#case by case I can be a LITTLE more lax...

[heartbeetz]

In generallllllll I consider myself a nonsharing selfshipper. Especially bc at this point that's largely just shorthand for "Anton is my ultra main f/o rn and I am suuuuper uncomfortable seeing other people selfship with him bc that's like my irl husband who is very special to me". But it is always funny to me when the "case by case" hits in a way that makes me Want to share a certain character. What do you mean you also like him. Can we frolic together. Yayyy lalalalala

[science-hoes]

Angel Kisses

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: graphic medical descriptions, needles

A/N: I thought this fic would be a little less fluffy and more spicy but I just can’t help it. Plus I love Noah Wyle’s barely there freckles. I feel like this isn’t my best work because I had severe writers block. Hope it’s good enough for yall tho 💕

My Ko-Fi :)

—

The Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center was rumored to be the 9th level of Hell. So when it was time for you to begin your schedule for trauma surgery, you prayed for a different hospital. Literally any other hospital.

But there you were, in the depths of the Pitt, working your fifth 12 hour shift of the rotation. Only 1pm, but you felt like someone had changed the clocks because there was no way that the day was only halfway done. You were reading a pediatric patient’s CBC results, getting ready to tell your senior attending for the day, Dr. Jack Abbott, that the child is anemic. But Dana’s voice distracted you:

“You can’t even stay away on your day off. Do you have a life besides the Pitt?” She said to someone out of your view.

“Trust me. This is a last resort.” You heard a man respond, the voice slightly familiar.

You turned around and saw Dr. Michael Robinavitch, the senior attending from your first four days of working here. He didn’t look too different out of his scrubs and navy hoodie that he wore at work. Black joggers and gray long sleeve athletic shirt that hugged his waist…really nicely.

“Last resort for what?” Dr. Frank Langdon called out from where he sat at his desk, charting his patient case.

“I fell of a ladder and tore up my back on the fence in my backyard.” Answered Dr. Robinav- Dr. Robby, you had to remind yourself. “I need stitches, but I can’t reach the cut.”

Langdon winced and leaned back in his chair. “Need me to stitch you up?” He asked.

Dr. Abbott walked up to the desk near Langdon and laughed. “No, he wants his friend to stitch him up. Right, Robby?” He joked, referring to himself.

Robby laughed and crossed his arms, biceps straining against the fabric of the athletic shirt. Damn. “Friend is a strong word. I don’t have friends.” He said with a smile.

Langdon scoffed. “We went fishing last weekend. What does that make me?” He asked.

“I prefer the term ‘coworker that I hang out with sometimes outside of work.’” Robby said, but you could see the teasing in the way his eyes crinkled.

Dana rolled her eyes. “You are all annoying me. Jack, go stitch him up so he can get out of here and rest.” She said before walking off to a patient room.

Robby shook his head. “No, no, just let a med student do it. Good learning opportunity.” He said.

“No med students today. Only interns.” Langdon mumbled as he continued typing on his computer.

Robby clasped his hands together and held them close to his chest. “Even better. I would love for my scar to be in a straight line.” He joked.

Abbott looked to you, who had been watching the group interact from a couple of desks over. Your face flushed slightly, realizing you probably look like an eavesdropper. He motioned with his head toward Robby. “Why don’t you take our patient to holding and fix him up? I’ll take the CBC results.” He said.

“Yes, sir.” You answered, almost a little too seriously. The Pitt was an intense environment, but these attendings did not have the same egos as the ones from your last several rotations.

Robby chuckled at your earnestness. “Hear that, Langdon? ‘Yes, sir.’ You should be taking notes.” He ordered facetiously, pointing his finger at the senior resident.

Langdon looked up from his desk as you began walking with Robby to the back of the Pitt where the holding rooms were. “You know, we tell all of our patients over 65 to be very careful when doing yard work.” He called out.

Robby shot him a bird without turning back around. You smiled at the banter, not used to the lax interactions between physicians of different ranks. Once you made it to the room, Robby sat on the bed, and you grabbed a standard suture kit.

“Is it on your back?” You asked, turned away from him.

“Yeah. I’d do it myself if I could reach it. I managed to cover it up though.” He said.

When you turned back around, his tight fitting shirt had been peeled off his upper body. Holy shit. In the last five days, you didn’t really give yourself time to fantasize about your attending. He was handsome for sure and charming when he wasn’t jumping down a resident’s throat (yet he still had the patience of a saint). His abdomen was well toned, and his chest was smooth. Not what you expected based off his hairy forearms and face.

You must have been staring too much because Robby’s shoulders hunched, as if trying to subtly cover his exposed body. “Let me just take a look at the cut.” You said, trying to come back to earth. You moved to the edge of the bed and removed the bandage that he had placed himself.

You could see the blood that had leaked through the dressing, but you were not prepared to see the extent of the cut stretch across the majority of his upper back. “Oh, shit.” You swore.

Robby chuckled. “That’s not a comforting thing to hear from your doctor.” He said, shifting uncomfortably as the cold air of the hospital struck the wound.

You shook your head in a panic. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t say that to a normal patient.” You covered for yourself.

Robby shook his head. “No, no. Listen. You’re taking everything a little too seriously. Just relax. Roll with the punches. That’s the only way you’ll survive down here.” He explained.

You nodded, taking in a stiff breath anyway. You disposed of the bandaging and picked up the lidocaine syringe. “Okay. I’m about to start injecting lidocaine around the cut. You’ll feel the burning more than the needle.” You said. You placed one gloved hand on his back, giving yourself a guide while you held the syringe in the other.

“90 degrees or 45?” He asked, making you freeze in place.

You paused for a moment, almost afraid to say your answer in fear of being incorrect. “90.” You answered.

“Why?”

At this point, the needle was hovering just an inch above your first injection site. “Recent studies show that patients report less pain with a 90 degree angle.” You said, confident in your sources.

Robby smiled, but you didn’t see it. “Very good.” Was all he said.

You injected the first round of lidocaine, and he hissed at the burning around the open wound. You kept moving around the cut, injecting small doses. “You’re doing great, Dr. Robby.” You praised, just as you would with any patient.

“Fuck, I say that to patients all the time. No wonder it makes no difference.” He grumbled.

You smiled slightly and injected the final dose. “All done.”

Robby let out a heavy breath, hanging his head as the skin slowly numbed where you worked. You began to open the suture kit and sort out its contents on the metal tray near the bed.

“What stitch?” He asked.

You grabbed some gauze and antiseptic from the drawer in the room before returning to his side. You cleaned the skin around the wound where the blood had dribbled down his back in a mix with sweat from working outside.

“Running stitch. The cut is long but not at risk of tension.” You answered. Robby nodded in approval. You carefully started on your first stitch, delicately inserting the curved needle into his skin. “So, you were on a ladder?” You asked.

Robby huffed in slight irritation. “Yeah. Trimming some branches that were reaching over the fence into the neighbors’ yard. I misstepped on the way down and lost my balance.” He explained.

You grimaced. “That sucks.” You said matter of factly.

“Yeah. Maybe Langdon is right. I’m getting too old for that kind of stuff.” He said with a chuckle.

Your hands carefully moved as they continued to sew. “You don’t look old.” You said.

Robby smiled to himself, not expecting you to respond at all. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” You said, glad he couldn’t see your involuntary blush. As you continued to stitch, you noticed all of the spots and marks that dusted his back and shoulders. “I like your freckles.” You noted.

Robby’s mind halted. It was a compliment he had never received. Your words went straight to his chest, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt flustered.

“My freckles?” He repeated.

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah. You got ‘em on your face too?” You asked.

Robby turned his head, not to present his face, but because he was still surprised and wanted to see if you were being genuine. And there they were. A light scattering of freckles across his cheeks and bridge of his nose.

“Yep. They’re precious.” You said after inspecting and returning back to your stitching. Robby’s face flushed, and you could especially see it in his ears as you worked. “You know, my mom used to tell me that freckles were angel kisses. Every time I got a new one, I thought an angel had kissed me. I went an embarrassingly long time into junior high before realizing it was just a tall tale.” You explained.

Robby smiled at the charming story, feeling an unusual feeling of comfort. “My grandmother used to say the same thing.” He said.

You grinned. “Looks like the angels couldn’t get enough of you then.” You teased.

Robby chuckled and ran a nervous hand across the back of his neck, careful not to pull against the skin as you worked. “How’s it looking back there?” He asked, trying to continue conversation.

“I need to run about five more stitches. Then you’ll be on your way.” You said.

He nodded and folded his hands in his lap. “Are you working tomorrow?” He asked.

You thought for a second, honestly not sure. “I don’t think so. My first off day since I started.” You replied. “Are you?”

“No. Seven on, seven off.” He said.

You pulled at the last suture and cut the remaining thread. “All right, Dr. Robby. You’re all cleaned up.” You announced.

“Great.” Robby hopped off the bed and stood up straight, popping a few kinks in his back from being hunched over. He towered above you, losing the intimacy that you temporarily had. “Take a picture and show me.” He said.

You pulled off your gloves slowly, unsure of how to respond. “Of the stitches?” You asked, afraid that he was going to grill you for sloppy suturing.

“Yeah, just to see the damage.” He responded.

You pulled your phone out and stood behind him. Fuck, even his back looked good. You snapped a picture and zoomed in to show him your work. Definitely saving that for later. “Does it look okay?” You asked timidly.

Robby nodded, impressed. “Actually yeah. Don’t think I could’ve done it better myself.” He complimented.

You laughed in relief. “Oh, good. I still need more practice on different suture patterns. I’m just lucky you were a simple case.” You said.

Robby looked down to you, letting his eyes linger as he watched you put your phone away. “If you aren’t busy tomorrow, maybe I can give you a masterclass. All ER docs have to know every suture.” He offered.

You looked up to him, suddenly very aware that he was still shirtless in front of you. You smirked and crossed your arms. “Sure. But only if you teach me just like this.” You said, looking him up and down. “You know, because you’ll need to let those stitches breathe.”

Robby grinned. “Wow. That was pretty smooth.” He admired.

You shrugged. “Just rolling with the punches.” You responded, repeating his quote from earlier. “Give me a call tomorrow.”

And you left. Robby stood there, smiling to himself. He pulled his shirt on and walked out to the desk hub. Langdon was still charting, but caught the attending before he snuck out. “What’s that goofy smile for?” He asked, even though he knew the answer.

Robby shrugged, hands in his pockets, unable to shake the smile off his face. “I don’t know.” He said before walking away to leave.

Abbott leaned against a desk near Langdon. “His ears are red.” He noted. “That motherfucker is in love.”

[sincerelybubbles]

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

[bunni-v1]

HIHI! Before I make my request, I just wanna say that I absolutely ADORE the way you write the crk characters! The posts you have about Shadow Milk are scarily accurate. On another note, I really enjoyed the Burning Spice x reader hcs, and for my request, could you maybe do some Burning Spice NSFW hcs?🤧🙏 I haven't seen many people do requests for him, so I figured I'd step up and ask!

Burning Spice NSFW Headcannons

🍓Girl, I gotta clear out my askbox AGAIN. I clean it out and then y'all come back with a vengeance. Anyway, you were the first person to rq this, so congrats, you get the special answered ask! Yay! Anyway, Burning Spice is SUCH a challenge for me because we have virtually no content of the guy. This is 90% guesswork on my behalf, so please give me grace lol. Sorry if these are short and kinda bad, my motivation is low rn lol

Tw: NSFW; Rough Sex; Marking (like, bruising and biting); blood mention; predator/prey dynamic mentioned

Info: Burning Spice Cookie x Reader; NSFW

-Burning Spice Cookie is surprisingly lax about sex. It's not something that interests him too much, because once you've done it so many ways, you cannot do much more spicing it up.

-Pre-corruption he had sex semi-frequently with various different partners over a long period of time, but the closer he got to corruption the more... boring sex became. There wasn't much appeal other than dominating his partner, and even then, once he did that it was kind of nothing.

-He's experienced and he's very good at what he does, but he doesn't really care to initiate in most cases. Despite what most might think of him, he values the time he spends with you. Sex seems like it would be a waste of it, so he just doesn't bother with it.

-Unless, of course, you seem to be into the idea. Then his tune changes. Oh, his little warrior wants to try something different? Alright, sure, but he won't hold back on you. (He does, of course, because he can't have you crumbling on him.)

-Your first time with him is... interesting. He is, in all meanings of the word, considerate of you and your well-being the whole time. But, he's also doing everything in his power to see what makes you tick. How far can he push you this time before you need to tap out, how many orgasms can he get, how hard can he get your legs shaking?

-He likes to push you. A big part of his style of sexual intercourse is dominating. In most cases, he likes to go as hard as he can as fast as he can, but he has an inhuman tolerance when it comes to you. So he takes his time figuring out how to dominate you.

-He likes things that puzzle him, he likes having his mind challenged, he likes to have something for his mind to do. With sex, this is especially important. He gets off on the thrill of figuring you out, he wants to see the way you react to everything.

-He's big on predator/prey dynamics, like, really big on them. He likes to set you loose and give you a fixed amount of time to throw him off your trail. Run, hide, set traps, and he'll come after you like a wild animal starved for weeks. You always think you've got him, but he waits until you're comfortable to strike, and he takes you wherever he finds you - so hiding in public isn't a smart idea... or it is... depends on what you're into.

-Speaking of, he is a big proponent of public sex. Like I said in his initial headcannons, he loves to show you off. You both have a lot of pride in being the other's partner, so why not show it off in every way possible?

-Usually, this manifests as him having you bounce on him on his throne while loyal followers come and praise him. They'll be showering him with flowery words and begging for his acknowledgment, but his eyes are only on you. He soaks in your nervous expression, loving the way you shy away from the other cookie's eyes.

-It also can be more ritualistic. What I mean is that, he very well enjoys having people watch, so why not make a festival out of it. The two of you will be on a huge platform, surrounded by rich silk sheets and the eyes of his most loyal followers. They cheer the two of you on, shouting praises and exclamations of joy as you reach your climax.

-Do not think that this means he's in any way okay with sharing. He is not, it's a one-way ticket to get crumbled. If any cookie is foolish enough to even propose the idea they don't live to tell the tale. Look, enjoy, but don't touch.

-A lot of sex with him actually starts as sparring. You are very weak compared to him, so he rarely goes out of his way to spar with you, but he does. When he does, it always ends with you bent over and babbling his name like a mantra.

-He can't help it, the way you fight him with such a cute determined little expression really makes the cogs in his head turn. Flushed face, chest heaving, oh you look heavenly. Wouldn't you look nicer with him splitting you on his dick? Yes, he seems to think so.

-He likes it when you fight back against him, make him work for his own high. It's just what he wants. Kick and bite and punch and scratch as much as you can, he wants to see the marks you leave on him. He wears them with pride, just like you should his.

-And he does mark you up, very well. Your body is littered with bites from him, and you have several new bruises where he restrains you. The most prominent ones are on your thighs, the perfect outline of his fingers practically burned into your dough.

