#did i mention the fluff? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vatelixx · 25 days ago

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On the concept of ‘want’, (part 2):

Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader (written with early-ish seasons Spencer in mind)

Part one here.

—> SMUT!!! and copious amounts of yearning and fluff, and like maybe some angst??? I wasn’t originally going to do a part 2 because it worked pretty well as a one shot, but I really liked their dynamic (and hyper fixated on it for HOURS), so here we are— it details the build up to their relationship, and then provides an epilogue to the end of part 1.

Warnings: sub spencer, corruption kink still present (but Spencer plays into it this time, what? who keeps writing that??? they need help???), greek mythology references and endless space facts (nerds), autistic Spencer (the way it should be), mean reader always (except she still for the life of her can’t be mean to Spencer, it’s those fucking brown eyes), begging, crying (pussy remains that good), praise kink, degrading names (slut, whore, because hello??? Spencer Reid breathes and he’s a slut to me), them being total losers for each other, they’re both still geniuses and they’re both still too domestic for my sanity, alcohol but no inebriated sex (a lot happens OKAY??), aftercare always!!

— brief brief mentions of rape in correlation to Greek Mythology (male Gods are disgusting)

w.c: 8k (im not mentally okay)

a/n: i wrote the smut and then had to take a cold shower (i cry for my digital footprint). i wanted to put this out on Spencer’s birthday, but I got distracted— i think he would be happy I dedicated all of my shots to him (and then had to explain that no he’s not actually a real person but rather a fictional character)

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Prequel, the build up, (pre ‘part I’):

Spencer is barely conscious, drifting in that half-way state, all tousled hair and messy clothes. He’s dishevelled, at best, cradling a coffee (too much sugar, limited caffeine). Early start, the sun has only begun to burn by the time he reaches his desk. Torture, it’s torture the way you linger, it makes his brain distort, fracture into a tangled mess of nothing. How is it scientifically possible that one’s presence alone can reduce his mind to static? He’s not sure whether he loves or hates the abrupt decline in his IQ.

7AM. There’s bags pooling beneath his eyes, crimson distressed shadows, insufficient sleep can hinder the brains ability to regulate emotion, attention. It’s fine. He’s fine.

To put it simply, you’re terrifying. A carefully crafted figment of intelligence. He wonders if you’ve ever pressed a knife to someone’s skin before, it’s more intimate than a bullet. Hands on. It’s not a morbid thought, he doesn’t consider himself that hedonistic. Jobs in the BAU are coveted, and yet, in despite of your age, you were offered to join. No strings attached, no extensive training— nearly a year of working alongside you has proven that you’re more qualified for this than anyone could’ve anticipated. Is it cruel to say you were made to analyse, to deceive and coerce the most callous minds?

It’s demeaning, sure. But there is nothing more to you than the job. You clock in, and your personality becomes bound, restrained, kept away from him.

He’s trying. They’re all trying; to accommodate you, to ease you into the team. Drinks after hours, even intoxicated, you’re meticulous at keeping yourself away from anything inherently personal.

But right now, you’re here, and you’re so pretty. “Early,” he groans, letting his face drop to the desk. He likes that you’re shifting closer to him, that out of everyone, the rare, celestial phenomenon, moments of vulnerability are reserved for him. They’re brief, and admittedly a little sharp around the edges, but Spencer is selfish in admitting that he wants them all to himself. To hoard them and gloat, because no one has ever chosen him first before.

And you, you justify this ‘friendship’ because you’re indisputably human, because you do need someone (even if you’re too proud to ever accept that), and of course it would be Spencer. You’re both too young to be here, skipping a multitude of stages in the rise to an FBI agent, trauma bonding over the weight of your scathed experiences. Plus, you share an element of difference; your brains are abnormal, wired in unique, distinctive ways in contrast to the average human. It makes sense. It’s logical.

“Too early.” you agree, shifting to lean against his desk. “Did you read that article I sent you? The one about astrophysics and how it can shape human experiences?”

“Of course I read it,” He looks up, bleary-eyed behind his glasses, half-lidded gaze flickering across you. Maybe there should be an element of competition to your dynamic; you’re both geniuses, working alongside each other in close close (oh— close) proximity, but there’s not. For all of your sharpness, you’ve never once seen him as anything but your equal.

He turns his head, hair falling, obstructing his sight, a mess of brown, tousled and out of place. His brain is already working overtime, absorbing every detail about your appearance: your heavy, maddening eyes, your shirt (wrinkled, untucked), your watch (gold), the pen stuck behind your ear. Analytical, analytical, analytical.

“Don’t ask me about it.” he continues, “I’m halfway through an essay on my thoughts about it, expect a message tonight.”

That’s a new progression. Whenever he can’t sleep, whenever his thoughts are fervid and incessant, his mind caught on obscure facts, he’ll text you. Let you wake to paragraphs upon paragraphs of information on miscellaneous subjects. He’s never really understood ‘texting etiquette’, abbreviations and short responses.

