John hums appreciatively, lips twitching into that insufferably smug smirk as he glances over at you beneath his equally insufferable beard and mutton chops. “Could tell from the letters,” he says, eyes practically sparkling. “All those sweet words. Such a lucky man I am.”

You grit your teeth, feeling the vein in your temple throb. “I was trying to avoid Thomas.” You mutter, but your mother (thankfully) doesn’t hear you over the sound of her own gleeful rambling.

“Oh, and when she baked those little honey cakes just because you said you liked them! I told her it was too much, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

You freeze. You most definitely did not bake any little honey cakes. Your mother, bless her meddling heart, is getting so caught up in the fantasy she’s started making things up. You shoot her a glare, but John is already giving you that half-lidded, knowing look.

“Honey cakes, eh?” he rumbles, sounding far too interested. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on me, lovey.”

You snatch the teapot from his hands and pour yourself a cup, resisting the urge to pour it over his head instead. “Don’t get used to it.”

Your mother beams, entirely oblivious to your silent war. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. So happy to see you’re finally together!” She bustles out the door, humming cheerfully, and drags your sagely smiling father along with her.

The moment she’s gone, you whirl on John, a fierce glare on your face. “What are you doing?”

He leans back, stretching leisurely, his grin nothing short of wicked. “Having breakfast with my wife. Not how I pictured it, but it’ll do.”

You scoff. “I’m not your wife.”

Price shrugs. “Your letters say otherwise. And your mum’s convinced enough. Can’t exactly leave you now, can I? Wouldn’t be right.”

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut. It’s as if your own trap has snapped back at you, jaws clamped tight around your life. You cross your arms, glowering, and think of something else to say. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, barging in here like you own the place- drinking my favorite tea blend, too!”

He just looks at you, eyes twinkling. “Funny. That’s not what you wrote. Said you missed me. Said you’d make me the sweetest of teas. Said you just couldn’t wait for me to come home.”

“That was fiction, you horrible man!” You hiss, but he just chuckles, entirely unbothered.

Otjer than John, though, you also had another problem that was also caused by him; wedding preparations, the bane of your existence as you’ve come to realize.

Some people look forward to their wedding day- the flowers, the vows, the promise of a life shared. You, however, never pictured it like this, and never expected your “fiancé” to be a man who waltzed into your cottage like he owned it, dropped a stack of letters on the table, and declared himself your soon-to-be-husband. You certainly never imagined he’d take to it so naturally, like he was born to sit at your breakfast table and make himself comfortable with your family.

Your mother, thrilled to bits and practically floating on a cloud of matrimonial bliss, has begun planning the “official” ceremony. Blissfully ignoring your protests (and your thinly veiled threat to elope with the next traveling bard) because she assumes her sweet, beloved daughter is just nervous, she’s already halfway through arranging the entire affair. John, meanwhile, seems to find the whole ordeal oh so terribly amusing.

You find him at the kitchen table one afternoon, carving a piece of wood into something vaguely useful. He’s taken over the end seat- like he’s the head of the household now, of all things, and your father merely laughs sagely- and seems perfectly content to whittle away while you stew in frustration. His coat hangs on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, revealing the strong forearms that seem permanently smudged with wood dust and effort.

The door bursts open, and your mother flutters in like an overly enthusiastic magpie, clutching swatches of lace and muttering about floral arrangements as if the fate of the world depends on which flower goes where.

You can practically feel your sanity slipping through your fingers like the flour dust you use in your baking.

“Oh, I’ve spoken to Mrs. Beech about the flowers- she says lilacs would be perfect for the bouquet. Don’t you think so, John?”

Fuck you, Mrs. Bitch-

John doesn’t even look up, his knife still scraping curls of wood from his project. “Lilacs. Sounds nice.” He says with that slow, sure nod of his, like he’s contemplating the tactical advantages of the flower choice even though you just know he has no fucking idea what flowers lilacs are and just knows them by name, not shape.

You glare at him as if sheer force of will could make him combust. “You’re not helping.”

He finally lifts his gaze, an eyebrow raised, amusement curling along his lips, while your mother now frets and flutters around your father. “Don’t think your mum would take ‘no’ from either of us, love.”

You slump back in your chair, arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to will away the traitorous warmth blooming in your stomach. Curse him and his voice. “… I was hoping to at least have a say in my fake wedding.” You mutter in the end.

“Now, now,” he drawls, leaning closer, his voice dropping to that familiar rumble that makes your stomach do a little somersault- so much worse (better) than his usual voice. “A proper husband lets his wife plan the details. I’ll just stand there lookin’ pretty for you.”

Your jaw clenches. You open your mouth to retort, but your mother interrupts with another idea- apparently, she’s already been thinking about colors for John’s suit. “John, you’re so thoughtful! And I’ve been looking at suits- do you prefer navy or charcoal? I do think charcoal brings out the blue in your eyes.”

John glances at you, his lips twitching in a barely suppressed grin. “Whichever makes her happy, ma’am.”

You’re torn between strangling him lightly and strangling him harshly. The worst part is that he doesn’t even sound insincere; he just leans back, all relaxed confidence, like he was born for this domestic chaos just as much as he was built for fighting in ward. You try to glare again, but your resolve falters when he shoots you a quick, soft wink.

Your mother, oblivious to your internal crisis, claps her hands together, now planning the guest list. You sink lower in your chair, wondering if you’d survive being exiled to the woods. John, ever the menace, just gives you a look that promises he’d happily follow you even there and maybe build you a cottage so he can show off those arms of his.

A few days later, you’re back in the kitchen, trying to reclaim some semblance of peace by kneading dough with a vengeance. You don’t even know what you’re baking anymore- scones, maybe? Bread? At this point, it’s less about the final product and more about taking out your frustrations on something pliable and innocent that won’t screech for its life.

John wanders in like he owns the place (again), smelling like the outdoors and freshly chopped wood. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Another batch of sweets?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know you were so dedicated. Those famous honey cakes of yours?”

You shoot him a glare. “They’re not for you.”

He raises a brow. “Oh? Someone else in line to be sweet on you?”

You huff, too tired to argue. “They’re for your men.” You snap, your hands practically mauling the dough now. Almost strangling it, to be honest.

A little smile spreads across his face, almost fond. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on them too, love.”

You huff, flour smudging your cheek as you try to actually shape the dough. “They’ve had to put up with your grumpy ass, haven’t they? Thought they deserved a treat… and mum said to, anyways- so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Before you can blink, his hands slip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin settles on your shoulder, scruffy beard tickling your skin. “You keep spoilin’ them like that, they’ll think you fancy ’em.”

You squirm, but his grip tightens, his breath warm against your neck. “Can’t have that, can we?” His voice is a growl, low and deep. “Better make sure they know who you belong to.”

Forget somersaults, your stomach actually flips. “They know,” You mutter. “Doubt they’d go against their own Captain.”

He hums, nuzzling your temple. “Good. Only one man gets to come home to your bakin’.”

You manage an eyeroll despite your heart pounding like a trapped bird. “You’re ridiculous.”

His lips brush the shell of your ear. “You like me that way.”

When he finally releases you, it’s only to snatch a fresh scone off the tray, biting into it with that satisfied grin of his. “Perfect,” he murmurs around the mouthful, nodding his approval. “But I’ll make sure to tell the lads you made ’em for me.”

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “What are you, five?”

“Nah. Just a man who likes showin’ off what’s his.”

When he reaches to take another scone, you smack his hand away and he just laughs, the sound rumbling low and warm. He stays with you after that, bothering and pestering you like a stubborn pustule, until all of the scones have been baked and cooled.

And when he kisses your cheek before heading out the door, tipping his boonie hat with a teasing, “Be good, love.” You realize that maybe- just maybe- you should have strangled him when you had the chance.

As revenge for upsetting your stomach, of course.

[girlgenius1111]

new memories

fresa putellas x solstråle engen sol normally never talks about her parents or her childhood, until a moment at the putellas household has her breaking down. little solfresa blurb :) w @wileys-russo

—

It was the excitement with which Fresa tugged Sol into the house and over to the sofa that had Sol entirely unprepared for the way her heart was about to fall out of her chest. Usually, anything Fresa got excited about made Sol excited too. Even if it was something Sol didn’t really care for, like the Spanish soap operas Fresa was obsessed with, or the new moisturizer she was trying, Sol found that she loved those things because of how much joy they brought her girlfriend. 

But as Fresa clicked on the TV and hit the play button on the old VCR, Sol wasn’t excited anymore. 

Because there was baby Fresa, chubby cheeked, shrieking with laughter as a teenage Alexia chased her around the kitchen, a wide grin on her face. 

“Mami just found it in the attic! I thought we’d watched all the tapes from when we were kids but I hadn’t seen this one!” Fresa explained, a mix of something nostalgic and heavy and fond clear on her face. 