-You always bleed when he bites, his teeth are sharp, and he never cleans it up. He likes seeing the crimson jam dribble down your body. It's a beautiful sight, the very essence of you leaking out for him to see. When he's feeling particularly romantic, he'll smear it across his lips like makeup, and kiss along your body leaving a trail of blood-soaked kisses in his wake.

-Something else to mention, he very much likes to see the two of you connected. He enjoys watching himself sink into you, and he does it in silence. To him, it's beautiful to see your bodies meld together. Even more so, he likes to see evidence of himself in you.

-So, he always cums inside and he never uses protection. He likes to see his cum leak out of your abused little hole, he'll scoop it out of you after the fact with a scary reverence in his eyes. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, but he cleans you up well, so it's best to let it be.

-He also likes to feel himself while he's inside you. He'll press on your stomach so he can enjoy the way he fits more directly. If you squirm, it just makes it all the better for him. The pleasure is only heightened by your wiggling, so keep it up.

-Okay, we have to acknowledge his size. It's impossible not to do so with how big he is in the game - he is significantly larger than every cookie we've seen so far.

-His dick is large, like very large. It's more... normal... than Shadow Milk Cookie's, but it's not regular by any means. It's big, nearly eight inches long, and about five inches thick. It's the same color as his dough all the way up to the tip, which is a deep reddish-brown color.

-The tip is flat and wide, and it's the same thickness along the entire shaft. The first push-in is always the hardest, but as soon as you adjust, it's easy to take the whole thing... well... what you can fit at least.

-Oh, one last thing, his dick is ribbed. Several bumps line the shaft in a nice pattern, and it rubs you inside like a dream. He knows the effect it has on you too, and he uses it to get you to melt against him like butter.

-He's rough, and he goes rather hard and fast, but he can slow it down sometimes. It's rare, and it isn't something he thinks to do in most cases, but occasionally... just sometimes, you'll get a sweeter side to him.

-That doesn't mean it isn't intense, though. It is intense, even more so than his other style of sex. But it's for different reasons this time.

-Instead of fucking he is making love to you, which seems to be out of character, but I promise you it's not. He loves to show you his devotion to you, and a great way of doing that is through sex.

-If you are, for any reason, feeling insecure he uses sex as a means of expressing just how much you mean to him. Words can only do so much, gifts and mortal possessions are meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but this? The physical connection between the two of you? It's something more, something deeper than anything else he could give you.

-He holds you close, usually facing him on his lap, and slowly ravishes you. There is to fighting or bruising or biting like this, just raw passion that he has for you. Not an inch of your skin is without his burning touch, the heat between the two of you fogging your mind until you can no longer think.

-The pace he sets is slow and deep, each thrust and movement a deliberate show of his admiration for you. It's only then that you'll hear him praise you, words of affirmation spilling from his lips like warm honey, encouraging you to keep going for him.

-What is the most intense, what gets you shaking, is the way he looks at you. His eyes are unblinking and affixed to your face with nothing but sheer devotion and love. He doesn't let you shy away either, you need to look at him, to see how much he adores you. Only once you are jelly against him will he be satisfied that he has done his part.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot smut [18+]

luxury & lingerie. a retail au

“𝐀𝐥𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲’𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞. 𝐋𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭. 𝐈’𝐦 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤.”

ᰔ pairing. retail au - rolex salesman gojo x victoria's secret associate reader (f)

ᰔ summary. gojo is the rolex watch shop's pretty boy & you're the victoria's secret lingerie store's new hire that works across from him. let's just say he's determined to get inside your pants.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, porn with plot (seriously that's all it is), smut, casual sex, possibly comedic, lots of terrible flirting, tiny bit of fluff if you squint, gojo's got a daddy kink that you really have no interest in entertaining, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, creampie, blowjobs, oral sex, praise kink, some degradation, sort of cum play, banter, suguru & choso are in it too (the hot-boy sales trio)

ᰔ word count. 6.5k

a/n. hellooo this started with this concept idea i had of hot retail worker gojo who just wants to flirt with you instead of actually do his job lmfao. this was seriously just a stream of my consciousness. hope you enjoy! and thanks to everyone that wanted to be on taglist for this. creds to @quinnyundertow for the sephora lipstick idea.

The sound of Suguru’s voice was the last thing going through Gojo’s mind right now.

“Anyways, I put the car in reverse, she’s on aux. I’m thinking, she’s gotta have good taste, right? She’s the one that suggested the Maneskin concert in the first place. But you know what she starts playing? Country music. Fucking country music. And I’m not necessarily opposed to a good— dude, are you even listening?”

Choso leans over the polished display case of the mens’ latest Rolex models, staring at the two idiots in front of him. “No, he’s not. He’s been ogling the tits on that mannequin over there for the past five minutes.”

Gojo finally blinks out of his trance, irritated. “I’m not staring at the mannequin, I’m staring at—”

You. New hire. Over at the Victoria’s Secret that was across from his turf at the mall. You were standing on your tiptoes on a mini ladder, wobbling a little, reaching up for a mannequin at the display window to switch out the corny yellow sleeping mask on its face for one that was a more sleek, satin blue. 

The fabric of your uniform slid up slightly, skin of your midriff exposed, and he has to suck a breath in through his teeth.

“I called dibs on that a week ago,” Suguru says from where he stood, lazily leaning on the counter.

“No fucking way. I’ve got dibs.”

“Dibs? Really? I work with a bunch of prepubescents,” Choso groans, tipping his head back to stare up at fluorescent mall lighting.

Suguru’s voice sounds like he’s lax at the jaw. “Is anyone gonna tell her that’s the ladder they use to prop the door open, and not the one to flash Satoru’s horny ass while changing out a mannequin?” 

“I’ll be the one to tell her,” Gojo says.

At the display window, you slowly peel the panties off of the mannequin without a thought in the world to use the store’s modesty curtain, and Gojo, Suguru & Choso are all staring. And probably every other man within the store’s radius.

“Holy fuck,” Gojo says, strained.

“Holy fuck, indeed,” Suguru marvels.

“She’s clueless,” Choso sighs.

“You can have the mannequin, I get the girl,” Suguru offers, something just to get under Gojo’s skin.

“Shut up. I’m going over there.” He stands up onto his feet from the leather client chair he had been sprawled across up until this point of his shift.

“Can’t wait for you to royally fuck this up,” Choso muses with a smirk, arms crossing at his chest.

Gojo grumbles something under his breath when he hears Suguru’s coo of agreement, and then he’s making his way across to the Victoria’s Secret entrance. He unbuttons the top two buttons of his black dress shirt, as if he expects the sight of the skin at his collarbone to have you seduced like a victorian man seeing a lady’s ankle for the first time.

He makes it through the welcoming glass doors that lead into the sultry & dark ambience that you would expect of a lingerie store, and he rounds to the right, stopping a few feet away from you.

You were combing through a rack now, lips pursed in concentration until he clears his throat.

Glancing over, your shoulders tense and you pull your retail headset earpiece down, leaving it hanging by the wire that was clipped to the neckline of your shirt. His eyes flicker to the nametag pinned above the curve of your breast. You look at him with wide eyes. “Oh, hi sir. How can I help you?”

“Oh, no, I’m not a customer,” Gojo quickly corrects you, although he liked the sound of sir from your lips, “I work over there.” He points with a jerk of his chin towards the obnoxiously gaudy exterior of the Rolex watch store facing the two of you.

You blink at him. “Ah, I see.”

“You new here?” Gojo asks, taking a step forward and resting his elbow up on the metal bar of the rack just to get more into your space. “Haven’t seen you around.”

The corner of your lip turns up slightly at his words. “Why? Do you keep a roster?”

“I—no, not really,” he responds, already a little speechless, “wait, a roster of what?” He’d say he does if it’s a roster of pretty girls he’s been fantasizing about tit-fucking all day long, with you being at the top—no, the only one—on that list.

You shrug a little. It’s kind of meek and cute. “Of new hires?”

He breathes in deep. “Yes. Yes, I do. I just like to make sure the newbies feel welcome around here. Y’know, taken care of.” 

You smile, turn to face him and relax your posture. “Oh. That’s sweet. Yeah, I feel pretty welcome here, thanks.”

“That’s good.”

“I mean, everyone’s been really nice to me so far.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm, and I really like the break room on this floor. The last place I worked at didn’t have a toaster oven.”

“No way.”

“I wish the clock-in machine was easier to use though…”

“For sure.”

You glance at him suspiciously in the middle of your rant. “Why are you staring at me?”

“Cause you’re real pretty, angel.”

Your brow raises, the keys hooked to the loop of your jeans jingling as you place a curled hand to your hip. “Angel? Really? Cause of— cause of Victoria’s Secret angels?”

Gojo’s stiff, his elbow still resting on the cool metal pole, and he glances up at the ceiling before looking back down at you. “Uhh…sure? Yes.”

“That’s not very original.”

“Man, you’re really making me work hard for this. Unfortunately, that only makes me want you more.” He leans down closer to you, to catch the scent on your skin, and he can’t tell if you’re amused or annoyed from the way your cheeks round as you narrow your eyes at him.

“This is you working hard for it? You haven’t even told me your name yet, watch boy.”

He sees your fingers wrap around the cold metal bar of the rack, and he tries hard not to picture them wrapped around something else, but to no avail. You jut your hip out to bump him, pushing him out of your way, before you start rolling the rack down the store.

He trails behind you. “My name. It’s Satoru. But to you, I can be dadd-”

You stop in your tracks, turning around to face him with a scowl, but he was too distracted by the shape of your backside to be reflexive enough to stop himself in time, and he ends up crashing right into you. The momentum has you falling back with a gasp, tripping over the foot of the rack, and his arm flies around your waist to keep you upright, and then pressed up against him too just for good measure.

His face is just inches away from yours. “Shit. Sorry.”

Your arms are squished between his chest and yours, pinky tickling the skin at his collarbone, and the contact has him reeling. “I-It’s fine,” you say, lashes fluttering, “now let go of me, before I file a harassment complaint.”

He instantly retreats, releasing you, watching you stumble a bit before gaining your balance again. “God, no, please,” he sighs, “I really need this job.”

“You don’t act like it,” you mumble. You fix your hair in front of him and tuck the fabric of your shirt that came loose back into your jeans. He doesn’t have to touch your cheeks to know they feel hot, he can tell from the purse of your lips and the way you won’t make eye contact with him. 

The voices of a couple women are heard from down the aisle, as well as the plastic clinking of hangers on racks as they peruse the sheer bralettes dangling in color-coded fashion. Gojo sees you struggling to pull the rack you were working with away to the side to let them through, and he comes up behind you, gripping the metal bar to do it for you. He catches the fragrance of your hair at the crown of your head, and he inhales slowly.

The women walk by, throwing a few curious glances at the two of you, and Gojo doesn’t move from where he’s holding onto the rack and has his arm pressed against yours, his only lifeline to find some reason to touch you right now.

You start pushing the rack forward again, and he continues to follow you, keeping a more respectful following distance this time. He’s distracted by the pair of crotchless panties hung over your shoulder. He picks them up by the string. “Who the fuck actually wears these?” he asks, dangling them in front of his face and turning them around in the air to inspect it.

Your eyes are set forward for your destination. “Middle-aged women that are desperate to seduce their husbands before those men ride the high of buying a $100k watch by fucking a twenty-something-year-old instead.” You snatch the pair from his hand. “I’m rooting for those women. The men at your Rolex store? Not so much.” 

He’s on your heel until you round to a smaller section of the store, wheeling the rack over to a corner near the collection of lace panties sprinkled across cubbies under dim purple lighting. He glances over his shoulder and takes note that this area’s tucked away from the eyesights of the cash registers and storefront. 

He hears you sigh, then say “Why are you following me?”

He meanders closer to you with his hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks. “Because…y’know, like I said, I wanna make the new hire feel settled in.”

“I literally feel so very unsettled by you right now,” you say to him with a wry expression as you start sorting through lace underwear, referencing some chart in your hand to get it right.

He walks up to you and peers over your shoulder at the illustration, and notices the way you stiffen a bit but also lean back into him. “Huh…so the cheeky panties go in the left top & bottom cubes. And they’re the ones with medium coverage and…” he squints his eyes at the chart, dim lighting doing him no favors, “and they have an alarming fit.”

You scoff through your nose. “It says alluring fit. Can you read?” 

“I— shut up. Yes I can read.”

You twirl around to face him, a hint of an amused smile to your lips. His eyes widen a bit at the sight of it, until he registers it’s a cheeky one, like those panties.

“Watch boy is illiterate. Must be why you still work in retail.”

“Yes, keep being mean to me, new hire. It’s hot,” he groans, hands still in his pockets as he leans towards you. You don’t shy away, just keep on looking up at him in this little corner he has you in, a twinkle in your pupils now that he wasn’t seeing earlier. 

He’s surprised when your finger hooks the fabric in between two of the buttons on his shirt. You play with the material, pinching it, but never tug on it. “What’s a grown ass man like yourself doing still working for commission at a mall?” 

“Okay, ouch, a little too mean,” he backtracks, watching your tongue briefly swipe across your lip, “let’s be a bit nicer.”

Now you’re tugging on the fabric, hooked finger pulling him closer to you until his hands have to fly out of his pockets and his palms press against the wall, caging you into it. “Illiterate and can’t take a dig. Pick a struggle,” you say to him with a sweet look up.

He’s getting the sense that you’re into him too. He grabs hold of your waist, thumbs rubbing your torso over the fabric of your uniform just to get a feel. “Well,” he starts, bringing your hips forward to his, pressing the erection he was building against you, “this illiterate retail worker could fuck you real good if you’d just give him the chance.”

A small gasp leaves your lips, eyes widening and you tuck your bottom lip under your teeth. Fuck, he wants to kiss you. Wants to be the one biting your lip right now. Your hand grabs his forearm, over the veins strained from his grip on you, your nails sinking into the skin left exposed by his rolled up sleeve. “It’s…It’s real well, watch boy. You’d fuck me real well.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, I’ll fuck you real well,” he tells you, as his head tips towards your cheek, lips brushing against it. It was just a tease, so he pulls away but still looks down at you in closeness. There’s voices around the corner, but he doesn’t really care.

“You’re awfully forward,” you breathe out, and he almost goes insane at the soft whimper that leaves your lips when he can’t help but jerk his hips forward a bit. 

“Y’know what? Fuck it,” he grumbles, pulling the rack across behind him so he’s created a covered haven for the two of you against this wall, and then he kisses you.

There’s a yelp that he muffles from you as his lips move against yours, slow, because you're new to him and he wants to savor it. His hand finds the small of your back, spreads across it, pushing you to arch towards him, and his teeth catch your bottom lip when he feels your breasts press against him. You’re pliant, opening your mouth for him, and he takes up the offer to taste you. Soft & warm pressed up against him, a subtle sweetness on your tongue, and he only pulls away because you squeeze his shoulder hard.

You’re breathing fast, cheeks shy, a little cutely cross-eyed from his proximity when you look up at him. “I-…okay, I’m a little mad that you’re a good kisser.”