“Can’t wait.” you hum. Oh, and you mean it.

“Can’t wait? First time i’ve heard that one,” he laughs.

He glances down at your shoes— combat boots, of course. Practical, sturdy, thick leather worn down with use. He can’t look at your face right now, not when you’re soul-crushingly beautiful, and you’re taking an interest in his quirks. But, oh your face— using the golden ratio as a foundation, you’re… well, perfect. Sure, the dark shadows pooling beneath your eyes reduce points, but he likes them, it’s a subtle, yet impaling, reminder that you’re real, that despite everything, you’re undeniably human.

It’s a mess, he’s aware that it’s an unnecessarily disjointed mess; the universe decided to torture him (painfully so), by placing the personification of perfection in front of him. Reachable distance, and yet, you still feel light years away. So far, because god he loves you— he loves you in ways he can’t even speak about. But what is love, and how does he comprehend it when he’s never been in its orbit? Not until now.

“And yeah,” he continues, adjusting his glasses. “I’m drafting a response, of course I am. You think I’d not send you an in-depth message? That would be a disservice to your knowledge.”

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Detroit, 8hr flight, mid-morning, coffee and case files, an endless haze of intentions, behavioural patterns regarding the most recent unsub. Spencer always chooses to sit beside you, it’s non-negotiable, assigned. He spends half of his time curled up in the corner, catching a few minimal hours of sleep, and the other half rambling. At this point, you know a lot about him. Months and months of knowledge, some he’s told you, some you’ve profiled: he always carries a satchel (dog-eared novels and notebooks consisting of half-finished thoughts), his favourite season is halloween (when he first came to your apartment and saw various autumnal decor, despite it being mid-July, he smiled so much you thought you were going to die), and he’s afraid of the dark. Trivial pieces of information. Unnecessary, and yet you still store them for safe keeping.

“So,” he mumbles after briefing, “It’s nearly Halloween…”

Those words. The simple declaration of a date that you were already aware of sentences your fate. Of course you’ve noticed the rest of the team deftly turning down his invites at any occasion possible, but to receive one? You’ve never been a people pleaser, in fact, if anything you’re the polar opposite. Blunt like a knife, intransigent, unwilling to spare feelings for the sake of etiquette.

But you do agree when he offers to make plans.

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Pumpkin patches, seasonal harvest. The leaves beneath your heavy platforms are ochre. It’s late- afternoon when you get to the festival, even later when you manage to coerce Spencer into humouring one of the ghost-walks.

But, you got distracted, tangled up in some tangent about Roman philosophy, Plato’s symposium, different accounts of eros. Socrates and his belief in stoicism, unwavering to the pretence of beauty, turning down Alcibiades— the most desirable.

You can only laugh. You laugh, and no, you’ve never laughed like that before. It shuts down Spencer’s body, renders him incapable for a good few moments. And now, suddenly he’s gone dumb, because he wants to get lost every weekend, just to hear it over and over again until it’s firmly imprinted into his brain for good. You breathe, and he’s brain-dead.

“This isn’t funny—“ he tries.

“No you’re right. It’s not funny at all.” you lie. Straight. Through. Your. Teeth. All things considered, you’ve had fun today— which is admittedly a feat in itself.

“Don’t worry,” you continue, knocking your shoulder into his. “I’ll protect you.“

“You do that enough anyways,” he states; it’s true, you’re a little too assertive on the field, unwilling to let him stumble inadvertently into danger. Maybe it’s just because you’re now acquainted with the knowledge of his previous missteps. Or maybe it’s because you care — not in the way he cares about you, obviously. But he’s willing to take what he can get. Anything, as long as it from you.

Spencer hates the dark (it’s common knowledge, the absence of light is unsettling) and with his flashlight wavering, stuttering in and out of use, he’s forced to stray close to you, to share your working one. It feels like the start of some budgeted horror movie he’d possibly take you to see, speaking through the entirety, pointing out the obvious scientific flaws.

“Why do you have so many layers on?” He asks, watching your face. The flashlight in your hand illuminates the small clearing around them, casting your face in a starker light. Every contour, every blemish, every freckle is more pronounced in the cold.

“You look like a burrito,” he adds, unable to stop himself.

You scoff, “I run cold.”

Pine-oak and cold, the air is sharp, plainly glacial at this time of night. It’s an amusing way to spend halloween; even though you’re currently missing out on the tour you paid for. “And, I don’t look like a burrito, thank you. Very astute evaluation, Reid. Your words are clearly so intellectual.”

“Yes, well— I am a doctor, remember? Astute observation skills are a priority on the requirements list. And actually,—“ you huff out a breath, and his forthcoming tangent dissolves before it can escape his lips. Usually, you humour the onslaught, the mess of facts— but, considering they’re directly aimed at you tonight, it’s clear that circumstances are in fact different.