A younger Alba walked into the frame, and Fresa paused the video, looking at Sol’s face for a reaction. 

“Look, amor! Look at that haircut. Isn’t that a crime?!” 

Sol ignored the familiar tight feeling out of her chest, giving her girlfriend what she hoped was a convincing smile. 

“Yeah, yeah a real crime.” She murmured, looking down at her hands in her lap before she did something embarrassing like cry. 

The smile on Fresa’s face faltered as she studied her girlfriend, seeing for the first time that something wasn’t right. 

“Sol, amor, what–”

“Solstråle,” Eli called warmly, hurrying into the room with Alba trailing behind her. “How are you, niña?” 

“Good!” Sol lied, forcing herself to look up and meet Eli’s eyes. Of course, nothing was getting past the older woman, either, her eyes flickering between her daughter’s and Sol’s. 

Before either Fresa or Eli could say a word, more voices and loud footsteps filtered into the room. Sol felt herself shrinking in on herself, as if the more people that entered, the more likely it was for someone to question why she looked like she was about to cry. 

“At least you didn’t look like a mushroom!” Alexia scoffed. 

“I looked worse. Like a possessed doll.” Alba complained, gesturing to the TV where the image of her younger self was still frozen. 

“Solstråle.” Alexia said curtly, noticing the brunette sat on the couch next to her youngest sister. 

“Hola, Sol.” Alba chimed in, using a  much more friendly tone. 

Sol replied with a soft hello, doing her best to ignore the stares of her girlfriend and Eli. 

Alba threw herself down on Fresa’s otherside with a loud huff, reaching for the remote as if she was expecting to have to wrestle it away. 

Fresa was completely still, though, her eyes fixed on her girlfriend. It may not have seemed like a big deal to anyone else, but Fresa knew her girlfriend pretty well. She knew when Sol wasn’t okay, even if the Norwegian refused to ever admit that fact. It had just been a momentary lapse in her usual sunny demeanor, but Fresa could see it for what it was. 

And what it was… was a big deal. 

“Okay, Fresita, you show your girlfriend ugly pictures of me, then Sol should see you in your little helmet hiding from Alexia’s football.” Alba taunted, hitting the fast forward button on the remote, expecting Fresa to launch herself across the couch any moment now. Alexia chuckled as she took a seat in an armchair, also not clocking the tension in the room. 

Alba searched the tape for the clip, while Fresa extended her hand, lacing her finger’s with Sol’s. 

Except Sol’s hand wasn’t steady, as it normally was. It was clammy and shaking. In fact, it looked as though the entire body of the Norwegian was trembling. 

So, instead of wrestling Alba for the remote, or scolding Alexia to say a proper hello to Sol, Fresa abruptly stood up, pulling her girlfriend with her. 

“I need alone time.” Fresa announced, turning and dragging Sol towards the hall that led to her bedroom. Sol went willingly, which in and of itself was odd. She never passed up an opportunity to spend time with Fresa’s sisters. Now, though, she didn’t even look up from the ground as she followed her girlfriend down the hallway. 

“Huh?” Alba replied, tearing her eyes off the screen for a second to watch her sister walk away. 

“Hey! Door open! Six feet apart! No touching!” Alexia called after them, wincing and glaring at her Mami when Eli lightly smacked the back of her head. “What?!”

“This is my house, Alexia, they can have the door shut.” Eli explained exasperatedly. “Besides, Sol is upset about something, give them some space.” 

“Really? How could you tell?” Alba asked, brow furrowed. 

Alexia rolled her eyes, as if she too hadn’t been oblivious to the Norwegian’s mood. “She probably listened, Alba, instead of running her big mouth every second of every–”

“Oh, I see. I talk too much. I’m the one who goes on and on about corners and passing spaces and free kicks and–”

The two sisters began speaking at the same time, arguing even though they both had half smiles on their faces, like they were enjoying themselves. Knowing them, they probably were. 

Eli ignored them, glancing down the hall, hoping everything was okay. 

—

Fresa’s hand gripped softly to Sol’s as she led the Norwegian into her bedroom. Neither of them spoke; Sol didn’t have the words to explain everything that was going through her head. 

Fresa was sure she had an inkling of what was going on; she wasn’t completely clueless. It was obvious that things weren’t great between Sol and her parents, if for no other reason than the fact that she’d moved across the continent away from her parents and in with her sister. There were bits and pieces Sol let slip, too, short memories that clearly upset her, spoken so softly Fresa had to strain to listen. 

And then there were the jokes. The jokes more than anything, like Sol was afraid to let anyone see how much she was hurting. If it had a punchline, Sol could pretend it didn’t make her feel anything. 

Fresa caught the pain in Sol’s eyes when she joked about Ingrid being the favorite child. The first time Sol had met Eli, and had seemed completely shocked when Eli had pulled her in for a hug. 

The look in Sol’s eyes when the home video had begun playing was something Fresa was sure she would remember forever. It was more than pain; it was agony and sadness and heartbreak. And now, as Fresa pulled her girlfriend over to her neatly made bed, soft sniffles broke the silence. 

It was entirely instinctual, Fresa sprawling out on her bed and holding her arms open for the taller girl. It had only been a few months of them being together, but they were both very tactile people. Despite the size difference between them, and the often rough and tough exterior Sol presented, there wasn’t anything in the world that could make her feel better more than laying in Fresa’s arms. 

It was a few minutes of silence, of Sol listening to Fresa’s heartbeat and feeling the younger girl’s perfectly manicured nails scratching lightly at her back and scalp before Sol could talk. 

“I don’t… I don’t have any home videos of myself that my parents took. Or photos. They’re all mostly of Ingrid, with me in the background of some of them. They never came to any of my school performances or parent teacher conferences. They didn’t care about any of my milestones. Everything I have to remember my childhood by is because Ingrid thought to keep it. Not my parents.” Sol’s voice broke off, and she took a shuddering breath. Fresa’s lips pressed softly into the top of her head. 

“It’s okay, amor. Take your time.” Fresa murmured, like she knew exactly how hard it was for Sol to vocalize all of this.

“They never loved me like they loved Ingrid. They tolerated me, until they didn’t anymore. They never wanted me, I wasn’t good enough for them. I’ve just… I’ve never been good enough.” 

At this, Fresa shook her head. 

“That’s not true.” She said gently. “You’re enough for me, Sol.” 

Eyes still welled with tears, lip still quivering, Sol looked up at her girlfriend like she didn’t quite believe her. 

“I love you.” Fresa whispered. It wasn’t the first time she’d said it, but it may as well have been given the expression on Sol’s face. “It’s easy to love you, Solstråle. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done, because you are good and kind and beautiful.” 

“Stop.” Sol choked out, wiping at her face and willing the tears to stop. She’d never been very good at taking compliments, especially from girls as pretty as Fresa. 

Fresa just shook her head, though, a sad smile on her face. “No. You need to hear it, and I’m going to tell you until you believe me.” 

The younger girl had barely finished speaking before Sol was surging up towards her, pressing her lips to Fresa’s almost desperately. Cradling Sol’s face in her hands, Fresa kissed her back before pressing their foreheads together. Her thumbs swiped away the tears that still slid down Sol’s cheeks, their eyes locked. 

“I love you.” Sol whispered shakily. Fresa whispered it back, again, before tucking her face into Sol’s neck and wrapping her arms around the Norwegian’s waist. 

Sol kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to slip out, and Fresa to realize that she was making a mistake. Yet everything Fresa learned about Sol, the good and the bad, she hadn’t gone anywhere, wasn’t going anywhere. It was with a warm feeling blooming in her chest as she tightened her hold around her girlfriend, that Sol let herself believe that Fresa saw her, and loved her all the same. 

—

[bluegiragi]

MERCH UPDATE!!! (FEAT. FREE PRINTS)

yesterday, my merchandise finally arrived!! all...nine extremely heavy boxes of them...(check it out, my apartment is more box than furniture these days).

It's all in stellar quality, genuinely couldn't be happier with how everything came out <3

I also picked up my A5 prints order of the two designs I'll be randomly throwing into orders surpassing $100 AUD (which translates to around $65 USD). Each order will get one of the two prints, which comes with a thank you note on the back :) also, I know that beforehand I said I'd be including them in any order that contained over 6 line-items, but I feel like it made a bit more sense to base their inclusion based on value rather than quantity. Hope y'all understand!

(they look slightly too pink in this photo, but I promise the colours came out very nice. Also, I planned to include a Johnny design as an option too, but I ended up thinking it wasn't good enough to include :/ more motivation for me to get better at rendering!)