He hums, tip of his nose brushing against yours slightly and you grip the collar of his shirt to keep him close. “I’ll kiss you nice in a lot of other places too.”

It doesn’t really take much convincing after that.

“Oh…oh my god—,” you mewl, back against the mirror of one of this fine lingerie establishment’s fitting room stalls, legs wrapped around his waist as he fucks you raw with the aim to please.

“Shit, knew you’d be tight,” he groans, pressing a kiss to your jaw when you tip your head back in pleasure, throat loose with a moan, “pretty little new hire. Just had to break you in.”

“S-Satoru,” you moan through a breath, the sound of his name on your tongue having his cock twitch inside your walls, mixed with the pain of the grip you had on the hair at the back of his head. 

He has your shirt bunched up along with your bra, tits exposed for him. His head dips to pull a nipple through his teeth as he feeds you with a few slow, deep thrusts, and his eye catches the earpiece of your headset, still clipped to your shirt, bouncing around with every one of his movements inside you. “Really hope that thing’s off,” he mumbles against your skin, “but if it excites you to have it on, I—fuck, I wouldn’t really mind either way.”

Your hand flies to his bicep when he runs his thumb over your clit, legs wrapping around him even tighter. “More. Need more,” you say, head in a haze, and he really could’ve cum inside you right then and there but he holds out to enjoy some more time buried in the warm pleasure of your cunt.

“If you want something from me,” he grunts between thrusts, “you’re gonna have to beg me for it, love.”

“Fuck me harder,” you cry, eyes shut closed, and he almost feels sorry for you.

“That’s a demand,” he informs, pinching the flesh of your ass and enjoying the way you clench around him from the action, “I told you to beg.”

“Please, oh my god, please—,” you start, moving your hips against his now, and he hears the lewd sound of your flesh slapping more fervently against the mirror. “Please fuck me harder.”

“Good girl. Pretty girl,” he praises you, thumb finding your clit again as a reward, “see what you get for being so nice to me now.”

He bucks his hips harder, your arms wrapping around his neck in desperation, chin resting at the top of his head as his lips fall to your neck, and he kisses, nibbles, sucks, anything to get that sweet taste in his mouth while he draws stars over your sensitive bud, eliciting broken whimpers from you over and over again. 

“Gonna let me cum inside?” he asks, feeling his balls jump at just the thought of filling you up, his thighs feeling hot from the anticipation of you giving him the permission. “All that shit talk earlier about me being a dumb mall worker, but you’d still let me finish in you, right?” His hips stutter slightly, vision starting to blur, and he feels your walls flutter tightly too, “cause I bet it turns you on that you’re letting this dumb retail man fuck you senseless in a flimsy little fitting room right now, regardless.”

“Satoru, please,” you’re begging, the crack in your voice hoarse like you’re about to cry from the pleasure.

“Answer me,” he demands, retreating the thumb that was toying with your clit. He pulls one of your arms from where it was wrapped around his neck to pin your wrist to the mirror. “You want me to cum inside you or not?” 

Your hips press so harshly against his that he hardly has any leeway to thrust anymore, and it makes him hiss in protest, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass to let up. “I want—mhh, I want you to cum inside me, please, please,” you plead, desperate, grinding your clit against the skin above his cock, above the place he was buried to the hilt inside of you.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, the sweet words processing in his head, and he loses all sense of control, motions eager and desperate, chasing after his high and his thumb is barely considerate enough to chase after yours too as it rubs relentlessly over your puffed up clit. You shiver against him, walls clenching around his cock impossibly tight, legs wrapping around his waist possibly even tighter, and he feels every nerve as you come undone around him. The gripping sensation your orgasm had on him has him faltering with harsh thrusts forward, and he holds your hips flush to his as the first spurt of his cum spills into you, followed by more with repetitive juts of his hips until he’s emptied himself entirely into you, and you’re just pumped full of him.

You swat at his chest, squirming as he leaks the last drop from the tip of his dick, and he can tell you’re overstimulated.

“Sorry,” he says through a short exhale, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and he slowly pulls out of you, cock falling limp over his thigh, and he holds you until you find footing on the ground, albeit a bit wobbly. 

“Oh no,” you mewl, clenching your thighs together when you feel his cum starting to drip out, and he quickly bends down to hook your panties up back into place. You give him a pointed look. 

“What? The easiest clean-up is not letting it out,” he says, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you to him so he gets to feel the plushness of your bare breasts against him and he kisses the top of your head. “You’re real good, new hire. Or whatever the fucking proper way to say it is.”

He can tell you’re rolling your eyes even though your face is buried in his chest.

“You’re a dumbass,” you say, sounding muffled.

—

Gojo spends about 90% of his shifts meandering across the shimmering tile floors of the mall to the Victoria’s Secret, and only spends about 10% of them actually being a watch salesman. His boss was starting to get real fuckin’ fed up with him, threatening to fire him yesterday for the two-hour lunch break he took because he was eating you out in a storage closet, but he really couldn’t be bothered to care. He was an addict, and he needed to get his fix. Not before annoying the shit out of you, though.

“Alright, daddy’s home. Let’s get to it. I’m on my lunch break,” he says, walking right up to you in the middle of your shift while you’re folding slip dresses onto a display table, his hand reaching for your waist but you retreat from him.

“For that, get the fuck away from me.”

He sighs. “I’ve been wanting to touch you all day long. Do you purposefully walk your gorgeous self across the front of the store that many times just to tease the hell out of me? I’m suffering.”

“I walk across the storefront because I’m doing my job,” you mumble to him.

“No, I swear, you do it to—”

“Sweets,” one of your coworkers calls out to you from the other end of the store, the one with a pink buzzcut that acts kinda scary. “Is that man bothering you?” she asks through a smack of her gum, “want me to call security?”

“Yes.”

“What—”

After a couple of minutes of vindicating himself to mall security that he is not a threat to public safety, which you watch in amusement with no help at all, he’s shortly back at your side in a different section of the store to annoy you.

“When are you gonna wear one of these for me?” he asks, holding up a pair of jaguar-print panties. 

“Never,” you say to him, scanning the tags on the underwear in a box of new arrivals, “those are ugly.”

“Okay, how about these,” he says, pulling a pair out of the box. “They’re see-through. I like that.”

“No,” you say, snatching it out of his hand.

“Oh c’mon,” he groans, doing a quick glance over his shoulder to check if the coast is clear before taking a step forward, pulling you to him by a finger hooked through the belt hoop of your jeans. “I’ll buy them for you. Ring me up.”

You look up at him, hand placed on his chest but you weren’t pushing him away just yet. “Really? You’re gonna buy me panties from the store I literally work at? At least have the decency to shoplift them for me.”

He has a smile on his face when he leans down closer to you, both hands now playing with the loops of your jeans. “Ohhh you’re into criminals. Will you tackle me to the ground if I do?”

“Yes, to arrest you. Not to fuck you.”

“Why not both?”

“Satoru,” you chastise him when you hear footsteps around the corner, and now you’re pushing him away and clearing your throat before busying yourself with the box again as a few customers walk by. Gojo shoves his hands in his pockets, and then his eyes widen a bit when his knuckles hit something.

“Oh yeah,” he says, “I got you this.” He pulls out a small, shimmering black tube and holds it out to you with an up facing palm. 

You lean forward to glance at it. “Is that…lipstick?”

“Yeah,” he says, “the lady outside Sephora was giving out samples.”

You cross your arms at your chest. “The lady outside Sephora was giving out free samples of lipstick to you?”

“Can you just take it already? My arm’s starting to hurt.”

You swipe it from him and inspect it. Popping the cap open, you twist the cheap plastic adjuster so that the tip of the wax peaks out. It was a deep shade of red. “Did she try to talk to you?”

“Uhh, yeah. Something about how this new formula is smudge-proof or something. Was hoping we could test that out.”

You roll your eyes. “She probably wanted to test that out. With you.”

“What, are you jealous?” 

“Not really, no,” you say and hand the lipstick back to him. He looks at you puzzled. “Lipstick isn’t really for me, sorry.” 

“I literally saw you wear some the other day. That’s what gave me the idea,” he says, “of turning my dick into the shade of your lipstick.”

“Could you be any louder?” you hiss at him, glancing at a coworker who could’ve potentially been in earshot.

He shrugs and pinches the tube of lipstick between two of his fingers, holding it up between the two of you. “You sure you don’t wanna?”

Turns out you were not too opposed to the idea, but he had to earn it by making you cum a couple times in the janitor’s closet at the end of the floor. He likes having to earn the sight of you on your knees, it turned him on way more than he had expected.

“My jaw is so fucking sore,” he complains, opening and closing his mouth a few times to stretch it out, then runs a hand across his jawline. “You were a lot less sensitive today. Took way longer.”

“Maybe you’re just not as good as you think you are,” you say, pulling the buckle of his belt loose, sitting back down onto your heels to get more comfortable while you undress him.

“Bullshit. Should’ve used that insult maybe the first or second time I gave you head. It’s too late now, after the filthy things you’ve said to me in your desperation to cum.”

He watches you flutter your lashes a few times, fingers stopping their movements, and you shift a little from where you were seated on the ground. You were aroused, but still committed to the attitude. “I don’t have to do this for you, you know.”

He shudders a little. “Wait, you seriously don’t want to? You don’t have to.”

You sigh. “You were supposed to demand me to do it anyways. Would’ve been hot.” You pull his belt loose and your thumb and index finger pinch the button open with ease. “You don’t wanna fuck me, though?”

“Of course I want to fuck you, I will always want to fuck you. But the last time we got rowdy in here, I almost killed you when I knocked the shelf over.” A chill runs down his spine. “Not taking any more chances.”

You giggle a little at the memory while zipping down the front, then your fingers dig into the fabric of both his slacks and his boxers, pulling them down until he’s sprung free, fully thick and hard, courtesy of the cute sounds you were making earlier while his tongue was playing with your clit.

“Are you not gonna put the lipstick on?” he asks.

“No.” You grab a hold of him mid-way, giving an experimental tug, and raise from your seated position onto your knees. 

“But—”

“I told you, lipstick isn’t my style,” you say, eyes flickering up to him when you kiss the tip. He sucks a breath in.

“Damn, okay. I was genuinely curious if it was smudge proof. The lady was really hyping it up,” he says and he sees your shoulders drop.

“Enough of the Sephora lady,” you mumble, pressing your lips against his tip again, but as less of a kiss.

There’s a sulk in your posture from where you look up at him on your knees. His heart does this weird thing where it aches a little, and he wants to get rid of the pout on your face with a few sweet words, but he settles for pushing the tip of his cock past your lips instead. Works all the same in the end. “Good girl,” he groans when you take him all the way to the back of your throat, and your fingernails dig into the skin of his thigh as you let out a muffled moan.

“Fuck…” He pulls his hips back slightly, allowing you to adjust, but when you swallow and his tip feels the roll of those muscles, he’s pushing into your mouth again. “C-Can you take more?”

You try your best to give him a nod and you bob your head once, tongue swiping over the vein that was throbbing the proof of his need for you right now. 

“I’ll finish fast, baby,” he tells you, voice husky, fingers combing through your hair gently, “just take it how I want it, and I promise I’ll be quick, okay?”

You nod again, thumb rubbing the skin near his groin in reassurance. You squirm a little and press your thighs together when he grips your hair tighter now, encouraging your head to bob up and down on him, and you do as he wants. Your cheeks hollow out, sucking on him, and he swears he’s already close to cumming.

“Yeah…fuck, yeah,” he grunts under his breath, “good. Just—just like that. You’re so good. Pretty girl,” he juts his hips forward to see if you can take it, and you do, “on her knees for me.”

Your throat vibrates with a moan, and he sees you squirm even more. You take him all the way in, to a place deeper than the back of your throat, so well without a gag but there’s a prickle of tears in your eyes, and he rubs your cheek softly while he feels the sweat collect at his temple. “Oh fuck, I’m— shit, baby. I’m close.”

You drag your lips across his length, retreating with a thorough hollow to your cheeks, and release him with a pop and your tongue stuck out connecting a string of your spit to his tip. Your hand immediately starts to rub him up and down as you look up, and the soft panting leaving your lips and fanning across his cock has him swallowing hard. “S-Sorry, needed a break.”

“That’s okay,” he says, swiping at some of the saliva pooled at the corner of your lip. “Take your time.”

You kiss his tip in acknowledgment, then take him in again, this time both hands working at the base as you bob up and down, more free with your moans and the sensation of them reverberating in the canal of your throat makes him grip your hair with both hands, desperate.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” he grunts, head tipping back and hitting the door. “Real close. Your mouth feels so good, you’re driving me insane.”

You suck on him, hard, taking him in to his favorite place that’s at the back of your throat, and when your hand reaches out to play with his balls, paired with the sensation of fast exhales through your nose onto the skin of his groin, his eyes close shut and strained and he’s jerking his hips forward to spill his cum down your throat. “Fuuuuck. Oh my god.” He exhales, watching you swallow over and over again as he pumps into your mouth, then he slowly pulls out when he feels that he’s done.

You sit back down on your heels, hands now neatly folded on your lap, looking up at him and his thumb prods at your bottom lip for you to open your mouth. You do as he wants, tongue hanging out in the process, and he sighs in satisfaction when he sees you’ve swallowed it all. “Beautiful, baby. Come here.”

With a hand wrapped around your arm, he gets you up on your feet and kisses you. You hold onto the fabric of his shirt for purchase, and he pulls away to rest his forehead against yours. “Doing okay?”

“Mhm,” you nod, tightening your grip on his shirt, “I liked it. Liked it when you said I was good.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “More than good, angel. You’re perfect.”

—

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. You look like you could use a break,” Gojo says to you in Victoria’s Secret on a random Saturday morning. He usually always works on Saturday, but he’s never seen you here on a Saturday before. Apparently you were picking up extra shifts since you were going on vacation next week, something about a wedding in Spain. But you’d worked six consecutive shifts in a row, and the exhaustion was starting to show.

“I don’t know…your store scares me,” you respond back to him. You were behind the register, and he was pretending to buy forty-two pairs of panties just to talk to you.

“It’s not scary. I just want to show you around,” he says, standing up straight from where he had been leaning over the counter.

You eventually give in, toying with your name badge as you make your way around the counter to him, eyeing the smile on his face before he leads you through the aisles and eventually across the mall to the Rolex watch store.

It wasn’t horribly busy for a weekend, but there were still a few clients around. Choso was helping out a regular, a man who has bought four $200k watches within the past two months, and Choso���s been biting his nails worried he’s going to have to play witness in a tax evasion court case should that client eventually get caught by the IRS for fraud one of these days.

Suguru comes around the corner the second he sees you walk through the polished glass doors, and Gojo’s already annoyed.

“Hey, it’s the new hire,” he greets you, stretching his hand out and you accept it in a shake. “I’m Suguru.”

“Not really new here anymore,” you say to him after introducing yourself, “been here for a couple months now.”

“Oh really? Time flies. Thanks for all the shows, by the way,” he jerks his head off to the Victoria’s Secret store, “I’ve enjoyed watching the 101 ways you can remove a bra on a mannequin. Might have to incorporate some of them into my personal life.”