He tucks his hands into his pockets, knuckles blemished red from the cold, rose shadows that match the flush to his face. “I’m glad you said yes, to this. Most of the team,” he laughs awkwardly, “Well, they usually ignore my invites. So yeah, it’s nice not to be alone for halloween.“

He’s quick to move on, to shift shift the subject. “And— as for the,” he continues, glancing down at your attire. “The excessive layers— I just meant that you look comfortable. If you’re running cold, then you need all those layers. It’s not a critique.” Another huff, and he glances awkwardly around the clearing.

“I’m just rambling.” He murmurs, “As per usual. I need to, uh— to stop doing that.” A pause. Silence.

You’re not really digesting his words anymore, lost in a labyrinth of thoughts— it’s a few moments before you speak again. You turn your gaze towards him, observing the sight of him in the perpetual darkness, profile only illuminated by faint trances of your flash-light. Swollen lips, half-bitten, brown eyes blown out of proportion, irises wide and unabated.

You know a lot about him, that’s already been established. Albeit, there’s still fragments you haven’t quite discovered yet. And sure, you shouldn’t want to find out, to unravel him completely. You shouldn’t— because that’s a direct transgression to the rules you’ve always set for yourself. But you do.

“Are you..” your face softens, “Uh, are you alone a lot?”

You’ve never been the type to ask about personal life, about the complexities behind closed doors. Sure, you can deduce his home-life through months of experience and mannerisms, but you’ve never asked specifically about his own relationships. The question catches him off-guard.

He blinks, a few too many times, and then finds his eyes are very very interested in staring at his shoes.

“Yeah.” he finally answers, “But it’s okay! I’m used to it. I don’t mind,”

“I have lots of time for my own pursuits,” he adds. “Reading and-— um, chess and stuff. And the team, of course. But— they’re not- they don’t want to, like, hang out. Outside, I mean. They have their own lives, partners. Families, so it makes sense.”

It’s not okay, and you’re uncertain why it pains you so much. Maybe because he makes the effort to arrange plans, to connect, and it goes undervalued, wasted. In contrast, you’re content in loneliness. People are overbearing, insufferable at best. You’ve never had much of an interest in an abundant social life, you’re content in your small, reserved circle. But he has no one.

And yet he has the audacity to pretend it’s okay?

“Well, if you want to like, be lonely together sometime. That would be fine with me.” you say after a moment of strained silence.

His whole life he’s struggled to fit in, to meet, to conform to the expected societal norms. Acceptance, community, humans are wired to want integration, and yet he’s always fallen short. It’s why he throws himself into facts, into research, into studies and books.

His shoulders have slackened. For a slender frame he’s remarkably tense, like he’s waiting for an eventual downfall. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I’d uh, also be fine with that. More than fine actually..”

No one has ever wanted him, they’ve just needed him and he wonders if there’s really even a difference.

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That’s how it starts. Inevitable, in the grand scheme of life and work and you. Spencer watches as you soften, slowly unfold protected layers over countless evenings of chess and movies, and suddenly you’re not so untouchable, so beyond conventional existence, and yeah, berate him for loving you even more because of it.

You’re restless, completely. A night in his apartment is always fated to end with you tugging him through cobbled streets, desperate to catch some air. Tonight, it’s raining. Protected beneath a ledge of a closed shop, you’re approximately 12 minutes away from his place. Spencer should hate you for bulldozing his routine, he really really should. But it’s never that simple, not when it comes to the intricacies of you, and the exhausting effect you prove to have on his sanity.

He leans back against the soaked brick, watching the rain pour over the road, greyed streets, washed out by water. Just passing 10PM, like most nights, his mind seems to be insistent on you you you. And sure, he’s longing (if that even encapsulates his want), longing for something, to connect the invisible line between you two.

“Why am I not surprised,” he mutters, “Always a disaster with you.”

The cold will undoubtedly lead to you being sick, but the sight of you under the glow of streetlights, water-stricken and frustrated— he can’t bring himself to complain. For a moment, he simply stares. At your profile, the sharpness of your features, the exasperation in your blinding gaze. You’re beautiful, in ways he can’t comprehend.

“Hey,” he backtracks, “Not in a bad way, but like, in a you-cause-so-much-unexpected-stuff-to-happen kind of way. You’re always bringing me into messy situations.”

The space between you is so minimal, but so stretching. There’s an invisible wall, one that he won’t ever tear down, can’t ever tear down, in case he loses you. He wants to reach out, to grasp at your hand, your wrist, or even your shoulder. Anything, to feel the barest touch of your skin. Something.

Touch. To feel. He’s never allowed himself to sink into the warmth of someone else before, he’s never been able to. But for all your terror, he knows you’d hold him. Or maybe that’s just what he hopes for. Maybe it’s a delusional hypothetical.