With all the merchandise here, I'll be starting to send out orders pretty much immediately. Please keep an eye out on your inboxes - I'm hoping to really lock in and process all 600+ orders in a week, so we'll see how that goes. I know that last batch customers had some recurring issues with me sending out smaller orders in envelopes - be assured that every order this time will get a proper tracking number and come in a proper mailer/box. Once you receive your tracking number through email, you should expect your package to arrive between 1-2 weeks, depending on where you live in the world. Also, fair warning for EU customers, you may have to pay an extra 10% import VAT tax on your parcels, which is really annoying but unfortunately unavoidable.

Some of you might also remember that I said I intentionally ordered more stock than I'd need, and I'd be opening my online store for general orders soon. Please give me a week to get through this current batch, and then I'll give you a proper date for the next store opening.

Thank you for all your patience so far, and seriously thank you if you've read this post up until now ;_; I appreciate you all so much.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: name-calling, otherwise really sweet yandere, suggestive nsfw, chewing gum

♡ GN reader

Three years of sharing the same class—he’d started doubting he’d ever get the chance, but then, in your final year, the two of you were finally paired for a project together.

And he planned to use it for all its worth—ask you over to his place, invite himself over to your place, take you out to cafes, propose you eat together, all for the sake of the project, of course, no other reason! Maybe you could take a break and catch a movie or something—he’s totally not going to pretend it’s a date or anything…

And why had he waited for school to do his match-making for him, you ask? Why hasn’t he just asked you out himself all these years? It’s a good question. Why didn’t he think of that? Only he did. He has asked you! Plenty of times, actually! 

It makes no sense. When a popular, good-looking guy like him asks a bookworm like you out, there really is no sane reason to turn him down, but that’s what you do. Always! You always say no, followed by something about wanting to focus on your studies or whatever.

Well, you’re not escaping him this time. You can’t. Not when half your grade depends on him.

And so here you are. At his place, sitting opposite each other with books out and pens in hand, scribbling notes in silence.

He’s tried making conversation a couple of times, but you always answer curtly, killing him. He cleaned his room for you and everything. In fact, he tidied up the entire place! And you’re just sitting there, reading and writing, not even looking at him!

He sighs and pulls a packet of gum out of his pocket, taking two in his mouth as if they were aspirin or something stronger. Maybe he ought to cut his losses and let you go. Plenty of others like him, and you shouldn’t really even be his type, and from the looks of it, he’s not even close to being yours.

Or, wait… maybe you’ve just been shy? Well, it must have been something in any case 'cause you’re looking at him now. Peeking up from your textbook with those big eyes, looking straight at him, or no, his lips.

You’re looking at his lips!

You sigh and look down into your book again, clicking your pen—but you'd definitely just stared at his lips! And now, you're even biting your own lip. Oh my god! You're imagining kissing his stupid face, aren't you? 

He’s reached it—finally, the moment when opposites attract—the moment when you’ve spent too much time with him, you can no longer help but fall in love with him despite how much you don't want to. Oh, and to think he was just about to give up on the whole idea, here you are, daydreaming about him right in front of him!

You keep sneaking glances. He sees it. You’re very obvious. Staring right at his mouth. My, what a brazen thing you are. How unexpected, he for sure thought you’d be more blushy and shy than this, but with those bedroom eyes you’re giving him, it’s as if you’re about to leap right over the table, grab him by the collar, and crash your lips onto his—and holy shit, he can’t take it anymore.

“Like what you see?” he asks. Smirking that flirty smirk that has everyone make giggling fools of themselves, flashing his pearly whites with half-mast eyes so suggestive he might as well be screaming out from the top of his lungs how badly he wants to shove his tongue down your throat.

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” you answer, shaking your head, then scoff with a laugh. 

Okay… not the reaction he was expecting.

“You’re just, uh…” you continue, and he nearly falls out of his seat, leaning across the table in eager wait for your words. “Chewing gum really loudly.” 

What? Gum? Chewing?

“And it’s kind of, uhm…” You look around a bit awkwardly as if looking for the right word before giving up. “Distracting.”

Yeah… that was definitely not the word you wanted to use—he could tell. Distractions are sexy, and you were definitely not turned on. No, you’d wanted to say annoying. But you didn’t have to. It was written plainly on your face instead, in the way you forced your lips into a polite smile that made your eyes crease, looking like an unconvincing wax figure, unable to portray the emotion the sculptor had wanted. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” it all he has the mind to say, picking the gum out and tossing it in the trashcan beneath the table.

Sitting awkwardly in his chair, now, burning from embarrassment, he glares into his book but can't seem to read a single word. Head too busy spiraling in thought. You weren’t even going to say anything, were you? No, you just held your tongue and gritted your teeth through it, until he all but forced it out of you—with the sleaziest pick-up line in existence, no less.

Fuck! He almost groans out loud, but manages to keep it internal.

“No, no,” you say, waving your hand in dismissal. “My ears are just sensitive. It’s totally fine, don’t worry.”

Oh god, now you’re even making excuses for him. Could it get any worse?

Yes. Yes, it can. Because he can’t focus. You’ve written about two pages worth of notes and ideas for what the two of you can base your project on, meanwhile, he hasn’t done a single thing! Fuck, you’re going to drop him as your project partner because of what a total academic disgrace he is and he’s going to fail in both his pursuit of you and the class altogether.

“Will it help you focus if we have sex?” you ask after a moment.

He’s still spiraling and doesn’t have the capacity to listen, so all he answers is a weak and worried, “Maybe…”

But then your words catch up to his thoughts, and his head whips up, looking at you frantically, almost yelling, “Wait, what?! What did you just say?”

You sigh, “Alright then, guess it can’t be helped. But you have to promise me you’ll work after.”

Then you click your pen, placing it neatly between the pages of your textbook before pushing yourself out of your seat and standing up.

Walking towards the hallway where you’d earlier spotted a door with his name on, you turn around to look at him, still sitting at the table, gaping at you, all frozen like a picture.

“Well?” you ask, brow quirked at him. “You gonna sit there, or are you gonna show me your room?”

♡ BNHA – Touya, Hawks, Natsuo ♡ JJK – Gojo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins, Oikawa ♡ BLLK – Nagi ♡ WB – Kiryu

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[incognit0slut]

Nervous

Softcore in which you’re overwhelmed by how far he would go to protect your safety.

Category: Angst Word count: 2.3k Content: minor injury, overprotective spencer, avoidant attachment reader if you squint a/n: i've always wanted to do the "man goes crazy after you're hurt" trope and this seems like the right opportunity. and just so you know i’m actually hyperventilating while typing this bc apparently the neighborhood is coming back!! with new music!! after 4 years!! can you tell i'm excited!!!!

-

“Where is she?”

Spencer demands. Something he’s been doing a lot lately — speaking with a tone that expects answers to materialize out of thin air. The authority that drips from his voice would normally send a pleasant shiver down your spine, you can even admit there’s a time and place where it would be more than welcome when far less clothing is involved. But right now? In the back of an ambulance with your head splitting in two and his words scraping against what’s left of your nerves?

Not so much.

Your skull is throbbing. The cold metal bench is digging into you uncomfortably, and the sterile scent of disinfectant claws at your throat with a vicious persistence of acid. Your stomach twists at the bitter, chemical burn. His voice only makes it worse.

“Stop shouting,” you groan, squeezing your eyes shut against the stabbing pain.

He swivels on his heel as soon as your mouth parts to speak. “What were you thinking?”

You peel your eyes open just enough to glare at him, wincing as your head throbs in protest. “What does it look like I was thinking? I was doing my job.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine?” He practically chokes on the word. “You call this fine?”

“I’m not dead, am I?”

“You almost were. Do you even realize how reckless that was?”

“Of course I realized the risk. I assessed it.”

“No, you didn’t. You slipped an entire perimeter detail and dove head-first into a hostage situation.”

“Again, I was doing my job.”

“Without notifying any of us.”

You fight the reflex to roll your eyes.

“If it matters to you that much, next time it happens I’ll check with you before I try not to die. Happy?”

Sarcasm seems like the last thing you should’ve resorted to. His posture is stiff and straight, shoulders locked in a rare display of tension. Something you haven’t seen in months when he’s kept his emotions buried under layers of forced composure. But you are your own worst enemy when it comes to self-preservation, and that applies just as much to arguments as it does to danger.

His scowl deepens, and for a second you think he’s going to let you have it. You're already bracing yourself for an onslaught of logic and statistics — the odds of survival, the risks of your actions, the percentage of people who don’t make it out alive when they do exactly what you did.

That’s when he stops. Dead in his tracks.

A sudden breeze ghosts across your lower stomach, and it takes you a second to realize that your shirt must have inched up with all the shifting you can’t seem to stop doing. You barely have time to process it before you see the change in him. His face drains of color. Paler than usual. Paler than he already is.

“What did he do?”

You follow his gaze, and there it is. A galaxy of green and purple in the shape of five fingers and a large palm across your ribs like some twisted badge of honor. You hadn’t even felt it until now, but the second your eyes land on it, a dull, aching throb pulses beneath your skin.