Gojo scoffs. “Yeah right, like a woman would let you within a hundred feet of her bra.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow with a sleazy smirk on his face, before leaning closer to you. “Should we prove him wrong about that, darling?”

Gojo hates the way he sees you blink your lashes at him and blush, so he’s grabbing your hand and walking you across the store, away from Suguru. He circles you around to the back near one of the display counters. Ladies’ new Datejust models, pretty classy and feminine. He walks to behind the counter, with you staying on the other side, like you were a genuine sale.

“See anything you like?” he asks, resting his elbow on the glass and peering down through it.

You blink at him. “Uh…of Rolex watches?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm…” you press your index finger to your chin and glance at a few. “I like that one.” You point with that same finger and he follows the line with his eyes.

“Hm,” he says, using his key to unlock the case, then slides the opening to the side to gently pull the watch out. “Oystersteel and yellow gold, 18 karat. Wanna try it on?”

“Sure.”

He releases the safety clasp, pulling apart the band, and slides it through your hand down to your wrist, then fastens the clasp until he hears a click. You immediately raise your wrist up into the air, twisting it to assess, and there’s a sparkle in your eyes.

“How much is it?” you ask.

“Thirty.”

“Thirty-what?”

“Thirty-thousand.”

Your jaw drops. “Oh my god. Get this thing off of me.”

He laughs and his hands find the clasp at your wrist, unfastening it and you’re trembling a bit as you shake it off before he catches it in his palm. “Not my fault you literally chose one of the most expensive watches we have in this section.”

“This is insane. How do people afford any of these?” you ask, feet wandering and now you’re clearly curious as you inspect the cases.

“We have more affordable watches available for lingerie store workers,” he tells you, clicking his tongue to get your attention and you turn around then follow him to the other end of the counter. He points at the glass. “These are all under three-thousand.”

“Oh…” you peer at them with interest, and he watches you. His eyes fall to your wrist.

“Here,” he says, sliding the display case door open, and pulls out another watch, “I think you’d look nice in this.”

He shows it to you for a second before releasing the clasp and holding onto your hand to slide the watch through it. After fastening it, he looks up at your expression, and his heart’s beating a bit faster. You turn your wrist in the air to marvel at the watch, and he thinks your eyes look stunning from the way the shimmer of the watch reflects off of them.

“Wow,” you say.

“I knew you’d look good in anything rose gold,” he says, both elbows on the counter as he watches you, “this one’s only a couple thousand.”

You’re still a little speechless as you look at it, right index finger tracing the dial. He wants to buy it for you. He could, it’s not much of an issue, he’d just have to kiss goodbye to that used gaming PC he’s been eyeing on craigslist for the past couple of months, but something in his gut tells him it’d be worth it. Something in the soft look in your eyes right now tells him it’d be worth it.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, his voice quiet.

“That it’s beautiful,” you say to him, swallowing and then extending your wrist out to him. “Sorry, wearing it for too long. Probably lost a few hundred bucks in value just from the two minutes it was on my wrist.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll buy it for you.”

Your mouth gapes. “W-What?”

“I mean—if you actually like it. Then, I don’t mind,” he says, suddenly a bit flustered.

“Satoru. That’s insane. This is a two-thousand dollar watch.”

He shrugs. “I know, but it looks good on you. I can’t shoplift this one for you, though. But I’ll buy it if you actually want it. And if you lie and say you don’t like it, just to be nice, I’ll read right through it. So be honest.”

“I…” you start, “I really can’t accept that.”

His eyes are level with yours, and something about your persistence in your refusal just makes him want to buy it for you even more. But he’s not gonna push it anymore. He’ll just try to work towards a day where you’ll accept it from him. Where it won’t even be a question to want to decorate you in something as pretty as you are.

“Alright. Then give it back, it’s probably only worth a couple hundred now.”

a/n. hope you enjoyed!! this was fun to write. it was supposed to be longer but i cut it short so maybe part two lol?? i also wanna write versions for choso & suguru in this au lol maybe like a multi in one verse kinda thing haha i like the idea of a hot watch salesman trio. thank you for reading 💕

taglist: @ohsehuniiee @lost-resonance @whereflowerswenttodie @horisdope @therealestpussyeater @satorminniett @tobaccosunbxrst @alekssashka7 @ritsatoru @angrychinchillanoises @shleepyking @crimsonmarabou @mxlktae @bloopsstuff @slut-4-gojo @lil-cinn @wateronlyhaha @strawberiicreme @wintertoru @mo0nforme @whispersofbeskar @who-can-touch-my-boob @quinnyundertow @ramluvr @anthastudios @sabokunsmalia @ninjaturtletoes @rylierev @dvarlinggg @heyitsmirae @sleepyyammy @lofasofabread @lolthatsnice @tetsuski @bakuhoethotski @sureconfused

[help-itrappedmyself]

Dead on Main AU 2

Masterpost

Jason blinks and he is not where he used to be. He can already tell he’s shorter and skinnier, and he’s staring at physics homework so he’s probably younger too. It takes him a moment to run all the scenarios. He knows what is most likely, he knows that soulmates body swap at sixteen and... Well, he’s not sure if he was dead or not for his sixteenth birthday, but he had been living on the assumption that he had missed it, whenever it was. 

Now he thinks that he’s the older one in this relationship. If his soulmate just turned sixteen, he’s still a minor. Society gets a little more lax about these things when it comes to actual soulmate relationships, but Jason- despite the age difference only being around two years- is not lax about it at all. So if this is what he thinks it is, he is going to have to have a talk with his soulmate about being just friends for a while. 

Which should be fine, it’s not like they know each other at all yet. Getting to know each other should take a while anyways. Though, he could start that now.

He looked to the right and saw the door to the bedroom on the same wall as the desk he was sitting at, and the door to the closet on the next wall. The bed is against the wall behind the desk, sitting in between two windows. There’s a nightstand with a lamp on it next to the bed and a chest of drawers against the wall to his left that has a mirror hanging over it. There are space posters on the walls all around the room.

Jason gets up and walks over to the mirror. The boy in the mirror is short and skinny, just like he thought. He has blue eyes and black hair that flops over his face. Jason takes a second to wonder if the kid had plans for his birthday, realizing probably not. It’s tradition nowadays to spend your sixteenth birthday with just your family in case the switch is made. 

So, Jason's soulmate is what appears to be a normal, messy teenager. Posters, clothes on the floor, homework to do. Jason goes over to double check the homework, to see if he can find any that’s finished. There, his math assignment is already done, and it seems his soulmate’s name is Danny Fenton. He takes a closer look at all the school supplies and in his backpack and doesn’t find anything with the school name on it. 

Taking another look around the room, Jason doesn’t see a phone, and it wasn’t in the backpack. Jason tries not to feel weird as he pats around his soulmate’s pockets. He finds a phone, thinks for a second, then types in his own number and calls.

It rings for a second. Someone picks up, but all Jason can hear is shouting until he hears his own voice.

“Um, hello, Jason?”

“Yeah, this is Jason. You with my family?” 

“If the people that were in the room with you before are your family. I really only have confirmation that one of them is your dad.”

“Have those motherfuckers not even introduced themselves?” 

“Sort of. Eventually.” Jason heaves a long sigh. Danny chuckles.

“Right, well your name is Danny right?”

“Yeah! Have you talked to my family yet?”

“No, haven’t left your room. Your name was on your homework though.”

“Oh, please do not judge the homework.” Jason laughs, he does not know how Danny made his voice sound like that, breathy and higher than his voice has been in years.

“Didn’t even look at that part. So, I’m assuming that you guys are coming to me?”

“I think so?” There’s a bit of a commotion. “Stop it, buzz off!”Is said away from the phone. “They said yes.”

“Please tell me they’re not all planning on coming.”

Danny makes an I don’t know sort of hum. “Look, I do need to warn you… about a few things actually. Jazz, my sister, her room is across the hall and she’ll be able to help you if you. I sort of have… like a medical condition. I would rather explain that to you in person, but she’ll watch out for you if you go meet her.”

“I can do that. Anything I should look out for?”

“My parents leave all kinds of weapons around the house, and sometimes they’ll target me-you- at random, so try not to touch anything, and either stay upstairs or have my sister take you somewhere in town. Whatever you do, don’t go in the basement, the lab is down there.”

“Kid, what?” Jason rubs his hand down his face.

“This is really an in-person talk.”

Jason feels like he can relate. There are a lot of things a soulmate should know that Jason doesn’t know if he’s ever going to tell Danny but if he did he would want it to be in-person. “Sure, okay. Find Jazz, preferably leave the house.”

“Yep!” Again, Jason does not understand how Danny makes his voice sound so peppy. “Is there anything I should know?”

“Shit, if I had time I would give you a warning about everyone in my family individually, but for now… I don’t know if this will translate over…” It will, but there’s really no way to explain that. “I have… I guess it’s sort of a health condition as well. My family knows what triggers it, and they should be on their best behavior right now anyways, but if you wouldn’t mind putting someone on the phone I can threaten them properly.”

Danny laughs and Jason hears a beep, before “You’re on speaker!” is called out.

“I swear to god if any of you scare him, hurt him, or anything I’m going to kill you. I know everything you love and if you don’t act normal, just know, it will be destroyed.”

“Yeah, yeah. Jay, this is your soulmate!” Dick sounds way too excited.

“Also, most of us love you so that threat doesn’t work as well as you think it does.” Steph yells.

“Bitch, I died once, I’ll do it again. Don’t test me on this right now.”

The room through the phone quiets down quickly except for Danny’s laughter.

“Oh, wow, same.”

“Danny! You know how we feel about the death jokes.” Jason hears as the door behind him opens. Talking starts up on the other end of the line, but he ignores it for the moment as a tall redhead walks in the room. She stops in front of him and raises her eyebrow.

“You must be Jazz.” Jason says. This gets a hush on the other end of the line. “I’m Jason.”

[stvrnioloslvt]

⋆˚࿔⊹ ࣪ ˖─ performative anxiety

pairing... ꒰inexperienced!matt × inexperienced!reader꒱

-mhm- a soft appreciative hum came from the back of matt's throat, shy hands tentatively grabbing your waist and pushing you harder against his groin.

you sighed softly into the kiss, tangling your fingers into his fluffy hair and tugging at them gently. you rolled your hips, dragging the motion as much as possible to feel every inch of matt's boner inside his sweats.

-wanna touch you,- you whispered, adrenaline boiling under your skin. you and matt had been together for a few months, and you never did anything more than kissing and grinding. as much as you liked it, you just— wanted, no, needed more. you wanted to feel his warm body lighting on fire under your touch, your breaths mingled together in the weight of the shared intimacy.

matt nodded immediately, almost rushing in his movements as he pulled his pants down. you didn't look, aching to touch him, yet too shy to look at his naked body. inexperienced hands reached his briefs, fingers gently tracing the shape of his hard dick, observing as he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, his back going lax against the headboard.

you peeked down for a second, just enough to catch the sight of the wet patch drenching his briefs. you bit back a smile, happy that you had as much effect on him as he had on you.

-tell me if I'm doing it right, okay?- matt nodded, peeling his eyes open as he felt your hand reaching inside his briefs, wrapping around his cock while pushing his underwear down. you stroked him softly, enjoying the warm feeling inside your hand. you couldn't help but notice that it felt way softer than you thought, warm, yes, but so—

-fuck,- muttered matt, grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand far from his cock. your eyes snapped back to his flustered face, his ears tinged pink and eyes low in embarrassment. -I'm sorry, did I...-

-no, no, kitty, it's not you, it's...- matt groaned in frustration, tugging at his dick in an almost harsh manner as he tried to make it hard again. he groaned, throwing his head back in defeat once he realised that no matter how hard he tried or wanted to— his body wouldn't cooperate.

-fuck that's so embarrassing, I'm so sorry,- he whined, hiding his face in his hands. -matt,- you whispered, gently grabbing his wrist and taking his hands off his face. your heart ached at the view of his teary eyes, and you could clearly see the frustration bubbling in his veins.

-'s alright,- you continued, kissing his forehead lovingly. you hugged him to your chest, holding him tighter when you felt his hands digging into your back almost like he wanted to melt into your body.

-I can't— I feel like a kid, fuck- he whined, voice muffled by your skin. he sniffled softly, rubbing his red-shot eyes. -you're not, love. it happens, it's normal-

-but...-

-ah ah, no buts. I don't wanna hear any bad thing about you, got it?-

matt sighed, nodding softly. he melted into your palms, a little smile tugging at his lips. -I love you,- he whispered.

-I love you too, sweet boy.-

© stvrnioloslvt

divider by @bernardsbendystraws

a.n: kinda wanna turn this pairing into an au ngl... anyway! since on here we can find like 90% of the time the "perfect smut", the "perfect sex" or, in rare cases, what happens when reader has a mental block during sex or just doesn't feel like it, I decided to get inspiration from something that happened to me some time ago to raise awareness (I guess) that it can happen to men, too, and it doesn't mean that they don't find you attractive or that you're doing something wrong! sometimes our nerves just get the best of us and our body "turns against our wishes". it's fine, it's completely normal! next time is gonna go better <3

taglist: @shadowthesim237 @sturnioloszn @marrykisskilled @x0x0bunny @izzylovesmatt @gabrielaperez11 @ivysturnss @watercolorskyy @bluestriips @sllutty-sturniolo @mattsturniolover @emely9274 @boomshakalaka12381238 @lovergirl4gracieabrams @sturnsrecord @strnilolover @wastelandzella @sturnslutz @harmonysturniolo @mommymomm @mattsbrowser @chrislova @courta13

[leashybebes]

fuck it friday

snippet from a 5+1 learning things about each other fic i'm working on. also, sal is here. hi sal!

As soon as he steps out of the Jeep, Buck narrowly avoids getting taken out at the ankles by someone's wheeled suitcase. "Still love LA?" 

"C'mon, baby, leading question. No one loves airports."

"I missed you," Buck says, and it's like the six hour flight just melts off of Tommy immediately, his eyes going soft and that beautiful, crinkly smile Buck loves so much spreading across his face.

"I missed you, too."

There's a grunt from behind them as Sal hoists a case up into the back of the Jeep. "Sure, you guys carry on, don't worry about me."

"We won't, and also shut up," Tommy says cheerfully, pulling Buck into a quick, warm hug. "I love you. Sorry about this guy."

"Hey, don't apologize for me, I did nothing wrong."

Tommy's eyes flick away from Buck's face for a second. "Don't act like an asshole and I won't have to. Did you thank Evan for picking us up?"

"Sure, whatever, thanks kid."

"Oh, uh. No worries." 

"Great, cool, can we get in the fucking car and get out of here?" Sal asks, from where he's already settling into the back seat. 

It's probably entirely to annoy Sal, but Buck doesn't object when Tommy pulls him in for a soft kiss.

"I really did miss you," Tommy says, one finger hooking into Buck's belt loop to pull him closer.

"Yeah? Not gonna leave me for the east coast any time soon?"

"Ew."