When you do return to his apartment, you’re laughing. A common sight these days, as mind-bending as that might seem. The journey back was discombobulated, rushed movements, jackets spilling over heads, drenched thoroughly, attempting to outrun the inevitable storm that now seems to consume the area.

There’s not a part of you that regrets your offer to be ‘lonely together’ because whilst you despise most humans, Spencer doesn’t seem to be on that list. No, you could spend hours doing nothing with him, and still find it more gratifying than the best laid plans.

Plus, these days he seems happier. You both do.

“You look like a wet dog,” you say as you attempt to sort your way through his soaked hair. You’re sitting on the floor of his kitchen, cold skin pressed against tile.

He grins. You’re both laughing, and it’s so good. “Thanks for the compliment. You know, you’re not much better—“

He finds himself subconsciously, instinctively, leaning into the touch, as if his body has been searching for this, as if his skin is merely wired to only ever respond to your hands. Head tilted backwards, allowing access to the tangled strands, his neck arched slightly so he can still see your face, every expression that passes by.

He has a brief internal war with himself, wondering which part of the situation exactly he’s freaking out over. Maybe it’s the cold, which will undoubtedly leave him sick for the next week? Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve initiated a touch of some variety, your hands in his hair, a moment of human connection. Whatever it is, he can’t help but sit in silence, staring at you like you’ve just hung the stars.

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Both of you are incontrovertibly devoted to work, married in some key aspects. You stay late, ceaseless over-time, covering offices with evidence and reports, rehashing cases until you’re too exhausted to function. So naturally, it’s no surprise that you’re coerced into taking time off, mandatory leave— if only to appease the rest of the team, and their wilting sanity.

Road trip. That’s the ‘logical’ solution, considering you’d both end up exasperated at your respective apartments, overthinking the cases you’ve been shut out of. The Appalachian trail. Neither of you have any interest in the hike, albeit the skyline yurt, overlooking the area, endless planes of landscape, certainly seems like a selling point. If only to keep you countless miles away from work.

November. The days are hazy, mostly due to your shared fatigue, interminable exhaustion. Spencer has abandoned his glasses now, and you try not to mourn the loss.

The drive felt eternal. Hours stuck listening to the radio, only interrupted by Spencer’s endless rambling and your sporadic requests for coffee. There’s something intimate to travelling together. Being trapped in a car, in close proximity, sharing a space.

Now, the two of you are situated in the middle of nowhere, nature, something he’s never really sought out in his life. He’s an intellectual not a lover of the outdoors. Sure, the science of it fascinates him, the endless cycle of life and death, but actually being here — in the midst of it all, amongst the trees and fog — is a foreign concept.

You’re standing beside him, eyes observing the landscape, sharp gaze tracing the outline of the horizon. He wonders if you’re thinking of the city, of work, of anything else besides the freezing air. He just wants to get inside, to feel warm, to stop shivering.

But no, you’re too busy looking at the stars.

“That’s Cetus,” he says, pointing out a constellation, “Sometimes referred to as ‘The Whale’. Cetus, uh.. he was a sea monster in Greek Mythology, sent by Neptune to devour Andromeda. Perseus saved her by turning him to stone using the head of Medusa. Medusa, who he beheaded using a mirrored shield whilst she slept.”

You hum, “It also represents the whale that swallowed Jonah when he disobeyed the Christian’s God.”

“Yeah! Yeah, because Jonah went to Nineveh instead of Tarshish.” he looks back at you, “You know, Cetus covers over 1200 square degrees of sky. But personally, personally, my favourite is Ursa Major.”

“The great bear? Cmon, that’s so basic.”

“No it’s not! What? Don’t judge my taste,” he protests, “It’s named after Arcas. Zeus fell in love with Andromeda—“

“Mhm, and Hera, his wife, turned Callisto into a bear. Zeus raped her, the Gods were fucked up.”

“The Gods were fucked up, yeah.” he agrees, before knocking his shoulder into yours. “But Ares wasn’t, you know he counts as a pseudo god for feminism.”

“Shame he was brutal in every other aspect.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, “You’re paying more attention to the stars than me.”

Later, much later, you end up on the floor. Laying back against cold wood, you both stare at the domed ceiling. Distorted vision, clouded by alcohol; there’s not much to do around here, and you had incautiously thought a bottle of whiskey would be a good idea— no, actually, you just wanted to see Spencer intoxicated. Beyond messy nights at the bar in D.C, when the team was desperate for a break from work, he’s never really been in this state before.

The area is vast, too big, but you were hardly going to plummet yourself into the middle of nowhere without a few prominent luxuries— you’ve always been devoted to the city, the endless drama, sleepless nights and constant futile noise.

This is… different.

Alcohol has made everything more intense, magnified, in every aspect. The yurt is dark now, the only light coming from the occasional flash of lightning, slicing through the sky and illuminating the area in fragmented beats. The room is cold, but he’s over-warm. Not accustomed to the alcohol, to the buzz it leaves him feeling, the pleasant numbness in his limbs. As if nothing matters.