You quickly tug your shirt over the angry bruise. “Nothing."

But he’s already moving. His knees drag against the rough asphalt as he pushes your shirt back up, fingers brushing over your skin with a touch that feels too soft for the situation.

Your bloodshot eyes waver frantically.

“Spencer,” you hiss, glancing around. “Spencer, stop, you’re making a scene.”

A quick scan of the cramped space tells you the only audience is the medics, and while they’re pretending to mind their own business, the raised eyebrows aren’t exactly subtle. One of them coughs — whether it’s to cover a laugh or clear his throat, you can’t tell. Though your face still heats at the scrutiny.

"Spencer."

"This could’ve been worse."

You shove his hand away and yank your shirt down. “But it's not. I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that,” he presses. “You’re clearly not fine.”

Irritation pulses behind your temples. "Then stop acting like I’m weak, I did what I had to do.”

“What you did was reckless,” he reminds you again. “You should have waited. You had backup for a reason.”

“Someone could've died if I waited.”

"You almost died."

You exhale sharply. “Well he didn’t get the chance, did he? JJ found me and shot the guy in the leg before it could get that far.”

Which, honestly, was pretty damn impressive, considering you were fighting for your life. One second you were pinned beneath a man twice your size, adrenaline roaring in your ears so loud you could barely think, and the next — bang. Clean shot to the leg.

“If it were me,” he grumbles, “I would’ve shot him in the head.”

You scoff. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he insists.

Your gaze shifts from the ground to his eyes, and that’s when you see it. The dark flecks in his brown irises seem to glow with an edge you’ve never quite caught before. Or maybe you have, but only in flashes. A flicker of something sharp in the set of his jaw when someone underestimates him. A muted warning when a suspect creeps too close. An imperceptible moment of tension when his fingers clench around your waist amidst the heat you both refuse to define.

It dawns on you that those hard lines around his eyes were always there, smoldering beneath his careful veneer of logic and reason. You just never knew you had the power to coax them onto the surface.

Spencer is protective — that much you knew. But not in a way that feels directed solely at you. Not when your relationship with him is already tangled in the space between labels that neither of you dares to clarify. He nitpicks your choices more than any friend should, yet he’s pinned you to the mattress far more often than you care to admit. Now hearing him say he’d actually break the very foundation of who he is sends your pulse into a clumsy rhythm.

His features are blurred by the disbelief flooding behind your eyes.

“You don’t mean that,” you say, hollow words sinking on your tongue.

He doesn’t even blink.

“If I ever found someone hurting you, I would put a bullet between their eyes and sleep just fine."

Your heart suddenly feels too big for the tight space in your chest. Too many emotions hit you all at once.

A little bit of fear.

A little bit of awe.

A lot of something else you don’t want to name.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat.

“Don’t worry, you’ll never have to. I can handle myself.”

The lines on his forehead deepens. “Just promise me you won’t do something like this again.”

You pull away and blink against the wind seeping through the open doors. It stings, his lack of faith in your judgment. The sharp bite of the cold air mirrors that prick as it slips under your collar, brushing over your blemished skin with a chill that's almost as piercing as the siren wailing incessantly in your ears.

But even that shrill cry can’t drown out the pounding in your head.

“You, of all people, know I can’t promise you that," you mutter, voice scraping the back of your throat.

His breath curls into the air as he replies, “At least tell me you’ll be more careful.”

“I was careful.”

“No, you were lucky. There’s a difference.”

Goosebumps rise on your arms that have nothing to do with the cold. He's right. Maybe it was luck. A fraction of a second, a shift in timing. A cosmic accident that decided you’d walk away instead of being zipped into a body bag. It wasn’t skill, nor caution. It was pure, dumb luck that you weren’t lying somewhere colder and permanent with the earth pressing down on you instead of the weight of his stare.

But you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.

"You're being dramatic,” you try to deadpan, shooting him a weary look.

He narrows his eyes at you into tiny slits, and you resist the urge to bristle under the scrutiny. He’s studying you too hard. He’s looking at you like you’re some kind of equation he can’t solve, as if he stares long enough he’ll find the variable that explains why you don’t seem to value your own life the way he does.

You feel the need to defend yourself.

“I jabbed him in the throat,” you try again, gesturing loosely, “caught him off guard, and then went for his weapon. The whole thing took maybe five seconds—less, if you count how quickly he hit the ground after that first shot.”

“Five seconds could have cost you your life.”

“It didn't,” you counter quickly. Shift your eyes to your hands. Tongue your cheek. Try to justify your action. “And let’s not pretend you wouldn’t have done the same. You've jumped into danger more times than I can count.”

His entire body goes still.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t exactly have a great track record for your own safety.” Your voice isn’t sharp, but there’s an edge to it. A tired sort of bite. “Are we conveniently forgetting all the times you’ve ignored protocol?”

The silence that follows is almost unsettling. He doesn’t react at first, doesn’t even breathe as far as you can tell. You wonder if you’ve managed to break him, if the sheer hypocrisy of his argument has finally caught up to him, if the logic has knocked him right through the bulletproof vest he always insists offers enough protection when you both know better.

Maybe he’s running through every instance you could be referring to. Is he tallying up his own recklessness? Those dangerous leaps of faith he’s taken without hesitation?

The wheels in his head are turning so fast you can almost hear them grinding.

“That’s different," he finally says.

You snort softly. Double standard.

“How is it different?”

His eyes are jaded as they swivel over your face.

“Because it’s you.”

He says it so quietly you almost didn't hear him. But you did, too loud and clear with your heart in your throat, then falter.

You're the one robbed of words now, a knot of half-formed syllables stuck to your tongue. You’re so caught off guard that you barely even register the overhead sirens blaring somewhere above you. Or the distant chatter of medics. The hum of radio static, a faint, crackling drone that seems to come from miles away. Everything is drowned out by the way your pulse hammers against your skin.

You can only focus on the flashes of color streaking across his face. Red, then blue, then red again. It catches the flecks of gold and green in his hazel eyes. Traces the sharp line of his nose, slides over his parted lips. Lingers on the pale scar under his chin that you’ve seen a hundred times but never really noticed until now.

You also notice how small the space between you feels. How the air surrounding you crackles. How the oxygen is lacking, and your lungs are suffering from it. How the distance between you seems to fold inward with each heartbeat.

A thump of his knees against the coarse dirt.

A pulse in the brief pause that follows.

A tick of gravity pulls you toward the shadow of a man you rarely encounter.

You're not sure how to handle this version of him, stripped of his layers of detachment. The version that exists in the slithers of time before his features school into that practiced neutrality he wears so well. A rare side of him that flickers into view — ephemeral as a stray synapse sparking in that immense brainpower he usually shields. Delicate in its existence.

And what do you do with a Spencer who isn’t just the mind, but also the heart? The heart that he guards so fiercely it sometimes seems like he forgets he has one. Until he doesn’t. Until it’s right there, beating openly in front of you. Perhaps oblivious to his own knowledge.

So you do what you always do when it gets too much. You exhale, slow and shallow.

Then you look away.

“You worrying about me this much is new," you mutter, eyes glued to his crooked tie. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“Then promise me you won’t make a habit of this.”

“This is not the debrief I was expecting.”

One thing that hasn’t changed is his stubbornness. “Promise me.”

You hesitate, knowing a promise like that isn’t yours to give. But he opens his mouth again, and a slow breath in the shape of your name falls from his lips. A pleading sort of whisper that travels every curve of your body, and by the time it lingers at the base of your spine, your nerves flutter.

The thrum in your veins surpasses even the rush of adrenaline you felt moments ago. This isn’t survival. Survival is instinct and reaction, it’s raw nerves driving you forward without conscious thought. This is recognition, awareness, because the way your name rolls off his tongue isn’t a simple request — it’s an opening. A sliver of space carved into the dense tangle of his armor, an admission slipping through the cracks before he can smooth them over.

And if you’re seeing a fracture in that carefully guarded part of him, maybe it’s only fair to meet him halfway.

Let whatever light he’s offering in.

Let it reach the places you pretend don’t need warmth.

You finally release a slow breath through your nose as he continues to look up at you. “I’ll try,” you comply.

His shoulders slump. Your answer isn’t enough.

But for now, it’s all you have.