Buck fits his thumb to the cleft in Tommy's chin and steals another kiss. He opens his mouth to say something disgustingly sappy and is interrupted by the sound of the Jeep's horn blaring.

"I'll kick him out as soon as we get up to speed," Tommy promises.

Buck pats Tommy's chest, carefully doesn't let his hands wander. He likes Sal - he thinks - but he hasn't quite got a read on him yet, so he opts not to irritate him more than they already have. 

"C'mon. The sooner we get in the car the sooner I can get you home."

This time Tommy's smile is small and sly. "Promises, promises."

Once they're sat next to each other in the front of the Jeep, Buck lets himself look at Tommy because it's not like they're going anywhere any time soon. He looks tired, but he looks good too, because of course he does.

"How was the flight?"

Tommy makes an unhappy noise. "Honestly, I fucking hate flying."

"What?"

"Commercially. As a passenger."

"Oh, someone has control issues," Buck jokes as he manages to nudge the Jeep forward a little.

"That can't honestly come as a surprise to you," Tommy says.

"Come on, guys, there's other people present."

"Shut up, Sal, you're not people," Tommy says absently. The passenger seat jerks as Sal kicks it, and Tommy reaches back without looking to slap at him. "Don't fuck with my boyfriend's car, you animal."

Buck grins. Sure, the pickup area at LAX is a nightmare, and the theoretical thirty minute journey is probably going to be more like ninety, but he wouldn't change it for the world.

[xoxoavenger]

Come Back, Be Here

pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

summary: Y/N dies, but true to their lives, death is never the end. Spanning eight years, Dean and Y/N's relationship somehow continues, even through death.

word count: 5196

warnings: major character death, canon typical injuries, pregnancy

12 Days of Christmas Masterlist main masterlist

Dean dreamt about the day she died every time he fell asleep. Which wasn't often before she died, but now it was even less. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it.

"Dean," She reached for him, but Dean had been frozen. There was so much blood, too much blood, and he knew what that meant. He had gone through it before.

"Baby, no." Dean whispered, finally getting his ass in gear and moving to her. He held her in his arms, knowing there was nothing he could do as soon as he looked at the blood spilling from the open wound on her chest. He trusted Sam was out there tearing the werewolf to parts, but just in case he was ready to scorch the earth in order to get this revenge. 

"It's okay, I promise." She says softly, nodding quickly. Tears formed in her eyes, and Dean could already feel his throat closing up. He'd never felt this kind of emotion, this resignation that settled deep in his chest. He hated it, wanted to fight it with everything in him.

"No, no, I can fix this." Dean said, one arm wrapped around her and the other hand moving over hers. She shakes her head, a smile still on her pretty face.

"There's nothing to fix." She tells him, blood starting to sputter at her mouth. He knew what that meant. "Don't make any deals, okay? Don't run like," She pauses to cough, blood coating her pretty lips and starting to dribble down her chin. Dean has to comfort her. "Like a chicken with your head cut off."

"Y/N," He says it like a prayer, so quiet she barely hears it.

"I love you," She tells him, and he knows it's over. Her voice is weak, her chest barely moving.

"I love you too." He cries softly, looking into her eyes one last time. "I'll see you soon, okay?" He whispers, moving his hand to her head to cradle it close. He leans in, her body carefully held against his, and kisses her forehead as tears run down his face. He feels her take her final breath, her body going lax.

The only thing keeping him from screaming is her laying in his arms.

"All I'm saying is you're not seeing this from Bobby's point of view." Sam says. They're parked in the Impala outside of Bobby's house, not sure how to feel about his dead wife making pies in the house.

"Sam, that thing in there isn't Karen. And if Bobby is too deluded to see it, then," Dean trails off, shaking his head. He feels like he needs to do something, he needs to help Bobby because Bobby can't help himself.

"What if it was Y/N?" Sam asks, which fires up Dean. It's only been a year and a half since she died, and it's still too fresh. It's the first time Sam's mentioned her since he tried to get him to talk about it at first.

"What if it was Jessica?" Dean shoots back, not sure how to make it even.

"I'd feel the same way Bobby does." Sam says honestly, and Dean shakes his head. He starts to get out of the car.

"Which is why I need to go in there and take her out before," His words get lost in his throat as he looks over at the woman leaning against one of the cars in the yard. It's not Karen, but she is dead.

"Y/N?" Dean had forgotten about how they had buried her ashes in South Dakoda, the closest they could get to home. He blinked as he stared at her - she was a little pale, eyes sunken a little, but her body was unharmed. There was no blood. She was even wearing a sundress and a dark jean jacket that Dean thinks may have been his at one time slung over her shoulders. It's the outfit Dean had put on her when they burned her, even though Sam and Bobby both looked at him weirdly when he brought her out in different clothes. Now, he thinks this is the best idea he'd ever had, because she's never looked more beautiful.

"Hi, Dean." She says, voice sweet but not sickly.

"How are you feeling about Karen now?" Sam says as he gets out of the car, and if Dean weren't so enraptured by his dead lover he would have slapped his brother so hard the crack of his hand would have sounded like a gunshot.

"Baby," Dean walks forward, hunting instincts be damned. His mind is flashing with the memories of her dying in his arms, of him holding her close but not close enough.

"I know you won't believe this," She tells him, pushing off the car but keeping her distance. "But it's really me, Dean. It's," He just keeps walking toward her until he puts his hands on her cheeks, looking at her face. Everything is quiet for a moment, Y/N looking up at Dean and him trying to decide if he's about to kiss a zombie.

He does.

He rubs his thumb against her cheek as she kisses him back, and then he pauses. The scar underneath her eye from when a demon got too close to stabbing her eye out. It's there, even though when Dean came back from Hell he was scarless. He moves back, slipping a hand under her dress and all the way up her torso (on the side away from Sam, he's not an idiot). The claw marks from the werewolf that had clawed her before Dean had been able to kill it were gone. All that was left was smooth skin.

"What's going on?" Dean whispers, tears in his eyes. He doesn't know if he wants to understand, doesn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. It's like she's back to the day before she died, perfect and whole and his.

"Dean," She puts a hand on his face, because she knows what he's thinking. She was there when he went to Hell, and she was there when he got back. She knew all about how his wounds and scars had been healed, and she knew this would make him confused. She knew she had to tell him the truth.

"It's Death," She wishes they had just a moment to themselves, something more than just the kiss. But this was their life. This had always been Dean's life. "He brought everyone back. Back to before we died, because I'm assuming I was cremated." She hates that she leaves part of it out, hates that she has to say the rest.

"I don't understand." Dean says simply, eyes closed as he rests his forehead on hers. His hand is still under her dress, burning her skin.

"He did this on purpose." She whispers, leaning back to look in his eyes. "He brought me back to distract you."

"It doesn't matter. You're back, that's all I care about." He kisses her again, and she lets him for a few moments.

"That's what he wants. You know this isn't right." She says when he finally pulls away.

"I've come back. Sam has come back. You can come back too. It's your turn, I don't want to live without you anymore." He presses himself into her, as if that would stop her from leaving.

"Not like this, and you know it." She brushes her hand against his face, up through his hair and to his neck. He knows that she's right. He knows that this can't last, that something is going on. Even Death himself can't make Dean Winchester happy, apparently.

"Well," He leans back, wiping his face as if he's not about to fall apart at the seems. "If you're back, might as well help us out." He turns to Sam, who is smiling sadly at them. Dean can practically read his thoughts.

This is going to kill Dean.

~

"Sheriff Mills," Y/N smiles as Jody opens the door. She's surprised Dean let her leave on her own, even after she had to swear up and down she'd only be gone an hour. She's pretty sure she knows why the sheriff is fine with the dead rising, and it's the same reason Bobby is fine with it. "I'm Y/N. I just wanted to talk to you about the stuff going on the town." She hopes Jody knows what she means, and by the darkening of her face, Y/N thinks she does.

"I don't know who you are, but you need to leave." Jody says with a tight smile, going to close the door. Y/N puts a hand on it, stepping a little closer.

"I'm Dean Winchester's girlfriend." Y/N explains, taking a deep breath. "I died, but now I'm here. And I know that the same thing has happened for you, too. But I also know that it's gonna turn." She tries, but Jody just looks angry as she turns behind her and then walks out to meet Y/N, closing the door behind her.

"Listen, you don't know anything. And I am not giving this up just because you think that your luck can't get any better than rock bottom." Jody says lowly. Y/N shakes her head, turning to look through the window. She sees a little boy, but he seems a little lost. Y/N looks back at her.

"It's your son." She says, hoping this doesn't drive Jody away. "I'm sorry, I can't imagine,"

"You're right, you can't, because you're dead." Jody accuses, and Y/N knows she's lost her. "I'm glad you came back, I am. I just met Dean, but I can tell he's a little rough around the edges. I'm sure your death had something to do with it. But you're not going to take away my happiness." Jody walks back into the house without another word, and Y/N just sighs. She gets back into the car she borrowed from Bobby, making the short drive back.

That's when she starts to feel sick.

She knows it's over then, knows what has to happen. She sits in the car for a moment, thinking about how this is going to break Dean. She doesn't know if it's better to kill herself out here or let Dean kill her or ask Sam to do it. In the end, she knows either of them finding her body would be worse than asking one of them to kill her.

"Y/N!" Dean's by her door, and she startles. Dean opens up the door, and she realizes how hot she was in there. He must realize it too, and he puts a hand to her forehead. "You're burning up." He whispers as he helps her up, and she just nods, leaning against him and soaking up what she knows will be the last couple minutes.

"Sheriff Mills, she has a son. That's why she won't do anything." She tells him as they walk into the house. Dean helps her up the stairs, into the room they'd always stay in when they were with Bobby.

"It's okay, it's fine." Dean tells her as he lays her on the bed. He wipes the hair away from her face, but she can see the tears in his eyes.

"You have to help her." She tells him, sweat pouring from her skin. She tries to smile, but there are tears threatening to fall from her eyes now too. "Something's wrong."

"No, no, it's okay." Dean says, slipping into the bed next to her. He holds her, and she feels wrong. She's sick, and it's not okay. She shouldn't be sick. 

"Don't lie to me in my last moments." She says, their foreheads pressed together. He grabs her hand with the one that's under her body, and that's when she looks over and realizes he has his gun in the other hand. "I'm turning, aren't I?" She asks, and then they hear the gunshot downstairs.

"I can't do this." Dean says, tears falling down his face. "It was bad the first time, I can't be the cause of it." He says, and she reaches a shaky hand down to his.

"I'm sorry," She says, even though they both know it isn't her fault. "I promise when we meet again, it'll be better." She tells him, kissing him one last time before leading his hand up to her head, pressing the barrel of the gun against her skull.

"I still love you," Dean whispers, sniffling. "Even more than I did back then." He's not even lying, is the worst part, and it breaks her heart. She wishes he would move on, that he could be happy. But she knows if she were in his situation, she would never be able to.

"I love you too. When we see each other again, it'll be better." She repeats with more confidence, squeezing his hand around the gun and kissing him again quickly. She nods once, and then watches him close his eyes. She closes hers too, so he doesn't have to look into her lifeless eyes.

He never sleeps in that room again. 

~

"I'm going to give you what you want most."

When Amara had said it, Dean wasn't sure what he had wanted most. There were a lot of things he wanted in this world; free pie, cheeseburgers served at every restaurant, his brother's happiness, for Lucifer to just stay the fuck away for good. There were some really unreasonable things that he didn't want to admit, like how he wishes his dad died instead of his mom, or that his mom had never married his dad. But he wouldn't say that he wanted that the most.

He was disoriented in the park, looking around and trying to process what just happened. He wasn't sure he wasn't dead, honestly. So when he turned around and saw Y/N for the first time in 6 years, he froze.

She wasn't wearing the sundress and jean jacket that they had buried her in like she had been last time he saw her. She was wearing the jeans and jacket that she had been when she was mauled, and she looked like she was confused.

"Y/N?" Dean asks, and she blinked at him.

"What the hell is going on?" She's breathing heavily, looking around like something was chasing her.

"Y/N, you're okay." He's trying to convince himself as he walks towards her, but she continues to look around.

"Dean? Dean, where did they go?" She asks when he finally gets close enough, grabbing onto his biceps.

"What?" He mutters, still in awe that she's there, that Amara has somehow saved her.

"The werewolves?" She asks as if it's obvious, looking around them. She finally looks at him, and then starts to realize. "Why are you wearing different clothes? Why do you look different?" She steps back, taking him in.

"It's okay." Is all Dean says as he takes her into his arms, mind whirling when she struggles away.

"What's going on?" Y/N asks, looking at him. He grabs her hands, and she hesitantly lets him.

"Do you remember Souix Falls?" He isn't sure yet if he wants her to remember or not, because while the reunion sex was great, he didn't want her to have the memory of him having to blow her brain out.

"What?" She asks, clearly confused. He realizes that he's gonna have to be more specific.

"You died." He finally says, and she stares. "The werewolves, they killed you. You've been dead for eight years." By the look on her face, it looks like she doesn't remember anything. Amara must have plucked her right before she died.

"The werewolves killed me?" She asks, then looks him up and down. "Eight years ago?" She starts to breathe heavily, and he knows that she's starting to freak out.

"Baby," He starts, and this time she lets him fold her into his body. He can't help how right this feels, how much he's missed this. Six years ago, he was glad to have her back, but this time is different. This is real, he knows it.

"Eight years?" She mutters into his chest. She's shaking, and he's holding her together. He knows that she's always had what was an irrational fear of losing time, but now that fear has not only become rational but also true.

"I know, I know." He holds the back of her head, wishing he could somehow make it better. "But you're back, shit, you have no idea how it feels to have you back." She lets him squeeze her, knowing he needs this.

"What the hell happened?" She asks, and honestly, Dean isn't really sure where to start.

~

She's a little overwhelmed by everyone at the bunker, by Castiel asking how she got back when he saw her in heaven and Sam squeezing her so hard she's pretty sure she breaks her rib. There's only a couple of them, just the boys living in the bunker, but she can't handle it. She's just learned that she's lost eight years of her life - eight years that Dean lived but apparently he didn't move on? She'll have to ask Sam about that, because it's not like she doesn't believe Dean but more that she doesn't want to believe that any of this happened.

Once she gets into Dean's room, she feels like she can finally breathe. The room could do with some air circulation, but the only trash is the empty beer bottles, so she thinks he's doing pretty good. She stands in front of the closed door, watching Dean simply throw his bag to the ground and jump onto his bed. She looks around, seeing his guns on the walls, some pictures loosely on one of the bed side tables. It looks like only one of them is occupied, even though he has enough stuff between his desk and the table to fill them both. But the left side, the side she always slept on when they were together, there's nothing. It's empty, as if it's been lying in wait for her return.

She wants to cry.

Instead, she goes over to the photos, grabbing the messy stack and gathering them so she can flip through them. Dean grabs her thighs from his spot laying down as she looks at the top photo - Dean and Mary. She smiles, looking down at him as he looks at her like she created the stars and painted the castellations all for him. She blushes and flips to the next one.

Her breath gets caught.