He’s laying next to you, mid-tangent about space. “Did you know that Jupiter has 95 moons. That’s more moons than the average solar system. And that most of them are named after Greek or Roman mythology. There’s— there’s Ganymede, that’s the largest natural satellite in the solar system. It’s nearly the size of Mars..”

He turns on his side to face you, watching as you mirror his movements, “And, and,” his words fail him, “You are so pretty, — you have amazing, amazing eyes, you know that? And this laugh….” that makes me burn, “You should laugh more. I’m going to make you laugh more.”

He’s staring at you, half-lidded gaze following every line, contour, every feature. He wants to trace his hand along the curve of your cheek, your jaw, down your throat, your shoulder. He wants to touch, to feel you. He can’t tell if you’re aware of his suffering. The torment that comes with being this close to you, yet not able to touch you. How painful it is. To love you.

“Spence..” you mutter, and oh, you’ve never called him that before.

“Mhm, yeah,” he says, bringing himself back to the point; the topic of space. Ignorant to his words. “The planet Jupiter, it’s a gas giant. You knew that, right? It’s got the shortest day of any planet. And on top of all that, it has a redspot! Like, this huge, massive vortex, bigger than the Earth, and it’s just roaming the atmosphere.”

A loud peal of thunder interrupts his speech, followed by the incessant, incessant rain, pounding against the walls. “I love when you listen to me. No one’s ever really listened to me before.”

It’s not fair, not fair that you’re about to plunge yourself into the centre of the storm. That Spencer Reid laying next to you, in the middle of nowhere, would be your fatal flaw. Hamartia. The downfall of the walls you’ve kept resolute for so long. You could blame the alcohol, curse yourself for encouraging this when you’ve both always balanced on a thin, trembling line.

But perhaps it was always inexorable.

You cup his face, running your hand over his pretty profile. Pupils blown out of proportion, so beautiful it scalds. You can’t stop yourself from leaning forward, from pressing a soft, fleeting kiss against his lips.

“I’ll always listen to you.” you promise. Because if no one else has the decency to acknowledge him in full capacity, you will.

And Spencer? Oh, he’s frozen, caught in some location of suspended space. Every thought, every coherent piece of logic in his head has come to an abrupt hilt, silenced by your mere touch.

Your words sink into his skin, seeping into his bones like fire. He’s burning, burning hot and feverous under your hands. The kiss is brief, and he whines involuntarily when you pull away. “Don’t stop. Please— not yet.”

You want him, repeats like a mantra. In all universes, in the grand scheme of time, he never considered this alternative.

Suddenly he’s glad he resides in this reality.

So you kiss him again. You’re aware that you’re both a tangled mess on the floor, limbs interwoven, lips pressed against lips. You’re aware that you’re both drunk beyond comprehension, and that you’ve used alcohol to cheat, to skip time, to fast-forward to the good. Because if you were sober right now, you’d be too calculated, too rational to allow this.

And it hurts— kissing him. Because he touches you like he’s never felt anything before, like he’s been impossibly starved for the entirety of his life. Neglected, in so many ways. You’ve never been interested in caring for someone before, but somewhere along the way, he buried his way into your chest, and now, you’re hopeless to the consequences.

Right now, that doesn’t even feel half as terrifying as it truly is.

His hands are everywhere, everywhere they can reach, grasping at anything they can find, trying to bring you closer, closer, to keep the heat burning against his skin. He needs it, needs the feeling of your lips. He’s overwhelmed, overwhelmed as his tongue slides against your own, as his hands press at the curve of your waist, tracing over skin he’s only been dreaming of touching. He feels alive, incandescent with pure bliss.

“I’ve wanted this,” he mumbles against your skin, between breaths. Between the fire. “For so long, so long,” he sighs, pressing his forehead against yours when you both become reacquainted with the concept of oxygen. “Don’t regret this tomorrow, please?”

“I won’t.” you say, drawing his lips back to your own.

And you do stay true to your word.

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Epilogue (—post ‘part I’):

You’re not entirely sure how to approach the situation of sex, considering you’ve just defiled Spencer Reid on various surfaces of his apartment. So, naturally, you untangle yourself from his body, and take him to see some mundane documentary on sealife. Mostly because you know he’ll enjoy it (and you’ll certainly enjoy him leaning over your seat to comment on omitted pieces of information and technical inaccuracies). Then, when it’s over, you muffle his protests on crime as you coerce him into sneaking into another screen.

Now you’re not the most inconspicuous pair, sitting in the back row, practically hidden by shadows. He has one arm wrapped around your shoulder, thumb tracing over the bone there, lost to your proximity, the warmth of your leg, thighs pressed together.

“You are so pretty,” you mutter, transfixed by the sight of him, illuminated by flashing lights. Some excessive slasher playing in the background, discarded.