"I got goosebumps all over me, when you're around it's hard for me to breathe." Nervous—The Neighbourhood

[kxsagi]

“𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐯𝐬. 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬”

a/n: def suggestive, but these are headcanons of the boys as your husband reacting to your interview where the interviewer asks: “how’s your bedroom life with your husband?” and you respond amused, but making it clear that you won’t say anything because you know how out of hand your fandom can get and your response only fuels the fire

kind of a continuation to this post

for my beautiful @mihyas-dieehefrau 🤍

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, kaiser michael

isagi yoichi

his interview starts off normal. real professional. smooth. and then the host smirks and goes: “so… your wife kind of obliterated the internet yesterday. care to comment on her ‘no moaning edits’ statement?” 

isagi literally chokes on air. 

he panics, face turning red immediately. like violently red. the crowd laughs, but he just squeaks out, “i-i mean! she’s not wrong?! i have seen those edits and i-it’s weird!” 

cue the giant screen behind him turning on to show a very sus fan edit with the song one of the girls by the weeknd and you and isagi's voices in AI sounding very... explicit.

he buries his face in his hands and goes, “please stop showing those. my mom watches these interviews.” 

the host asks if he’s jealous of the edits and isagi quickly goes, “of course not, she’s my wife. i already won!” 

then realizes what he said and turns even redder. 

still gets tagged in tens of thousands of new edits after this. and yes, he watches them secretly. with the volume low. just in case. 

itoshi rin

he walks into the interview calm as hell. usual poker face. the host tries to warm him up with soccer questions first. 

then they ask, “your wife said she won’t give us any bedroom tea because of fandom edits. but hypothetically, if she did, would you be mad?” 

rin blinks slowly and replies with zero hesitation: “she’s right. you people are insane.” 

the audience laughs nervously, and rin leans forward like he’s about to physically fight the camera, “you edited my voice onto a video where i was barking. barking.” 

gets visibly annoyed when they bring up the ‘daddy’ tiktok. you can see him restraining himself from throwing his mic. 

when asked if he watches the edits, he mutters, “... sometimes.” 

a fan yells “IS IT BECAUSE YOU’RE OBSESSED WITH HER?” and he answers with zero shame, “obviously.” 

the fandom eats it up. there’s now a new audio going viral: “obviously.” – rin itoshi, the whipped husband. 

itoshi sae

this man sits down like he owns the whole damn show. the host brings up your interview, expecting a subtle reaction. 

instead, sae smiles lazily and goes, “mm. she’s cute, isn’t she?” 

the crowd screams. people faint. someone proposes to him from row two (they get rejected). 

when asked about the “no moaning edits” line, he smirks. and says with a straight face: “funny thing is… some of those edits are accurate.” 

CHAOS. the audience erupts. the host spills their drink. the internet melts. 

sae just sips water and says, “you know, if you guys spent less time editing and more time working, you could afford therapy.” 

watches every edit. rates them. has a secret folder for the ones where you look too good. shows them to you in bed like, “look how obsessed they are. i win.” 

kaiser michael

struts into the interview like a runway model. already smiling. already knowing what’s coming. 

they bring up your “i know what y’all are capable of” comment and kaiser grins. 

“oh yeah, i knew what i was signing up for. she’s insane, and i love her for it.” 

when the host shows a fan edit with audio of kaiser growling “mine” and you edited into a telenovela scene, he laughs. 

“honestly? 10/10. good lighting. she looks hot. as always.” 

crowd starts chanting “HUSBAND GOALS!” and he eats it up. 

interviewer: “do you get jealous of her fans?” 

kaiser: “what, the ones who call her ‘mother’? no. i call her wife. stay mad.” 

he definitely has burner accounts. defends you in comment sections. threatens people politely. likes and reposts every good edit. 

ends the interview with: “keep making those edits. just remember, no matter how good they are, she still goes home with me and to me.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[mydearzero]

The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter. 

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader, no warnings apply for this chapter.

A/N: Wow chapter 2 only one day later? Crazy! I already promise that's not a rate I'll keep up, lmao.

Read it on AO3 Chapter 1

Chapter 2 - Keep Him Happy

1.5K words

So, Bob was not, in fact, a child. He was a grown man who seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself. His face was somewhat youthful, so you weren’t sure exactly how old he was, but you’d wager it was older than you. 

“Why is it exactly that you need a babysitter?” You asked directly. No use beating around the bush. You ignored the whole flashback memory thing, guessing you’d be enlightened with the details when the rest of the team came back. It wasn’t exactly a fond experience. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say babysitter… It’s just, uh… best to not leave me to my own devices, I guess,” he shrugged. You nodded awkwardly, not sure what to make of the situation. The promised pay was good, you wouldn’t actually have to take care of him, just keep him company. It didn’t seem like a bad deal. 

But even then, he was obviously unstable. Maybe what he needed was a mental health professional, not a ‘babysitter.’ You were probably just a temporary solution. 

You sat in an awkward silence for a while, sipping your drink every now and then trying to think of a lighthearted topic to entertain him with. “So… Tell me about yourself, Bob.” 

“Well, I’m… Bob. Short for, uh, Robert, as you might’ve guessed,” Bob nodded. You sighed inwardly, this was going to be tougher than you expected. Children were usually a lot easier, willing to tell you all of their and their parent’s business. Cats were even better, no need for talking. Bob was going to take some work. 

“How’d you end up here, with these people, I mean?” You wondered. He seemed normal enough, but obviously the ‘New Avengers’ cared about him enough to try and keep him out of harm's way and around their building. 

“It’s kind of a funny story, really. One second I’m in Malaysia in some lab for a medical study, the next I wake up in this bunker with these guys trying to kill each other…” 

You squint your eyes in question. “That is… Funny?” 

“Yeah now that I’m putting it like that it doesn’t sound very funny, does it?” Bob chuckled. It seemingly broke some of the tension. He asked you a few questions about yourself and your contact with Alexei. 

“He seems very sweet,” you concluded. Bob agreed, letting you know the man definitely had his heart in the right place, though sometimes a bit overenthusiastic. 

He told you about the rest of the team, and you noticed he was inconspicuously perceptive. He went one by one, wasting time by talking about the people surrounding him most days. 

“Yelena looks really tough, and she is! But she’s really a big softie,” Bob spoke of her very fondly, a twinkle of adoration in his eyes. 

“Ava’s a bit of a tough nut to crack, but she has a really good sense of humour. She’s a bit more reserved, but really has your back when you need her. She’ll deny it, though.” 

You poured yourself another glass of soda, offering Bob one as well. He declined but thanked you for the offer to a degree which dazed you. You took a mental note of the skittish demeanour. 

“John’s an asshole. Can’t really put it anyway else. He’s here, he’ll show up for the others, but… I can’t really say I’ve come to like him like the others. I’d put it as toloration. I mean he has a history… But who doesn’t? Doesn’t give him the right to be a douche, you know?” He obviously had a strong sense of righteousness, and John did not fit into that picture. 

“And lastly there’s Bucky, but I’m sure you know about him. Congressman and such. He’s not around here much. He tries to be, but I feel like he’s still a bit wary of the team. Part of me thinks he just doesn’t want to get attached, which I can understand, given his past…” Bob looked out the window, seemingly lost in a deep thought. His eyes glazed over and an overwhelming sadness overtook his face. It’d gotten dark in the time you’d been here, the city skyline lit up with artificial lighting. 

“Whatever you do, try to keep him happy, distracted and away from danger.” Yelena’s words echoed in your head. There was likely a good reason for the particular instructions. 

“Well, Bob, thank you for opening up and telling me about them. I feel like we’re likely gonna be spending some more time together, so I really appreciate that you feel safe enough to share,” you smiled, distracting him from his spiralling thoughts. 

Bob smiled before looking a little confused at his own actions. You felt like he might’ve maybe shared a little more than he’d intended. 

You were racking your brain for another topic to talk about when the elevator doors opened once again. Bob deflated, hunching in on himself and making himself visibly smaller. You hadn’t even noticed how his posture had opened up during your conversation.

It was Yelena and Alexei, joking with each other in, was that Russian? They walked in as if they hadn’t just fought off whatever it was that had ransacked the subway and blasted itself into the building. You looked at them expectantly, waiting to finally get an explanation. 

“Ah, right, babysitter. It’s quite late, maybe you should head home?” Yelena suggested, cracking her neck while unloading a few weapons on a side table like she was dropping off her keys after coming home from the office. 

“Was this just a one time thing, or will I be coming back?” You wondered. You could use the money.  

“That depends… Bob? Do you like her?” 

Bob spluttered and gaped at Yelena, unsure of how to answer. “I– I mean, yeah, she’s– She’s nice. I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“We can find different babysitter if you want. Many more on the app,” Alexei chimed in as he huffed and puffed, trying to get his suit off in the middle of the living room. It looked more like he was doing a form of experimental yoga. 

“No, no. This one’s fine,” Bob winced. You’d really have to come up with a different title than ‘babysitter’ if this was going to become a lasting thing. 

“Good, then she stays. Ava and John are debriefing Bucky. It was just some lowlife with some experimental tech, but man, whatever he was shooting with stung like a b–” 

“Lena, language, we have guest,” Alexei shushed her. Yelena rolled her eyes in response. 

She nodded her head at you, motioning for you to come with her. You shot Bob a quick glance, who gave you a tight lipped smile but seemingly encouraged you to go with her. 