It's her and Dean, the day she died. And it feels like yesterday to her, but the photo is warn with age and the right side, where she's standing, is rubbed raw, the coloring turned to white. She wants to cry - she's already crying. Dean sits up and takes her into his arms, and she carefully puts the photos down onto the table before falling into his arms and crying. Dean holds her tightly, and she can tell just how much he needs it too.

They sleep clinging together, sore when they wake up from holding on so hard. It isn't until a couple weeks later, when Y/N's throwing up in the bathroom for the seventh day in a row, that they start to think that maybe, possibly, Amara brought back more than just Y/N.

"When was the last time we had sex?" Y/N asked, rubbing her eyes as she drank coffee (it was decaf, Dean had switched it out without telling her just incase).

"Y/N," Dean wipes a hand over his face, trying to keep his cool. He's looking through the fridge, trying to find something that she actually wants to eat. "That was literally eight years ago for me." He bites his tongue to keep the rest in, because he wishes Y/N would just take a pregnancy test.

"Okay, well I remember it being only a couple days before. But you had been gone for, like, a month before that, so I'm not sure of this-"

"What have I walked in on?" Sam asks, but he has a smile on his face. Y/N yawns, putting her head in her hands.

"When was the last time you went grocery shopping?" Dean asks, closing the fridge.

"Uh, I'm not sure. But we should have eggs." Sam explains, and Y/N gags between her hands without even looking up.

"Y/N doesn't want eggs." Dean explains simply, and Sam is silent for a second.

"Okay, well, I'm so glad you're back, but we're limited on options." Sam says, and Y/N leans her head toward the ceiling with closed eyes.

"Great, I'm not hungry anyway." She gets up and walks out, leaving Sam to blink at her. Cas is standing in the doorway when she passes, and he just watches her.

"What's wrong with her?" Sam asks, going to the coffee pot. He sees the grounds next to it and notices the green can. "Why is this decaf?" He picks it up, knowing that his brother would never willingly drink coffee that doesn't have caffeine.

"Is Y/N pregnant?" Cas asks, which surprises both brothers for different reasons. Dean did not think that the angel would be one to put it all together, but there he is. The three of them stand silently in the kitchen, everyone looking at Dean.

"Man, you don't waste time." Sam smirks at his brother, and Dean lunges to punch him. Cas moves quickly, grabbing Dean's wrist to stop him from starting a physical fight.

"I only meant to ask a question." Cas said lowly, moving back so they're all standing in the kitchen, some sort of uneven triangle.

"You don't just ask people if they're pregnant, Cas." Dean sighs, because he's pretty sure that if an angel thinks his girlfriend is pregnant, she's definitely pregnant.

"I know." Cas says with a straight face that makes Dean want to hit him. "That's why I asked you."

"I don't know what's going on, alright?" Dean says, stress evident in his voice. "Obviously, I don't remember the last time we had sex eight years ago. But she says it doesn't add up, so," He doesn't know what to else to say.

"Why exactly did Amara bring Y/N back?" Sam asks, and Dean just shrugs as he thinks.

"Something about how she was giving me what I wanted most." He answers. Sam looks to Cas, who for the first time ever seems to have caught onto something before Dean did. "What? What are you thinking?"

"She's given you a family, Dean." Cas explains. Dean looks with wide eyes at his brother and his best friend, then passes out.

~

"You called Jody?" Dean yells to Sam when he opens the door to see Jody with two bags in her hands.

"Who the hell did you get pregnant?" She asks, anger on her face as she storms past Dean and down the stairs.

"It's a long story," Dean starts, rushing after Jody as she walks into the library.

"Yeah, Sam said that on the phone." She sees Y/N sitting at a table, and smiles at her politely as she puts everything down and turns back to Dean. "Seriously, Dean, what-" She pauses, eyes wide as she turns back to Y/N.

"Hi." Y/N waves a hand, small smile on her face.

"Y/N?" Jody looks from her to Dean, then back to her. She blinks, mouth open, then turns back to Dean. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Dean defends, and Y/N narrows her eyes.

"You know who I am?" She asks, catching Jody's attention once more. The older woman blinks a couple times.

"We talked in Sioux Falls." She doesn't explain, and Y/N turns to Dean.

"What happened in Sioux Falls?" She remembers Dean asking her about it, but he never told her about it.

"You never told her?" Jody let out a loud sigh and put a hand on her head, because not only was Dean's dead girlfriend back from the dead, but she was also apparently pregnant.

"She knows she died." He defends, and Y/N wants to rip her hair out.

"What happened?" She yells, and everyone goes quiet. Jody turns to Dean, lips pulled in. He sighs, then turns to her.

"About six years ago in Sioux Falls, when we were fighting the Four Horsemen, Death was trying to get to us." Thinking about this, even with Y/N actually alive and in front of him, makes him sick. "He brought back everyone who was buried in the Sioux Falls cemetery; Jody's son, Bobby's wife," He doesn't want to say it, but he knows he has to. "You."

"What?" Y/N asks, unable to think of anything else to ask. This was the last thing she thought he would tell her.

"The people who came back, they turned into zombies. You went to talk to Jody, but it was too late, we knew what was going on by then." Dean explains, not able to look at anyone as he tries to keep his emotions in check.

"I was a zombie?" Y/N says after a couple seconds, and Dean shakes his head.

"No, no. I didn't let that happen." He told her, and she just nods. So Dean had to kill her.

"Why don't I remember anything?" She asks, looking to Jody. She doesn't recall talking to her at all, and she had already told Dean that the last thing she remembers is the werewolf running at her.

"I don't know." Dean says. "But I know you weren't pregnant then." This further cements their theory that Amara brought Y/N back pregnant.

"Not to be rude, but how are you here?" Jody asks, looking over to Dean and assuming that he had everything to do with it.

"Uh, Dean said that this entity, the Darkness, brought me back as a gift to Dean. We think that she brought me back pregnant to give Dean a family." Y/N explains. Jody's mouth opens in surprise.

"Amara brought you back pregnant." Jody says slowly, and Y/N nods with a sardonic smile on her face.

"Yeah," Y/N nods. "And until Sam can make me a fake ID with a different birth year, I can't exactly go to the doctor about this." She explains. Her original plan had been to see how far along she was, but Castiel had pointed out that whatever IDs Dean had saved of hers' would be off by eight yeras and she wasn't sure if that was believable.

"Well, I brought you some pregnancy tests that will give you an estimate, but they're not exact." Jody says as she starts to grab the boxes out of the the bag.

"I don't think I'm gonna need all this." Y/N says, her face betraying the shock as Jody just continues to bring out more things.

"If you are pregnant, which is sounds like you definitely are, you're going to needs some of these things." She pulls out a the rest and then makes a show of pointing at them as she explains. "Pregnancy-safe anti-nausea pills, prenatal pills, and some other important stuff that I know the boys don't have here. Hairbands, an actual brush." Y/N smiles at this, because while the boys tried, they really didn't have anything for her. She had gone out with Dean to get clothes the other day, but everything looked so different than when she was alive, and she had been overwhelmed by everyone around her. She guessed it wouldn't matter if she was pregnant, because she would have to get new clothes.

She knew Dean wanted this obviously, but it was all so fast. He had lived eight years without her, and now suddenly she was back and they were going to have a kid before they had any time to enjoy themselves.

"Why don't you take this test first?" Jody asks, handing Y/N one of the boxes that will tell her how far along she is. "If you only just started feeling sick, you shouldn't be too far along." Jody then looks at Dean, who just stares back. She tilts her head toward where Y/N has started to walk towards the bathroom, and Dean just blinks.

"What?" He whispers, completely lost.

"Go with her!" Jody says through her teeth, and Dean's eyes narrow.

"To watch her pee?"

"Dean!" Sometimes, Jody can't believe the man's stupidity. "She just got back from being dead for eight years and now she may be pregnant, and this is all your fault. Go be there for her." Finally Dean's eyes widen as he realizes it, and he rushes off to her.

"Y/N!" He says just as she's shutting the door. She startles and turns to him, and he tries to smile. "I just wanted to be here for you." He explains.

"To watch me pee?" She asks with a small smile, and he nervously chuckles.

"I knew it was a bad idea." He mutters. "I'll just be out here, for support." He tells her, and she nods and kisses him quickly before shutting the door.

Waiting for the test to finish felt like it took forever. They didn't want to go back into the living room, wanted to have this moment to themselves with their backs against the wall. It beeped, and Y/N tightened her hand around it.

"I don't want to look." She whispers, turning to Dean with tears in her eyes. "I'm scared."

"It's okay," He says, putting one hand over her hand and leaning their foreheads together. "And I know what you're thinking, but if you don't want this," He says it with tears in his eyes, but she knows he's being honest.

"I want it," She says, because despite all her reservations, she still wants a baby with Dean. "I'm just afraid." She admits, and cups her cheek.

"It's okay." He says, kissing her softly. They stay frozen in the moment for as long as they can, and then she pulls away.

"On three?" She asks, and he nods. "One, two, three." She turns the test over, and sees partly what she had been expecting. It confirms she's pregnant, but underneath it says 3+ weeks in small letters.

"Maybe it's from eight years ago?" She says, leaning back against the wall.

"None of this makes sense." Dean says, hands coming to his face to wipe at his eyes.

"Do you want a baby?" She asks, just to make sure that if this isn't a 'gift' that he'd still be okay.

"Would you kill me if I said yes?" He can't look at her, but she just grabs her hand.

"Well, it's a little too late for killing, considering I'm already pregnant." She puts a hand to her stomach for the first time, and a weird feeling passes through her. She does want this, and she knows that Dean wants this too.

He has the whole bunker. They just defeated the Darkness. Dean knows that he can do this. Maybe he wouldn't give up hunting completely, but he'd calm it down a little bit. He would definitely be more careful.

"Are we having a baby?" Dean asks, his voice high with hope. She smiles up at him, and he can't help the emotion that floods his chest.

"We're having a baby." 

//

tags: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187  @one-sweet-gubler @theoraekenslover @king-of-milf-lovers

[beemochi-art]

Kaaaahhh!! *falls & eats the curb and drops all of my chaos Terran doodles.* BEFORE YOU SAY ANYTHING I KNOW CARS ISN’T DREAMWORKS!! I already got erm actually-ed. Spitfire and Am my poor doomed kids.

For both their designs I took a lil spin on it. For Am this the way I like to draw him. He acts gross so now he can look gross. He also doesn’t look baby in the show so meh, No further comments.

For Spitfire I gave her features that make look stronger and meaner even tho she’s mostly supposed to look just like Twitch. To me there is no point in drawing her just like twitch because the evil twin thing can be ruled out because they are completely different colors and they also went with the body swap thing. So I think making her look stockier and emo is more fun. I should draw a side-by-side comparison sometime.

Spoiler S2 rant* I get a little bit into delulu land so bear with me.

Jokes aside. I liked the chaos Terrans and the way they were handled wasn’t right. I hope they are able to make a comeback In the future and get redeemed because they deserve it. I feel really bad for them. It’s like they were labeled as Chaos and not to be trusted from the beginning I don’t think anyone truly understood them. I get that the chaos Terrans had wronged the Malto’s multiple times from the start but I think the way they went about handling them was so laxed. They just let the decepticons have them so they could be further influenced into the wrong path. It’s like they were doomed from the start.

After all they were just kids. I’ve been labeled as the bad, dumb, asshole kid before. Most of my school days I was in special ED and I was also pretty high energy too. So I can relate, if you are already labeled as bad or dumb why try to be anything else? Or trying to be cool and hanging around the wrong crowd just to be taken advantage of in the end.

They weren’t completely chaos either. They listened to the Decepticons. Following orders till the very end, if they were chaotic like their name implying would they just not listen to anyone and do whatever they wanted without any care of anyone else? Here’s what I think. The chaos Terrans (mostly Spitfire.) we’re trying to impress what they perceived as the cooler badder bots. That’s some kid shit, most kids try to get in with the group of cool kids. Why not stay with the Maltos? Cause that’s not cool to them. Do you want to hang out with the teachers pet or steal and break shit.

In defense of Aftermath. He’s capable of playing nice, he’s not evil. Him and Jb had a relatively good day with each other. He didn’t out right attack on sight. I think he took the water cause he didn’t want to seem like a looser in his heavily flawed mindset. Am is more of an impediment of Chaos, he just smashes and breaks shit cause he can. Honestly I think if you him just take him to a rage room he’d be fine.

In defense of Spitfire (who is a wayy more complicated case.) She was literally born that morning how was she supposed to know not hurting humans was an autobot rule. I think deep down she was jealous of Twitch’s family and opportunities. She has a competitive spirit and I think she wanted that mission to impress the bigger bots (even if she was rude to them.) when she was in Twitch’s body and said things like Chaos Terrans are bad and not to be trusted I wound if she was projecting what she thought they were thinking about her already. When she was cast out and went with the decepticons was they don’t like me and they don’t like you either so I’ll just hang with you guys. With that being said she’s naive too (it’s fine BECAUSE SHES A KID.) see the way starscream tells her good job or touches her shoulder, she wants his approval and to make him just like all kids with their parents. And then when she is ultimately betrayed, she’s a deer in headlights, shocked and afraid, probably realizing that she provided the weapon needed to killer her and her brother. She looked up to Starscream. Showing her fear and shock by being betrayed like that really showed us that Spitfire is so much more than just a bad guy. It really made me sad when she was screaming and saying no, god she needed help.

None of the chaos Terrans had gotten the opportunity to really learn or get to find something they like to do. The other Terrans had plenty of time to think about an alt mode, learn lessons get nurtured and cared for. The chaos Terrans had to get their alt modes immediately both out of necessity. Most of the time Am was just wandering around bored, he wasn’t being nurtured or taught anything. The cons didn’t care about them at all, neither did the autobots or Maltos that much. 

Saying Chaos Terrans are going to chaos or decepticons are gonna do what they do. Is super incorrect. It’s just labeling and not expecting anything more from these individuals which goes against the entire point of season one.

HOLY CRAP IF YOU READ ALL THIS. Thanks for coming to my Ted talk. Hopefully Some of this made sense.

[charliemwrites]

Part 3 for mean!Simon

Content: Consensual dom/sub between Simon and Johnny; dubcon interactions with reader and Johnny. Simon is a dick per usual.

When Johnny comes home, the first thing Simon does is set him back to rights. He's been gone a bit, long enough to need a refresher on how things are done. Just in case he's gotten some silly ideas about who calls the shots.

So once he's through the door, squeezed a little "oof" out of you, and stuck his tongue down your throat, Simon hauls him off for a "reintroduction."

Simon gets him off fully-clothed, whining and panting on his boot, before he's satisfied that Johnny's not forgotten any of his manners. He's rewarded by getting to suck Simon's cock unguided for a little while, drooling and moaning and choking himself to tears. It makes such a pretty sight, Simon is almost tempted to save his discipline for another time.

Almost.

"Up."

Johnny's flushed face twists with dismay, but he drags himself away.

"What have I always told you about your toys, hm?"

Cock-drunk, it takes Johnny a moment to understand the question and develop an answer.