“Shh,” he sighs, “Be quiet, there’s— you’re distracting me.”

You’re difficult, you know; your head is leant against his shoulder, lips dragging along his jaw, then his neck, just under his ear. He can’t focus on the screen, the movie barely registers, not when all he can feel is you, your lips against skin, leaving remnants of heat wherever they touch.

You’re aware that you’re a few meticulous touches away from giving him a heart attack, albeit it’s not like you have any interest in stifling your attraction. Not when he’s sitting right next to you.

“What was that? Oh? You want me to be quiet. Maybe you should do something about it then, because personally I have no interest in—“

His lips are quick to silence you. Ruinous, you kiss like you talk, with a sense of assertiveness, all encompassing and dizzying. He’s leaning forward to deepen the contact, to chase chase chase your mouth with little regard for etiquette.

“It’s—“ he mutters, stumbling into his apartment when you predictably get kicked out of the cinema. “All your—“ his hands are tangled deep in your hair as he silences your protests with his lips. “Fault.”

He’s lovesick, pressing his thumb against your bottom lip to stifle the contact. He feels light, like everything will be okay, all of the ache will dismantle, disintegrate if he keeps kissing you. But comfortability breeds defiance, so when you try to close the distance again, he’s laughing breathlessly.

“There’s paperwork we need to do—“ he says, and you blink. “It’s stacking up, and uh.. it’s very very important.”

You both stare at each other for a moment. Then, he’s grinning, leaning forward to press an apologetic kiss against your lips. “Sorry, sorry. Had to.”

“You’re a dick.” you confirm, hands slipping beneath his sweater to trace warm flesh. His reaction is scarring, body clattering back against the wall, torso arched forward as every part of him follows your touch mindlessly. He’s not sure if he’ll ever grow tolerant to you, or if it will forever feel this devastating— his swollen lips are parted and a soft oh escapes.

“But a pretty one, so maybe it cancels itself out.” you laugh, adorning his neck in soft kisses that trail, growing sharper, more biting as they begin to puncture skin, leaving behind mauve blemishes. The process is delirious, and you’re coaxing the most destroyed, whiney noises from him now.

Spencer sighs, “I don’t think that’s how it works—“ his sentence is destroyed by a whimper, something pained, when you run your tongue along a forming mark, when you deepen the burn. “I’m uh— yeah.”

You laugh at his mindless sentence, “I thought we needed to do paperwork, hm?”

“What’s paperwork?” Spencer responds, gripping your hips, guiding you back, back, back until you both meet his couch. “I’ve never heard of that— stop making things up.”

“Are you going to behave?” you ask, straddling his hips, pressing against his clothed dick, working in slow movements to intensify the stifled stimulation between you.

“No.” he answers simply, plainly. As if the answer is self-evident. Which, considering the state of him, debauched beyond reason is. His needs are conspicuous, from the scattered bruising that lines his neck to the indecent noises spilling from his throat. He grips your hips, whines when you refuse to push harder against him.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that you can reduce him to this state, diminished to nothing but want the moment your touching becomes calculated.

And god, he wants— he wants to trace every part of you. The shape of your collarbone, the dip of your throat. He wants to mark himself on every part of you. The curve of your wrist, the inside of your hip. Every part available. He feels like an open wound, vulnerable in ways he never anticipated he could be, desperate for you to thread the skin back together, to ease him from this repetitive cycle of desperation.

“Going to punish me?” he teases, watching the myriad of emotions that cross your features. The way you’re so intently focused on him, on his skin, the need he emanates. Fuck— he loves it, he loves how he’s the object of your attention, every thought, every sense devoted to him. No one else, just him.

He knows he’s begging, that he’s all but pleading with you to fix him, to make him whole again, because for some reason, he can’t remember what he was like before you.

“Maybe,” you answer, moving off his lap to destroy the friction, and he wants to protest, but before he can even cohesively think of words, he’s clattering off the couch to sink to his knees.

He’s looking at you now with this distinctive gaze, big, innocent eyes, pupils dilated beyond necessary reason, and you’re disorientated, undone just by the sight of him. It’s fervent, this thing that burns between you, and neither of you are sure when you got so tangled in each others orbit, but you’re not complaining, not when you’ve got him sitting pretty on his knees for you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you state, drawing your hand across his jaw, tilting his head up so he can meet your gaze entirely. You let out an exasperated breath of air, “Don’t look at me like you’re innocent here,”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about…” he says, and of course he’s playing naive, utilising his lack of experience in this moment, exploiting it to spite you.

Your palm meets his cheek, and he’s gone, just staring up at you, too distracted to formulate a coherent response. He never considered himself to be a particularly ‘dirty’ person until you kissed him, and then he crumbled, evanescence of logic, sanity.

He pushes his thighs together, moaning whorishly at the friction.