Yelena took you to a smaller separate sitting room and offered you a glass of whiskey, which you refused. “No drinking on the job,” you laughed. 

“So, you’re probably wondering, why does a grown man need a babysitter? Well, I’m gonna explain. But first, what did Bob tell you?” she started, sitting down next to you and leaning on the back of the couch, resting her head in her hand. You mimicked her relaxed posture, putting a leg up on the couch. 

“Not much, really. He told me a bit about you guys and how you met. He mentioned something about a medical study in Malaysia, but other than that nothing too memorable.” 

“Did you happen to shake his hand?” Ah, there it was. Yelena could tell by your expression the answer was yes. 

“Yeah, it happened to us, too. You see, Bob… He’s very strong. Stronger than all of us combined. But he’s not stable. He’s a bit of a grey area in the team. We keep him around because he’s nice, of course, but also because we can’t risk anybody else trying to get on his good side and abusing his trust.” She took a sip of the whiskey, relishing its taste before continuing. 

“We’re still not really sure what his powers are, and it’s also not up to me to disclose all of the information besides the basics. All I can tell you is that we can’t risk taking him into the field, but we also can’t risk leaving him alone for too long. His abilities are closely tied to his mental wellbeing. It sounds a little degrading to describe it this way,” Yelena winced. She evidently had very conflicting feelings on the topic. You understood it must be difficult, wanting to keep him out of harm’s way without babying him. 

“But it’s really a matter of keeping him happy and distracted when it’s necessary. He needs help, a lot of it, but we just haven’t had the time to figure out how to go about it. So for now, this is it. I’m sorry for all the confusion, but with a ‘job’ as unpredictable as ours, this is the reality. Can you handle that?” Her gaze was piercing, as if she was trying to read every single thought crossing your mind. 

“You care about him deeply,” you observed. 

She gave a fond smile. “I do.” 

“Then I think I can handle it. As long as I don’t have to lie to him or beat around the bush, I can do my best to keep him company and help wherever I can. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I’ll try.” 

“That’s all we ask.” 

It was settled, then. You were hired. 

TAGLIST: @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @hopes-peak-akademy @rattheraddestrat @i-shall-abide @puer-aurea @kennywantskfc69 @spectacled-studies @hiddlebatchedloki

[itsoutrageouss]

Part six of Simon seeing reader cry for the first time. This one is really just Simon’s pov of you, and he’s heading into the jealousy stage… he’s low-key growing obsessed? Enjoy.

Simon was fuming. Not with you exactly, it wasn’t your fault you were such a delicate, pretty little bird- of course you’d get attention at a scummy pub like this. And it wasn’t like you were his territory, his to claim in some way.

But if the bartender didn’t hurry up making that drink you wanted so that the handsome stranger next to you could move on, he’d get up from the cramped booth and make it him damn self.

You clearly weren’t the type to just bring someone home. Or were you? Fuck, was that a sexist prejudice he just had? He runs a hand over his face, over the surgical mask he had put back up the minute that man approached you to try and mask any reaction he might have. He’s so used to his grimaces being hidden that he was scared he couldn’t control them.

Soap nudged his arm that barely moved as he laughed heartily at his own story. Simon didn’t flinch, his eyes didn’t leave you. Aye, Soap noticed, shooting Gaz a knowing glance but none of them dared say anything because they were still having a good night.

Finally your hands grasped around a tall glass, ice rattling as you bid the man goodbye and headed for the teams designated table. Simon hadn’t been able to read your interactions; had you been flirting? Maybe politely declining? You’d be the type- Arh there he goes again giving you prejudices when you keep surprising him everyday about what ‘type’ you actually are.

You sit down with a small, flustered smile. Fuck, fuck, Simon’s hands tighten around his own pint, that otherwise sat untouched after you left. You blink up at him, looking like he’s the one that’s flustered you but he knows that isn’t true. It couldn’t be. He’s unmoving, eyes slowly dragging you over.

“What?” You ask, nervous, maybe a little defensive and he knows that you hate not being able to read him. He’s bristling, if he was a cat all hairs would be standing on end.

“Nothing.” His voice is terse, gruff as usual but it sounds like he has to force the words from his throat, willing his lips to move. You frown, and now he knows you won’t let it go- it gives a thrill through him: he knows you now. Knows what your expressions mean, what you’re feeling.

He sees your eyes drifting off, clearly in thought before your jaw tightens and your eyes fall to your drink. You look disappointed. That’s not what he expected really, and know he doesn’t know what to do. Jesus Christ why does he overthink everything when it comes to you now? It used to be simple before you bared your soul to him and now he just wants to keep you open for him.

He doesn’t know how to address this now. Why did you look like that? After that bath, where he’d asked you to touch him and gods you had touched him and he swore he died and went to heaven; after that, what was supposed to happen? Maybe you didn’t know either. You quickly schooled your expression and leaned a little over the table to join the conversation Simon had pushed into background noise. He didn’t like that one bit, putting your walls up now? Well he couldn’t have that.

“What did he want?” Simon tried asking casually as you leaned over, his mouth almost at your ear. You tensed, a micro movement but he noticed. You hadn’t expected him to adress it head on, perhaps, as you leaned back, diverting your attention to him again.

“My number” you replied and he felt his tongue sucking on his own teeth to calm down. He hummed in response.

“Did you give it?” He asked, trying to seem nonchalant, grateful for his mask as always. Your eyes twitched, expression lacing with some sort of offence or disbelief. He struggled to stay composed, heart rate elevating a little too fast.

You shook your head but it mainly looked like you were annoyed with him, more than it was an answer. Your eyes found the table, gathering yourself before looking up at him with a seriousness and intensity he hadn’t expected. “Of course I didn’t. Why would you think that?”

Shit, you seemed genuinely upset in some way. He was flustered, caught off guard. “I don’t know. Looked like you were having a good time.” He shouldn’t have said that, jealousy shining through his teeth and he knew it.

“Well I wasn’t” you said, quick but steady.

“You’re angry with me” he said it as a monotone statement because he didn’t want you to hear it for what it was.

“No- no im not-“ you sighed, running a hand through your hair that he eyed almost nervously. “I just don’t know why you would think that I would give him an ounce of my time” you mumbled, raising your brows shortly to indicate something. He swallowed thickly.

“I didn’t think it, I feared it” he admitted and it felt vulnerable enough that he had to look away, into the crowd of people. “Smiling like a schoolgirl when you came back, dove” he mumbled, a little to himself

“At you.” You corrected, trying to meet his gaze. “I found it funny that-“ he felt you lean closer so only he could hear, if anyone should happen to try and listen in. “-anyone would even try talking to me after I had my hands around your….”

He stiffened, shoulders moving a little, mask covering the blood surging to his cheeks at your next word. He had to clear his throat, make sure Soap didn’t hear. It was right, in that tub your hands had wandered a bit like he’d asked you to. Nothing more had happened than you feeling him up, leaving him on that gruesome but wonderful edge. Hearing what that meant to you, that that moment had solidified something between you the way it had to him made him wanna fucking moan. His eyes snapped to yours, a newfound confidence in them.

“Giggling at someone trying to take you home?” He said, his tone infinitely more lighter now. You merely shrugged, the offence from your face gone. Good.

He hummed, considering you for another second before huffing in dry amusement, shaking his head and finally lowering the mask again. He picked up the pint but your smaller hand gently pushed it to the table, earning his attention again.

“You don’t need to be jealous, Simon.” You said, oddly calm, brows scrunching subtly.

“Im not” he was quick, too quick and you both knew it. He swore under his breath and picked up his pint again as he saw the winning streak across your face.

But he knew that this meant. If he was jealous of someone else trying to pick you up, he’d have to do it himself or his feelings wouldnt have a valid place to settle, no value. Ugh just his luck, now he was basically forced to take you home himself…

Series masterlist

[asxgard]

Companionship | pt. 14

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: You two have a little getaway.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: This took a hot minute lol I kept rewriting the first bit even after the rest was written, and then my dog got a bad infection (he’s okay now). It’s been a time lol I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for all the comments, likes and reblogs last chapter💜

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: age gap, SMUT (MINORS DNI), p in v, oral (f! receiving), fingering, light dirty talk, pet names (honey, sweetheart, my love), foul language

not beta read

On the night of Michael’s birthday, he grew more reserved. Dinner came and went with you trying to coax him back out of his shell — and you hoped it was only his nerves about you meeting his friends afterwards. You were nervous enough for the both of you, but you began to worry he was having second thoughts.

In the car, he said, “I’m nearly twice your age now.”

You leaned back into the passenger seat with a long sigh. You both sat quietly for several moments, Michael staring out the window while you rubbed your thumb along your other palm. The age gap seemed to hold steady over your heads — even as you were falling in love. He was now closer to nineteen years older rather than eighteen, and would be until your birthday later in the year. It was clear the near two decades were weighing on him.