"Tha' I hafta earn 'em," Johnny answers, voice ruined.

Simon hums, carding his fingers through Johnny's sweat-soaked hair.

"And to keep 'em?" Simon prompts.

"Take care of 'em."

Such a smart, well-trained boy... mostly.

He yelps as Simon twists his fingers into his mohawk and wrenches his head back, exposing the vulnerable line of his bobbing throat.

"Then you want to explain what the fuck you've been doing with that pretty pussy I got you?"

Johnny's blinks, sputters. But it's obvious he doesn't understand what Simon means or why he's in trouble. Simon sighs in disappointment, knowing that'll just upset Johnny more.

"'S my fault, I s'pose. Thought you were ready." He shakes his head, eases his grip on Johnny's hair. "Thought you knew how to take care of such a nice toy."

He remembers the unmarked skin of your plush thighs, your round ass. Tsks and shakes his head, watching Johnny paw wordlessly, pleadingly, at his pants.

"M'sorry, sir," Johnny whimpers, puffy bottom lip wobbling. "M'sorry, I'll do better."

"Fuckin' right you will," Simon growls, curling a hand around his vulnerable throat. "Because you're not getting her back 'til I've taught you better. Understand?"

Johnny only just bites back a whine. But he sees the way Simon's eyes narrow and quickly nods, leaning into the hand on his throat, body going lax in submission.

"Yessir," he slurs. "Understood."

Simon strokes his thumb over Johnny's pulse, rumbling with approval. "Atta boy. Your first lesson: if you don't mark something as yours, it's free for the taking."

He hauls Johnny up and throws him face down on the bed.

"Let's begin."

--

By the time he's done with Johnny, the sun has gone down and the house smells like food.

It seems you haven't been idle while they've been preoccupied. Dinner is simmering on the stove and you're just finished turning the dishwasher over.

You turn as Johnny enters the kitchen, expression carefully neutral when you notice the slight limp in his step and the new, dark marks on his neck. He comes right up to you, slinging his arms around your waist and burrowing into your hair.

"Missed you, bonnie," he sighs. "Didnae say so earlier in all the excitement."

From the doorway, Simon watches you blink and carefully circle your arms around him in return. But your body stays rigid, slanted ever so slightly away. Would maybe even be leaning back if not for the counter against your spine.

"It's alright, I um... I got it from the kiss," you assure, patting his shoulder.

He nuzzles in a bit and you seem curious, confused. "Everything okay, Johnny?"

"Aye, jus'... LT says I cannae play with you for a while."

Your eyes dart to Simon, going big and nervous when you realize he's observing.

"Ah. W-well... uh, we can worry about that later, right?" you soothe, gently pulling away to look him in the eyes. He's bit sniffly still, even though Simon made sure he was good after "lesson." You just seem to comfort him like a favored stuffy. "Let's get a proper meal in you for now."

Johnny nods, clutching onto yours hand as you lead him around the kitchen. Collecting serving bowls, spoons, ladling out stew in generous portions - at least for two of the servings - all with one free hand.

Johnny is quiet, drowsy. You keep glancing at him, but he only sways into you whenever you stop moving, rubbing his cheek against yours.

"Havnae been takin' care of you right," he mumbles as you're reaching for tumblers from the cabinet. "LT is gonnae teach me better, though."

You freeze, blood draining from your pretty face. Your eyes flick fearfully to Simon, right where you last saw him. He doesn't so much as twitch, staring you down until you visibly swallow and turn away. There's a little tremble to your hand now as you finish getting the glasses.

"That should be... interesting," you manage. "Ready to eat?"

"Aye, m'hungry. Missed your cooking."

You muster up a shaky smile and gently hand him a bowl of stew.

"That's good to hear, Johnny. C'mon, before it gets cold."

You send him off to the dining table. In his absence, you draw in a deep breath. Then pour Simon a glass of bourbon, taking both it, and his bowl of stew to his customary spot at the head of the dinner table.

He stalks from his place in the kitchen doorway, purposefully crossing you at the corner so that you're forced to flatten yourself against the wall and sidestep. While he seats himself, he hears you getting yourself a water, collecting your own bowl.

When you return, you try to sit next to Johnny as usual, who's sat at Simon's right. This way, he acts as a buffer between you two. But Simon clicks his tongue and you pause, turning to him with a curious blink.

"Over here." He gestures to his left side, putting you across from Johnny.

"Oh... um, okay."

You shuffle around to the other side, still shaky as you set your bowl down and take a seat. Simon watches you for a long moment as you studiously avoid his gaze, eyes on your water glass.

"This is your spot from now on. Understood?" he asks.

You tilt your head enough to make it obvious you're answering him. "Yes, sir."

"Look at me when you answer," he corrects.

You twitch a bit, shift uncomfortably as you force your eyes to look at his chest.

"Yes, sir," you repeat, soft and conciliatory."

"Atta girl," he gruffs. "Now fuckin' eat, the both of you."

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Masterlist

[luveline]

Hey if you're still taking requests could I get any sort if angst to comfort for zombie au steve? Been feeling down lately and I've always loved that series!

ty for requesting! zombie au. fem, 1.5k

The new pencils are oil-cored, as opposed to his last ones, which had been wax. They were just fine, but these oil pencils allow him to blend colours and shades with more finesse than ever. He can pour twenty different colours into the tone of your skin and have them blend into a real, phototechnical you. 

He’s pretty proud of this one. 

He wakes up first every morning, allowing for time where you’re unaware and he’s got nothing to do. He’s sketched you so many times it comes naturally. Steve probably wouldn’t need to look, but watching you sleep is half the joy of drawing you. 

You're drooling a little. 

Steve puts the handful of pencils he’d been using to colour your neck back into his pen case. He puts the case and his sketchbook on top of his main bag, shoving it into a corner of your tent with the rest of the bags to climb back onto the bed. It’s a portable cushioning made for camping, and it’s nothing like a mattress, but it is much kinder to your backs than sleeping on the ground. Warmer, too. 

He pushes your head back, knowing it will wake you, his thumb to the little drool line to wipe it away, his palm on your cheek to hold it. 

“Hello.” He kisses your other cheek as your lashes twitch. Doesn’t even think about not doing it. “Good morning.” 

“Morning,” you mumble strangely. 

“What’s that?” he says, soft to match your quiet. His breath kisses your lips. “What’s wrong? You sound sad.” 

You force your eyes apart, and you feel along the mattress with your hand. Steve watches in real time as your eyes fill with tears, huge, heavy tears that well in the corner of your left and spill from the right to wet the pillow under your head. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, the effort expended to stay calm so gutting he has to squeeze the pillow just shy of your head. 

You grab for him, blankets and your half-open sleeping bag crinkling but not too thick to feel the force of your fingers gripping his sides. 

You must’ve had a bad dream, that’s what he thinks. He’s had enough of them, and he’s unfortunately cried after almost all of them. Sometimes you’ve seen it, sometimes you haven’t, but you look at him with love no matter what —he can forget dreams of losing you when you’re murmuring niceness in his ear, and he can give it back to you. 

“It’s okay,” he says, letting you squeeze him hard. “Don’t cry.” And that’s a little awkward of him, that sneaking panic, but he’s never claimed to be a professional. 

You cry in a weird breath that borders a gag. “I’m so-sorry.” 

“It’s okay, it’s fine. I have bad dreams too. You know that.” 

Steve attempts to get both arms behind your shoulders, pulling you into him, sitting you up. He can’t cope with how quickly you’ve fallen apart. To wake up crying, how scary the dream must’ve been, he hates it. 

“It’s okay,” he says. 

“It was a good dream,” you say. 

Steve frowns. “Okay, so what’s the problem?” 

“We had a house. We had a dog. I don’t– don’t even know if you like cats, but you had a dog, and we,” —you sob between words, not too loudly as to travel far, but aching— “were planning a trip. It felt so real, Steve. You were so happy.” 

Steve tries to process it as fast as he can. “Oh,” he says softly, hand lax where it had been rubbing your shoulder. 

“You were so happy,” you say again, burying the tip of your nose into his neck. You’re practically crawling atop him, but he’s strong enough to stop you from laying him down. 

“It’s okay, honey. Jesus,” he says, patting your back again. “It’s alright. It’s okay.” 

“We’ll never have those things.” 

“Baby, who says so?” he asks in a murmur. 

“We’ll never get to go anywhere together–”

“It feels like we’ve seen pretty much all of America,” he says. He’s joking, but travelling with you from place to place has felt expansive. You’ve seen forests and lakes, a thousand different houses, hundreds of neighbourhoods, and street art and installations and billboards for movies that were never screened. Steve’s seen about as much of the world as he wants to see. “I’d just stay in this tent with you forever if they let us, we don’t need to go anywhere else.” 

“You wanted to see palm trees,” you say, sniffling and pained as your tears warm the curve of his trap. 

“I’ve seen them,” Steve says. “Don’t worry. I’ve already seen palm trees. A whole bunch of them. Don’t worry about what I wanted in the dream, it was just a dream.” 

He gives you a quick kiss, his lips to the very edge of your temple. 

“I feel like I’m gonna be sick.” 

Steve nods. He draws from you reluctantly and opens the tent, ushering you on knees to sit out in the cool air. He sits next to you, dewdrops from the grass wetting his jeans, the sky a humming of early morning colours; the sun rises in bands of orange and raspberry pink, darkness above, sun rays kissing the sides of tents and the portables in the distance. 

You take deep breaths. Steve holds your hand, the two of you looking up at the strange sky. 

“We’ll never be that happy,” you say. 

Steve can hear your agony, and he knows what you mean. He thinks of that life with you and never lets himself think far. You would've gone to college, maybe, and Steve would’ve drove to visit you —he would’ve moved. Maybe in your second year you’d live together in a suburb just between college and his job, whatever it is he’d ended up doing, in a house you chose, with a ring on your finger. Steve wants kids but if you don’t then perhaps you’d have had none, but he still likes to picture you with your babies, a big family, years later. And maybe he’d have a dog. A silly looking one with bark worse than its bite. 

And you’d be together. You would be happy. Nothing to hurt you. Nothing to lose you to. You’d never worry where your next meal was coming from, you’d never feel cold. 

Steve breathes out. Sniffs biting air. “We’ll never be that happy. That kind of happy. We’re never gonna go on trips, maybe we won’t ever have a house, but–“ He pulls your hand toward him, your eyes latching on to his. “But maybe we will. We might not get to watch cable, but we can have a tv, in a living room. We can live together, and maybe we will take trips. I don’t know. I don’t know what we’ll have, but I’m already happy. You don’t have to cry about me being happy.” He shakes his head. “Shit, you shouldn’t. I want that life with you so much I dream about it too, but I have this one.” 

“You think we’ll have a house?” you ask hopefully. 

“We can’t live like this forever.” He’s promising it. “Something has to give.” 

“I want us to have more,” you say. 

A weak confession, your cheeks wet with tears but eyes thankfully drying, your eyelids puffy already from sleep and crying alike. Steve wants you to have everything, even if everything is a stupid thing to think you’ll have. 

“We will.” Steve closes one eye, a sort of prolonged wink of pain as his nose wrinkles. “But this is enough for now, right?” 

“No.” 

You’re kidding, to Steve’s relief. 

He laughs and elbows you, glad to see your smile as you evade poorly. “Say it’s enough!” 

“No way.” 

You don’t wait for him to pull you in or ask if it’s alright, flopping without ceremony into his lap, and then turning toward him to hug his stomach. He looks down at you fondly, hand rubbing up your warm back. You’re still clammy from sleeping, but you’re not crying anymore. 

“It’s really cold out here.” 

“I know.” He blows a warm breath in your ear. “Do you still feel sick? Don’t barf in my lap.” 

“I’m sorry, Steve. It just felt so real.” 

His voice turns to a silky whisper he’s only ever used in love. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine. We never would’ve… I’d never get to be here,” —you squeeze him around the waist— “if we were in a world where we also get the house and the dog and… the family…” 

“But it would’ve been nice,” Steve finishes, looking up from your back to watch as the raspberry bands of pink turn to blue. 

“It would’ve been perfect.” 

[cornerdreams-txt]

quick headcanons about the new characters in the bo6 crew :)

black ops 6 was phenomenal, btw. i loved it. please come talk to me about it. please. please. please. please. please. pl

★ william "case" calderon

— known to dissociate or space out frequently, but is easily pulled out of it. it's on his record, but it's never caused enough problems for command to really get concerned about it.

— fidgets with his holsters when he's on edge. it's too quiet, or he's waiting for something to happen, he'll rub his fingers against the leather of the straps, or catch his nail on the metal of the buckles, over and over again. even if the weapon inside, blade or gun, is already drawn.

— seems uneasy around smoke or fog, shifty eyes and a pinched brow, but whenever its brought up, he's confused. seems like he has no idea that air that's... thicker, maybe, is a good descriptor, seems to put him on edge.

— unbothered by bugs, snakes, and any kind of creepy-crawly. seems to enjoy them, if anything - helped handle spiders and other insects or pests that found their way into the safehouse. biting insects seem to love him, though - mosquitoes especially. probably a blood type thing, right?

— avid horror enjoyer. seems uneasy about human experimentation, though. him and woods both seem to dislike that kind of trope.

★ troy marshall

— art is a coping skill, and hobby, of sorts. he keeps a pocket sketchbook and a handful of pens in his pockets whenever he can so he can pull it out when the inspiration arises.

— the longer the group stayed in the safehouse, the more that sketchbook filled up with portraits and still life sketches. people, interactions, architecture, sunrises, scenery. memories, ones troy couldn't help but want to capture.

— definitely a motorcyclist. did you see how he handled that bike with case on the back of it? that was NOT this man's first rodeo. 110% has a motorbike of his own. his biker jackets cycle in and out of his daily wardrobe at seemingly random.

— terrible cook. cannot make complex dishes to save his life. can follow instructions, sure, and makes a damn good sandwhich, but do not trust him to make soup or anything of the sort from scratch.

— ...isn't terrible at cooking meat, though. says he learned how to grill from his parents, but didn't really give the team many chances to see for themselves.

— seems to almost act as an older brother figure to the team instinctively. based on how he responds to jokes about him being a mother hen, it doesn't seem like he realizes he does it. (it is welcome, though. the compassion is nice, in such a harsh field)

★ sevati dumas

— very task oriented. you give her a goal and the right motivation, and she'll do it. very very headstrong, though. doesn't like taking orders unless compensated properly.

— food motivated. loves a good savory dish. enjoys exploring other cultures through that. but, no, she will not accept food as payment. nice try.

— good at acting lax and unbothered, but does, in fact, care very deeply. she's empathetic, but forces herself not to show it. she's had that be taken advantage of once, and she refuses to let that happen again.

— very reluctant to get attached or form connections to others, see her admitting she's only with the team until she gets paid. but she still hangs around felix, and she still tries to talk to troy when harrow's fellowship with the pantheon was unveiled. seems like she's not perfect when it comes to avoiding getting attached, is she?