And oh, that has you gripping his hair hard, earning an assortment of obscene sounds. With your thighs parted, you hike your skirt up further, allowing him to slot himself in place. He’s quick, needy with his actions, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin, trailing them up up up until he meets your panties. Wet, soaked through, a prominent indication that you’re feeling this as much as he is.

He drags them down your legs with little regard, fabric discarded, forgotten about for greater priorities. His tongue, tentative at first, runs along your clit, and you’re responding, hips canting against his face– yeah, suffocate him. He could die very happily right here in this demeaning position.

Tug, he buries his face entirely into you, moaning at the taste, at the sheer concept that he’s being throughly used. It’s messy (in more ways than one), but he knows that it’s good based on your reaction, the way your thighs are wrapped around his head, digging into his shoulder, the way your hand is threaded through his hair, controlling, instructing until he’s just a mindless instrument to your desires.

“Oh— fuck, Spence, that’s it— that’s it. So good, so good f’me.”

“Taste so good, needed this so bad.” he all but whines, pussy-drunk, a little too gone for anyone’s good. He’s straining against his pants, creating damp spots that he really can’t justify, and it hurts. He pushes his thighs harder together, trying to relieve the ache with some pressure, even if he’d love nothing more than to shamelessly grind against your leg right now, to rut in the most indecent way possible. He’s squirming, and don’t come untouched don’t come untouched, focus.

You’re tight, and when the first finger slips inside of you, there’s a visceral reaction from both of you. His hands are deft, slender and long, and with a subtle curve to his movements, he finds that spot before he’s even added a second digit. He would be fairly content with staying here forever, at service to you, watching as you fuck yourself against his face, body bucking and squirming, and yeah– there you go, that’s it. Right there. When you tense, he looks up to meet your debauched gaze, noises spilling from your swollen mouth as you fall apart. Clenching to unclench, perfect.

He’s still dizzy when he comes up, tongue and fingers and mouth and chin all obscenely coated in the aftermath. Oh god, he can’t even stand it, he looks way too satisfied with himself, and he is. He is. He is. He is.

You say how amazing it was (which is sweet, very very sweet) and then you say you’ve used him like a whore. And um. Yeah. Okay. That’s good— great even. He loves being useful!

There’s his bruised knees and then there’s the couch. Stumbling movements, the way he collapses, the way you follow after, shifting to straddle his body.

“Need you. Just you— please. I’ve waited for this, want it so bad.” he mutters.

He’s painfully hard, and he’s been so good, which means he’s prone to acting out now. As you work on staining his neck with remnants of this night, he slips his hand into his pants, and yeah, much better. He could cum just like this, with his palm wrapped around his dick and your lips all over his neck, polluting skin. He should be patient, he knows but he’s so hard and the need is too overwhelming. And oh oh oh. He squirms, releases a pitiful noise that has you reacting, noticing.

After that, his hands get bound behind his back.

He probably deserves that.

He can only watch the depraved actions, the formulated process of you removing his trousers, then his ruined boxers. By the time, he’s bare, undone to your eyes, he’s a disjointed mess. Every time you touch him, the sensory nerves that formulate inside his body burn, agonisingly so, to the point where he can only melt, capitulate to you alone. You, only ever you. He’s fairly certain he was created for you exclusively.

You roll your thumb across his tip, watching as he squirms, grasping your hip, and your free hand, discernibly breaking orders to keep them tethered behind his back. You just lace your fingers together, press a soft kiss against his knuckles, before you return to the simple task of tearing him to pieces.

No. Big. Deal.

“You like that, hm?” you ask, letting out a dissatisfied hum when Spencer only nods, flushed and breathless, debasing little whimpers escaping his mouth with every stroke. “Use your words, — use them or i’ll stop. You don’t want that, do you? Because I don’t think you want that at all.”

“No—no, please, god please don’t stop. I like it— I like it a little too much. Feels, oh.. feels so good.”

Your hand is wrapped entirely around him now, and he can only shift closer, bury his face into the crook of your neck, shelter his gaze from your sight because if he looks at your pretty eyes again, he’ll finish immediately.

God, he’s loud, he’s so loud, a litany of whimpers escaping him with every cataclysmic stroke. It gets to a point where you have to untangle your hands, push your thumb into his mouth, and thankyou, something to do with himself— he just moans around the digit.

“That’s it— taking it so well.”

“I’m trying! Oh, oh… m’trying. Just wanna be good for you— please, please it’s so much.”

He’s so sensitive, too sensitive, it’s good and bad, and it’s a complete onslaught to his deprived body. He’s not sure he’ll ever comprehend how you touch him, the way every movement seems to be perfect in derailing his mind until he’s too blissed out to know anything beyond you.

He’s really trying to form words with your finger in his mouth, but it’s just a mess of saliva and he wants to tell you that he’s a germaphobe, that hands carry so much bacteria, but he’s more than willing to trade germs with you anyway, to offer himself up on a sliver platter, lamb to the slaughter. Sacrifice, he can’t even articulate how much he would renounce for you.