You reached over to grab his hand, “And so what? We’ve discussed this.”

Michael ran his other hand over his face, letting out a huff of air. “I don’t want to steal your youth.”

“Michael, you’re not stealing anything.” You told him, “This is a two way street. One I’m actively choosing.”

He didn’t say anything, just kept looking out at the parking lot. He squeezed your hand with a heavy sigh.

“Do you feel like I’m stealing something from you? I don’t know…I haven’t fully gotten my life together yet, I’m still waiting to get my certifications…I can’t always be there in a way someone older might be able to—”

His eyes were on you while he shook his head, “Not at all. That’s not…I want you as you are.”

You held his gaze and smiled, trying to convey the same sentiment, “That’s what I want, too.”

“I’m sorry. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy or normal. I don’t want to keep chasing you away, I just wasn’t expecting to feel this way today.”

“Well, I’d rather you tell me what's going on in your head rather than bury it.”

He nodded, “And what happens when I turn 50?”

“That’s five years away. It’s not like I’m immune to aging…I’ll age five years, too.” You said. “And I’d hope we’d have made a life together by that point. We can deal with how you feel about it together.”

“I like the sound of that.”

You smiled, and he leaned over to kiss you.

The drive to the bar was quiet, but nerves had invaded your belly at meeting people from Michael’s life. You had been able to learn how to handle the judgment from strangers, but it felt like a whole new ballgame with people in his life.

Jack was tough to read, and it felt like Dana had been an easier sell. Her husband, Benji, had been easy enough to talk to, and took some of the conversational weight off your shoulders. Perhaps since he also did not work in the hospital, or perhaps he took pity on you, either way, it was relieving.

When asked about it, you told them about school and graduating — but it made you feel too young. One could attend university at any time in their life, but all of them had finished closer to when you were born. You tried not to be uncomfortable about it.

“How did you guys meet?” Benji asked, sipping his beer.

Your eyes flickered up to Michael, trying to conceal your alarm. Why hadn’t you discussed it? Did he want to tell them the truth or—

“Coffee shop. Our orders got mixed up.” Michael supplied, the lie passing easily from his lips.

Though, you had met at a coffee shop, so it wasn’t a straight up lie.

You forced a smile looking back to Benji, “We ended up talking for a while and I gave him my number.” Again, not a total lie, but your cheeks burned.

Dana’s eyes moved back and forth between you, “You could’ve told me she was your girlfriend when she came in, Robinavitch. No need for all that secretive VIP crap.”

You watched Michael cringe slightly at the use of his full name.

“I wasn’t yet.” You interjected, smiling shyly. “It took awhile for us to figure that part out.”

The night continued after with less pressing questions and easier small talk. They each traded stupid stories about patients, or the weirdest thing they found swallowed or inserted on x-ray. With Benji there, it made you feel less out of the loop, and he waved them off.

“Don’t you guys work there enough to not talk about it after hours?” Benji asked.

“Never after hours.” said Jack with a shrug.

Michael rolled his eyes playfully, “Fine, fine — how’re the kids?”

Another hour and they were all departing. Dana pulled you into a quick hug, whispering, “You’re good for him.” in your ear. You had grinned wide, relief flooding your system as you thanked the woman. Everyone parted ways after, and Michael took your hand as you walked to his car.

“They all seem like good people. I hope they liked me.”

Michael kissed the side of your head, “Of course they did. You make it easy.”

Your eyes met his brown, “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Before opening the passenger side door, he turned you around. He was fidgety, his hand growing clammy while the other rubbed the back of his neck.

“You okay?” You asked tentatively, squeezing his hand.

He cleared his throat, “I can’t really even begin to tell you how much I enjoy our time together, how much I enjoy you. I’ve—this hasn’t been easy and we had a rough start, but I’m glad you’re in my life. I love you.”

Your breath caught and you stared at him wide-eyed. Your heart thudded hard against your ribs and you reminded yourself to breathe.

When your thoughts returned, you smiled at him, “I love you, too, Michael”

—

“You sure know how to play the long con.” You said, eyes still bleary from the early morning as trees raced by.

Michael looked over at you with an eyebrow raised, before looking back at the road.

“Murder me in a cabin in the woods?” You elaborated, “Peaceful, quiet. It’d be great if it wasn’t so cliche.”

Michael laughed loudly, shaking his head. “Does that have anything to do with the documentary you insisted on watching last night?”

You had barely been able to fall asleep until Michael had pulled you into his arms, making you feel safe and protected. You loved those documentaries, despite how dark they were, or how many lights you had to turn on to get through them.

You sipped your coffee, “Of course not.”

“I see far too much blood and guts on a daily basis; I’d never spoil the cabin like that.” He said, tone momentarily slipping into something serious. “Besides, I like you too much. Thought I’d keep you around.”

You laughed, “How romantic.”

“I’m plenty romantic!” He said with a smile, “Cabin in the woods, a fire, good wine, the works. I even remembered to snag your favorite rom-coms from your apartment last week.”

You hid your grin by glancing out the window at the world speeding by. “And to think, you did all that to take me fishing…”

“You said you wanted to learn!”

Laughing, you said, “No harm in trying something once.”

He reached over the center console to grab hold of your hand, “I’m glad we’re getting some time away. It’ll be nice to not worry about work for a bit…”

“Or studying.” You added, intertwining your fingers. “Thank you for bringing me, I’ve been looking forward to it.”

He smiled softly, and you thought about all the feelings swirling in your chest. All of them easily spelling out love. Even after confessing it to each other weeks ago, it still felt new and exciting. Like everything had finally clicked into place after dancing around it forever.

His cabin was miles off the highway, found after traveling several winding roads, a long driveway nestled between towering trees. The trees eventually gave way to the cabin, quaint but with plenty of character. A picnic bench sat to the right of the structure, where a set of stairs led into a screened in porch. A large built in firepit sat several feet away from it.

The back door opened onto the porch, which held an outdoor dining table and a few outdoor loungers. The land began to slope downward right where the porch started, free of trees that made the view of the mountains all the easier to take in. The forest picked back up again about a quarter of a mile down, where it seemed the land leveled out again. Jutting out just slightly from the cabin was a storage closet, holding some cushions for said loungers, an umbrella for the table, and some odds and ends.

You took a deep breath in, and leaned into Michael when you breathed out. It was quiet and serene, the silence only filled by birds and buzzing insects. You could only slightly see one of his neighbor’s houses through the trees, but otherwise, it was completely private.

“You sure do know how to pick ‘em.”

Michael looked at you and smiled, “Yeah, I do.”

—

After an unsuccessful fishing trip, a hike and a long soak in the clawfoot tub, you emerged in the kitchen to see what Michael was doing. Uncooked burgers sat on parchment paper on a sheet tray, while Michael was putting a bowl of pasta salad in the fridge.

You followed after him and sat on one of the loungers while Michael cooked the burgers. He was humming an old blues song while you took in the view of the retreating sun over the mountains.

Dinner was spent under the sky, with quiet banter and easy conversation — and you savored more than just the meal. Pittsburgh could be busy, messy and complicated, but stepping back in a secluded cabin, you knew you wouldn’t change a thing about your life.

Cleaning up dinner, you both settled on the couch, turning on one of the rom-coms he had brought — How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days — and you curled into his side.

By the time the credits were rolling, you found yourself in his lap, kissing up his neck while his hands explored your figure. Your heart sped up in your chest, moving your hands to his hair. You tried not to grind your hips into his, trying to be slow — but your mind grew hazy with lust.

“Mike.” You breathed against his lips, half a whine, half a plea.

Like he could read your mind, his hands were on your hips, pushing just enough to where you got the hint and stood up. Your lips never left his, even as he led you to the bedroom, hand in your hair.

Once on the bed, Michael removed your pants and trailed kisses up your inner thigh. Your face heated and you suppressed the urge to beg him to move faster. You never wanted to rush him, to be painfully young in wanting it all without the chance to savor it, but his hot breath on your skin and his teeth nipping at your flesh made you feral. You were already squirming before he even situated himself to your wet heat.

Discarding your panties, Michael left a wet kiss to your clit, and you jolted at the sensation. One of his hands traveled up your torso to grab hold of your breast, fingers twirling around the nipple, while his other was locked around your knee. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and you took in a deep breath to steady yourself.

Your clit was throbbing, spurred on by the sensation on your nipple. He held your gaze as he licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit. You moaned, gripping the wrist that was at your breast and held onto him like it would keep you tethered.

His tongue was an expert, and always left you seeing stars — your orgasm never taking very long, especially not when his fingers rubbed at that spongy spot inside you. He sucked, licked and devoured everything you gave him like a man starved, and it thrilled you more to know he was enjoying it. Even when he was being slow or teasing, he never seemed to mind how long it took.