— vibes only but like. i feel like she wants a little sibling. she wants someone she can take care of. she wants to be a good family member to someone, but having a child... no. she refuses to be a mother. she doesn't want to be a wife. she wants to be her own person. (she'd make a great godmother. or aunt. if she had the chance, and if she tried)

★ felix neumann

— if this man isn't autistic i am going to swallow a leather jacket whole like a snake. by the way. just sayin.

— the gloves were a paranoia result. they're metaphorical, sure, a reminder to himself not to harm anyone else, no taking another human life, but also a horrible, creeping paranoia eased in, of "what if they find your fingerprints," "what if you get blood on your hands again," "what if what if what if" until he could only ease it by wearing gloves. worked nicely, in the end. taking them off was... cathartic. to say the least.

— probably an anarchist? the vibes are there. hates society. hates government. wants to dismantle it all and start from scratch. that's the vibe.

— you... my special little man, get the nature autism. this guy can go on for hours and hours about the critters case finds around the safehouse, and case listens attentively and happily. also fantastic at foraging, has dozens of safe-to-eat and unsafe-to-eat plants stored away in his brain, and can rattle off the facts at a moment's notice.

— not the best hunter, but is, amusingly, better with a bow when it comes to hunting than he is with a gun.

— would code simple video games (think similar vibes to the chrome dinosaur game) to play for fun if he got bored enough. good thing he's excellent at finding things to distract himself with, no?

★ jane harrow

— photography lover. not fantastic about herself, but she'll sit and analyze photos taken by others for minutes on end, noting all the little details captured by a camera lense freezing the moment in time.

— does the same with drawn art. paint, sketch, whatever, she'll sit and analyze every little detail she can and point it all out. she loves noticing the details. calling attention to them. letting the artist know, if she can, that she sees all the effort they put into their work.

— her guilty pleasure? window shopping for stuffed animals. always writes it off as being for her niece, or a friend's child, but she wants to collect them. there's something soft, precious, genuine and uncomplicated about plush toys. but she's an adult. she can't afford to be so childish.

— ...alongside the drawing troy made of her, she still also keeps the little teddy bear he insisted on buying for her as a thank you gift, once. but that one isn't in her office. she hides it, away from prying eyes.

— mildly claustrophobic. she can push through it, and she will, when it comes to what her job demands of her, but she likes to avoid enclosed spaces when she can get away with it. it's... easier. feels less like being cornered. (she dances around the real reason she hates it. she never wants to be stuck hiding in a closet, or tucked under a little girl's bed ever, ever again.)

[dock57]

[Yo! Been a hot minute since I last did a bit of a ramble- been busy! Plus, was focus on completing the artwork I shared not too far down. Anyway, felt like rambling, or perhaps just appreciating this moment from episode 2, Lythops Libration.

I wish I could upload this moment as a clip, but Tumblr is not too kind about the size of videos you can add here.

There is a lot of things I love about Monkey Wrench and one of them is the interactions and overall relationship that Shrike and Beebs has.

So what do I love about this particular moment? Its one of the few times when we get to see Beebs and Shrike let their true self shine. A moment where they let their guards down and not be the professional Merc team they are expected to be (well in this case, for Beebs- who took this opportunity to be lax).

I may have said this before, but I cherish their relationship a lot. I love these moments when they can be themselves, to something more than coworkers. They are like brothers. I see Beebs being the older, protective and responsible brother, and Shrike is the irresponsible yet trying to figure himself out, younger brother. Although we do not know there exact time frame of how long they have known each other, their dynamic shows how the two were able to quickly form a close bond. Their 'bromance' formed quickly by how much the one needed the other, carrying character types that are needed to balance them both out.

This scene shows how easy it is for these two to become closer and become the brothers that they are. When Shrike is approached by Beebs who is appearing intimidating to Shrike, however, Shrike challenges this, but knows as well that despite how "serious" Beebs shows to be, he knows that Beebs is not- which the next shot quickly shows us how not "serious" Beebs actually is. This interaction of Shrike poking a plant, allow Beebs to take a moment to be silly, perhaps to get Shrike's attention, or to give Shrike a moment of comfort as well. Since the petals on his head allow Shrike to be motivated once again, as the mission so far has been losing Shrike' attention. This gave Shrike the reaction to laugh at the silliness and proceed to be silly as well. Basically to let Shrike have a moment to goof off so he can continue being focus on the mission, as after Dr. Agnes' call, he returns back to being focused on it. With Shrike little reenactment of being El Bandito and goofing off himself, this gave Beebs the opportunity to laugh as well and lay off some of the professionalism that Beebs is always carrying on his shoulder for the team. A breather for the two. This is then finally interrupted by Dr. Agnes who, of course, reminded the two that they are still on a mission. Where the two have seem to response to her phoning in during this moment as a vulnerable one, as she has caught the two while being unprofessional.

These interactions are so important to characters and their relationships, and its something I always look for in anything that tells a story. Without moments like these, it can be hard to tell how characters are supposed to react to one another- either as a friend, partner, or even an enemy. Its also really important to show these moments visualize and on screen as well, as just saying it happen off screen, does not really give us a reason to believe if the characters really like or dislike each other. Beebs and Shrike both need each other, more than I think they realize it as well. The two of them balance out each other. Beebs keep Shrike grounded, giving him an opportunity to explore his identity and well, a reason to live, as I am sure Shrike would have been dead by now without Beebs. As for Beebs, Shrike is good at keeping up the atmosphere, as in good at keeping up the overall 'mood' of situations, but also giving Beebs a chance to be more of himself. Letting Beebs be able to have moments of comfort. I'm sure as the series continue, I'll be able to list more reasons how the two are good for each other, even if they cannot see it themselves.

I guess in the end for this post, I just really wanted to capture this moment as well. As it is one of my favorites as it gave me a reason to care for these two and their relationship.

Hope ya guys enjoy, see ya next time!]

[sensei-venus]

Mama’s Boy, Stress Relief (Robby Keene x Chubby!Reader)

(Unedited) (Mommy Kink, Tit Sucking, Cumming In Pants, Stress Relief, Reader taking care of her boyfriend)

The pout on Robby's lips was very telling of how he was feeling. It wasn't often that the dirty blond wear a genuine pout. It was something that only ever occurred on a blue moon. It was common to see him scowl or grimace at something. Not getting his way was something that happened a lot but nothing caused him enough pain to pout.

So when Robby walked into his and Reader’s shared apartment after a long day of work, she knew something was really wrong.

Her eyes glanced over at his from the corner of her eye. Watching as he put his bag down by the door and kicked his shoes off. Huffing as he slid them off his feet and tossed them to the floor. He slowly made his way into the kitchen, head hung just a little lower than what Reader would have liked from him. Robby tried to keep his spirits up no matter what so this was a big change from his usual vibe.

“Hey babe, you doing okay? How was work?” she questioned as he fully entered the room. She was busy doing the last of her daily work on the computer. Quickly shooting off one last email before closing her laptop and giving Robby her full attention. She cocked her head as she watched him open the fridge and pull out a cold bottle of water. Taking a few sips he hummed at her, eyes downcast as he finished a long sip from his drink. She didn't really like that look at all. She gave him a moment to speak but nothing ever came out leaving the room silent.

“Robby?”

“It was okay I guess…”his reply was short and bitter sounding as he looked at the floor.

This definitely didn't sit right with Reader which is why she quickly stood up and walked past Robby. This left him in the kitchen alone as she walked to the living room. Sitting down on the couch she threw a “Robby please come in here.” in the air. The soft sound of feet shuffling filled the air as he followed her voice into the other room. He sat his water bottle on the coffee table before walking over to her. He stood quietly in front of her for a good long moment before the silence was broken.

“Come here Robby, sit on my lap.” Robby's face slowly turned a light shade of pink. Color dusted his cheeks as he obeyed his girlfriend's words. Robby had always been a bit more resistant to some of Reader's approaches on some things. He was good at taking orders but he still had a bit of how you say, fright. Secretly he was scared he would mess up and cause the girl to become upset at him for not doing as she asked of him. Sitting on her soft lap was something he enjoyed but was also sacred of. Feeling her thick thighs under him was nice but also scared him. Mostly the idea of accidentally hurting her always came to mind more than he would have liked.

Once he was fully on her lap she gave him a small peak to the cheeks. He slightly relaxed at the small kiss. His body slowly going lax under her eyes and body slumping just a little. It made her smile as she held him close.

She gave him a small smile while giving his hand a squeeze while saying “I don't think that was a very good answer. Did something bad happen at work today?” Robby gave a small nod.

“Do you want to talk about it, Sometimes that tends to help.” She gave him another kiss on the cheek as she finished her statement. He shook his head with a deep sigh. His eyes wandered to the other side of the room, avoiding her gaze altogether. With that she gave him a grin.

She pulled at the bottom of her shirt, lifting it up and tucking it under her chin. Licking her lips she said “If that’s the case…maybe mama can make you feel better in another way then.” she grinned at his flushed face. His eyes slowly crept over to look back at her. Eyes darting to her exposed cleavage, bra doing just enough to hide her heavy tits. His eyes locked on the tiny metal clasp in the middle of the fabric. It sat right between her breasts snug against her skin.

With a flick of the wrist the little metal clasp was split open letting her heavy tits fall free. They spilled out hanging heavy on her chest. Her soft nipples sitting pretty all for him. Robby could feel his mouth watering just by looking at them. His eyes widen as he looks at her for some kind of confirmation on what she was hinting at. She gave him a small nod.

“Let Mama take care of you baby, let me make you feel better after such a hard day.” she pulls him down into her warm breasts. Robby moans as he snuggled into her soft flesh. His hands gently worked at her sides. Moving up from her chubby belly to cup her underboob. He did his best to hold each one in his palms but they easily spilled over in his hands.

He insticfuly licks his lips before bending down and sucking on a nipple. It hardens against his flat tongue. His eyes flutter shut at the new feeling. He relaxes as he uses her breasts as stress toys. 

“There you go, just relax for me. Such a good boy aren't you Robby. Your be so good for me right now.” She softly smiled down at him while he suckled at her. He moaned lightly as he drew closer to her. Her arms wrapped around him and rocked him a little.

One of her hands found yet back of his head, fingers laced through his brownish golden locks. Her fingertips scratched against his scalp just right to have him shivering. Her other hand rubbed at his back. Making circles over the fabric of the dress shirt he wears. It's just enough to have him completely zone out.

Reader stops herself from giggling when she feels something poking her belly. It's hard and warm through his pants. She can already guess what it is by the way his hips try to jerk. Over time the jerking starts to become despret rutting. Brushing against the underside of her soft belly. His breathing starts to become more heavy as the minutes. His suckling starts to get harder and harder, his grip on her other tit getting stronger as well.

When his legs jerk and his hips snap she knows.

The wet stain that starts to bloom at the front of his pants speaks volumes.

With a loud pop, he detaches from Reader’s overly sensitive nipple. It's hard and engorged, dripping with Robby’s spit. Robby looks at her with a dopey look. His eyes hazed over as he still clung to her waist. Lips were plump and red from his earlier actions.

With a smile Reader says “You feeling any better now that Mama helped you get some stress out?”

“Yes.”

“Umm good, next time you need to let some stress out you just come to me. You know I'm always here for you.” she gets closer to his ear.

“Mama always knows how to make you feel good, just remember that.”

Robby’s feels himself flush over her words and ducks into her neck.

Sometimes his girlfriend knows just the way to keep him on his toes at all times.

[verdantwyrm]

I read your ‘Curly is not an abuser’ post over on twitter and started crying. My thoughts were “f@cking finally, someone who might’ve gotten it,” because the main reason I was crying was because I deeply relate to Curly in some ways. With how everyone was saying ‘Curly is an Abuser!’ ‘Curly is a bad person!’ I started to feel about bit bad about myself because of that.

We both have a hard time getting the underlined meaning of things or hints, whether it’s in story, talked about, or shown. We don’t see it until someone quite literally points it out to us or just start talking about the hidden meaning. I also believe me and Curly are too trusting or lax in some ways. Like not being able to see the bad in people we are close to or talk often with. We might even know about some of the bad qualities beforehand and can still be strung along and be play like an instrument. I also believe that Curly with even a thought of abusing anyone would throw himself before doing. He might even throw himself faster if he actually did that, accident or not.

That is not to say Curly is completely innocent or not to be blamed at all. Those qualities I stated before, while good, are a double edged sword like any other qualities. If we are not careful with them we could end up hurting people around us or ourselves, or get into a big mess of things. That is what Curly should be hold accounted for. Even than, with how people make out to be an abuser I don’t think they can reasonably hold him accountable in the right way, and I am not sure if that makes me sadder.

I totally get where you're coming from Anon. That kind of attitude, being lax, trusting and a constant mediator isn't inherently a problem. It was the circumstances that turned that so volatile. If Jimmy wasn't who he was and so readily abusive then Curly's character would not be that detrimental, and his actions would not have such a catastrophic impact. And everyone immediately boiling down those harmless traits and villainising them does much more harm than good, especially since the character they should be targeting is Jimmy, not Curly.

Looking at it through Curly's eyes he was just doing the best he could in that situation, and it's even more understandable especially with exactly what he does. He tries to completely bubble Jimmy into this sense of just him and Curly, he makes no mention of anyone else, nothing else. He grounds him, "It's just us" or "we will figure it out", this is fawning. He's appealing to the perpetrator to reduce the fallout in any way. Which is definitely something he has done previously as mentioned in the How Fish Is Made DLC and Curly's little monologue about how it's just another trip, just until he gets what he needs, that he has big plans!

This is definitely something Curly used on Jimmy, and even more with how quickly he shuts down at the birthday party he is used to this, and Jimmy has been abusing him for a very long time. Long enough to put the seeds of doubt in Curly to not make him question or argue against his treatment.

And you're right about Curly throwing himself infront of everyone because he does it literally. The most important part that everybody overlooks is how determined he is to get to the cockpit as the ship is crashing. He knows its crashing but all he can do is try, he could have ran away, but he didn't. And again with how after Anya tells Jimmy about her pregnancy, Curly says that she should have waited for him because he wanted to be there just in case.

Curly took responsibility multiple different times that is easily overlooked because so much happens in such a short time span that people literally think he had months between knowing about Anya being raped and then the crash when it was barely a day. Just like how people easily overlook the dead pixel scene and how it also represents something to Curly as well, and just like how people overlook Anya's "I told you so"

This game is multifaceted with the biggest, main issue of all being Pony Express' negligence and abuse towards their employees which then weakens the vulnerable and enables people like Jimmy. It happens all the time in real life absolutely everywhere. All of this could have been entirely avoided if they weren't neglecting the safety of their most vulnerable and had actual locks on the doors.

Curly's kind, forgiving and trusting nature is not inherently bad. It was how it was used against him in an extremely difficult situation, which is exactly what Abusers do time and time again. He failed Anya in such a delicate way and in such a difficult situation, but its something to understand that Pony Express failed her first, failed her in all the most important ways by even allowing a situation like this to happen. It was Jimmy's responsibility to not be a rapist, but it was Pony Express for even enabling that in the first place.