Michael’s fingers curled upwards, tongue tracing circles on your clit until the wave took you in. You cried out his name, fingers in the bed sheets while the heat barreled through your system. He had a habit of not stopping, even when you grew overstimulated, sometimes eagerly even trying to coax a second out of you.

This time, though, you pulled him up to kiss him hungrily. The taste of yourself on his tongue made your thoughts stutter, before bringing him closer.

Without warning, you flipped you both so Michael was on his back and he stared up wide-eyed at you. Your shirt was easily discarded.

He smirked, hands going to your hips while you undid his pants. Pulling off his shirt, he pulled you in for a quick kiss. He was straining against his boxers, hard and immediately at attention when you pulled back his boxers. You were quick with the condom before steadying yourself over him. You leaned down to place a delicate kiss to his lips.

You sunk down on him slowly, hissing as you adjusted to his size, hands on his chest. He groaned low in his throat and you pulsed at the sound, your hips meeting his.

“Yeah? Like hearing what you do to me, sweetheart?”

You grinned, nodding dumbly, pulling his hands from your hips up to your breasts. To be so full of him made your eyes water and you threw your head back to try to find your breath again.

“Feels so good.” You moaned, looking back into his eyes.

You moved up slowly, before grinding back down and trying to find a pace you liked. Michael stared up at you, eyes dark, meeting you halfway with thrusts of his own. Heat coiled low again, pooling throughout your abdomen.

Michael moved a hand to your clit to rub lazy circles, and it burned deliciously — overstimulation yielding to pleasure. You moaned, moving up just enough for him to brush against that spot inside you.

“You look so good like that, honey. Fuck, you ride my cock so well.”

Your pussy fluttered at the words, eyes screwing shut. You felt lost in the winding euphoria coiling tighter. Michael gripped your hip while keeping his thumb rubbing your clit, thrusting up into you as you grew tighter and tighter.

Michael choked out a moan, and you hummed a mewl as you approached your climax.

“Mike—Mike—“ you whined, “So close—don’t stop, please.”

“Gonna fill you up, my love, come on. Come on my cock, know you want to.” He ground out. “You look so pretty when you do.”

You moaned low when the coil snapped and the white-hot heat invaded your vision and took over your senses. It rushed throughout your body and a single tear escaped the corner of your eye.

Michael was relentless after that, even as you were whining from the overstimulation, he kept going. Chasing his own high, but he never let up on your clit.

You felt completely blindsided by your third orgasm, rolling off the waves of your second until you were fluttering around him again. Crying out and squirming, you met a few of his thrusts in a cock-drunk daze.

Pleasure contorted Michael's face until he was coming with you, a groan low in his throat. His thrusts grew sloppy until they slowed. He twitched and you felt the warmth of it inside you, blooming upwards.

Your hairline was wet with sweat, and you breathed heavily. You leaned down to lay on his chest, his cock still stuffed inside you, but it had pleasure still echoing in your system.

Moving your head to his shoulder, Michael kissed your forehead. One hand trailed light lines up and down your spine, while you kept your hands on his biceps trying to catch your breath.

“I don’t think I ever wanna leave.”

Michael chuckled lightly, and brought you in for a kiss.

[ Next ]

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(50 tags have been reached with the combo of all three taglists, so unfortunately some of Dr. Robby & all of The Pitt taglist for this series will be added in a reblog right after this is posted - I’m sorry if this is an inconvenience!)

I’ve gotten a lot more comfortable with bigger age gaps since this started. Sometimes I forget I aged Michael down slightly lol

Robby’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day up next!

[elnotwoods]

me, watching eps 1-5 of yr s3: WHAT ABOUT SOME MEDIA TRAINING FOR SIMON AND THE ROYAL COURT SITTING HIM DOWN AND EXPLAINING THINGS TO HIM

[queernobi]

I hate to be the one person who disagrees with this, but man as someone who has read the books multiple times I cannot for the life of me understand how someone reads book Aragorn and thinks he is so cool and chill. Aragorn's parts in the books are easily some of the most boring, which is insane considering one of his quests involves him going to the Path of the Dead because Prophecy Reasons™️. His few moments of actual suffering and conflict in the books themselves (not in his backstory outside of the books, and not in his actual wartime conflicts, of which he is always extremely successful in Just Because™️) come almost exclusively from moments where he expects to be in control, but isn't--things like Boromir's death (it's telling he frames this as "things keep going amiss for me today" in the books), or the aforementioned prophecy of going through the Path of the Dead. You would think the guy who goes through as much as he does in the story would show any bit of characterization beyond, "Well, I guess I gotta Do This Thing for Plot And Prophecy Reasons," but he does not. Even in moments where you would think he should take a far more active interest in the things around him, he does not, and seems compelled to action mostly because of prophecies or some sort of duty to his colleagues (and I very specifically say "colleagues" because while the other characters have pretty nice moments of genuine connection with each other, I never get the impression with any of Aragorn's interactions with the others that he feels any particular affection for them, even when he bluntly states it). The most interesting thing about his character is that he has a literal "Chosen One" narrative going for him, yet when I read the books I'm still far more interested in the hobbits.

I said this on BlueSky, and someone who responded to me there put it best:

"'This character is the last in a long line of doomed heirs to the kingdom, and he has spent 80 years being miserable and alone in the woods and having beleaguering adventures with elves.'

'Oh that sounds awesome can we see any of that?'

'No. I wrote a poem about how sad elves are all the time.'"

after a lifetime of hearing about aragorn but not reading the books or watching the movies, genuinely nothing could have prepared me for his actual introduction. the hobbits picked this man out of a dumpster. he is a textbook softspoken angst prince and he is covered in dirt and he probably smells so bad. he’s the coolest man alive and is so casual about it. his number one skill is Knowing Where They Are and his number two skill is Having A Horrible Destiny That Torments Him. tolkien got it in one i’m afraid aragorn son of arathorn you are the guy of all time

[egophiliac]

missed the mark by (looks at calendar) uhhh. hm. but I really wanted to do something for the 5th anniversary! happy five years to these idiots 🎉

[pyrus-salicifolia]

“Normal” test results are not the relief people think they are. When you wake up in pain and continue to be in pain for hours every day and your tests come back normal you don’t stop being in pain.

[fycoren]

so wtf was that episode.

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

main take aways from Halloween (1978) rewatch:

michael myers is canonically 21??? this bitch should be at the club

*sees tiddies* ***MURDEROUS RAMPAGE NOISES***

that's it that's the movie

outside of the fact that everyone who has sex is murdered by the narrative, this is a surprisingly chill portrayal of female sexuality? these teen girls are horny and actively enjoying Getting It On with their boytoys. no pushy boyfriends sneaking in through their bedroom windows--these ladies are taking the initiative to sneak out and GET SOME. one of them gets laid and then immediately orders her boyfriend to get her a beer. (yes she gets Slashered soon afterward, but so does the boyfriend so honestly, gender equality.) yes the Final Girl is the only one not having sex, but she's not bullied for that, nor are her friends slut shamed except possibly by being murdered by the narrative

actually the only character who is shown being morally condemned on-screen is michael myers. specifically FOR his violent overreaction to other people's sex lives. (people he is spying on). metaphorically, the villain is American Puritanism sticking its judgy nose into other people's business.

aka Michael Myers Is A Republican

but actually the real villain is the doctor. guy's a judgemental, shaming, pathologizing asshole. and he's been in charge of michael's care since he was SIX YEARS OLD? kid never had a chance. i'd go on a killing spree too

also the parents. where are the parents? it's halloween night and all the teenage girls are home babysitting their younger siblings? come to think of it, michael's first victim was his own older sister, whom he killed while she was babysitting him. teen girls are really shouldering a labour burden here. maybe parentification is the true villain

side note: mike commits his first murder wearing a clown costume...which is never referenced again? his 'iconic' costume is a generic mask and wig and jumpsuit, when we coulda had a Killer Clown Michael Myers??? travesty

i like how the Final Girl and her friend casually smoke weed in her car. yeah she's an honor student and her friend is the sheriff's daughter. yeah they smoke weed. so what it's 1978

(to reiterate, mike is 21 and should be at the club. im not saying he shouldn't be rampaging, im saying it's sad that he broke out, tasted freedom for the first time in his life, and immediately snuck back into his childhood home to go rampaging. let's have a remake where he goes to a nightclub and has a few beers. maybe some slutty dancing. then rampage)

oh no he's hot

[queenerdloser]

that mark (very recently!) was so fucking pissed about helena using the wrong name for gemma that he went to immediately do experimental brain surgery as a giant fuck you and then DIDN'T anticipate his innie self getting pissed when he got helly's name wrong really underlines how much mark doesn't think his innie loves helly and also doesn't consider his innie to actually be him at all.