You push your thumb deeper into his mouth, watching as it hits the back of his throat, as he gags around it. There’s blind, unwavering obedience to his actions now, taking it all willingly, passive in a way that counteracts his previous behaviour.

So naturally, you ask if he feels like a slut right now, and yup yup yup. But, as morbid as it may appear, he has no qualms in being your slut, because it’s just you, and the thought that you’re here, that you’re with him, taking care of him in ways he was never convinced he would receive, is intoxicating. Dismantling. Self-destruction, he supposes.

You draw your thumb from his mouth, push it into your own to show him that yeah, sharing germs is not an issue. “Such a good boy for me, Spence. So proud of you.”

“Oh..” now he’s just crying. It’s formidable.

“That’s it— you’re safe. I’ve got you, gonna make a pretty mess for me, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah. Mhm. Wanna cum so bad, need it— pleasepleaseplease.”

You hum, “Just a little longer for me. You can do it. Be a good boy and hold it.”

“Cant—“

“Spencer.” you say, actively silencing his protests, and he can only nod, following your command mindlessly.

It’s a form of art, he believes, the way you dismantle him piece by piece, the way you destroy his cognitive function, strip him raw until he’s just a tangible mess of everything he was always deprived of. Until it’s just him, just him who you still stare at starry-eyed.

When you finally grant him permission, the bliss has him unable to form anything beyond stuttered oh oh oh’s, his back arching, his nerves ignited, and maybe he’s falling, falling fast because it’s all just a labyrinth of transient pleasure that his body struggles to keep up with.

But afterward, when he’s satiated, you’re still there, and you’re still so painfully warm and real.

There’s something gratifying about the sight of you, taking unprecedented care to clean his skin, to coax him out of his stupor when you’re supposed to be the incarnation of sharpness. It’s a hard concept to grasp, that the blade will never penetrate him, that he’s always going to be your exception.

When you’re tangled in sheets, foreheads pressed together, when it’s just the two of you, and nothing else matters, he does consider luck again. And how so much sacrifice was worthy of enduring, if only for a fleeting second of this.

“I love you,” he mutters, “I have for a long time.”

And you sigh, cup his face, it feels like a solar eclipse, like something astral. “I’m not sure when it happened, but yeah. I love you too, Spence. Love you enough to deal with the insane amount of paperwork HR are going to give us for this shit.”

“Worth it.” he mutters, kisses trailing along your jaw, dipping to meet your neck. “So so worth it.”

#sub spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #his head game is crazy #i want that nerd so bad #spencer reid #did i mention spencer reid???#spencer reid angst #except there’s less angst and more hopeless pining

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simphornies · 9 months ago

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Artistic desire [Husk x Shy!Reader] Fluff

A/N: This was a request sent by a lovely follower. I'm not particularly good at writing shy characters but I did my best. Hopefully this suits your taste.

Word count: 3.4k (3,481)

Warnings: none unless you count mentions of mommy and daddy issues

You were a bit of a social recluse. Your parents fucked off and died somewhere in one of the seven rings when you were a teenager and since everything is basically free, besides drugs and sex, you just stayed in your parents’ manor. The only person that really checked up on you everyday was Charlie. You crossed paths when you were younger, rode through the emo phase together and now you’re both older.

Before her hotel opened up, she was eager to tell you of all the plans. Every. Single. Plan. Of course, you didn’t mind the chatter through the phone. You enjoyed something that filled up the empty halls in your home. You helped her redesign a bit but after a while, you were in a pit of…the opposite of an art block?

You spent every waking moment, painting and creating art. If you thanked your demon parents for anything, it’d be the part where their powers passed onto you naturally. Your mother was a beautiful muse, perfection in keeping everything aesthetically pleasing. Your father painted his muse at every given moment. You didn’t necessarily hate them per-say but you sure as hell didn’t love them. The moment you kept something out of place, an inch off the center, your mother scrambled to fix it.

She didn’t yell or bother with correcting you, she would just obsess with the finer details. Your father never stepped up for anything other than painting. Hell forbid you switch up his paints and he’d be locked in his room all day. Finishing piece after piece.

You didn’t take after any of their obsessive traits. Instead you embraced the messy lines, the off-centered pieces. You embraced the imperfection and impurities that came with hell itself.

And that is exactly how you ended up in Charlie’s Hazbin Hotel. She convinced you to take your artistic abilities to brighten the place up. With the surprising help of Alastor, you chose compromise on the color palette. The fabrics, the decor, the lights, the curtains, the rugs. It was all your choosing. And when Alastor decided to phase in a bar with Husk included, the odd placement of green itched your brain in a good way.

The bar wasn’t the only thing that got you going. A surge of inspiration waved through your entire being the moment you saw him. The moment you heard his voice you wanted to capture it in art. There wasn’t a passing day where you didn’t sit at his bar, eagerly waiting for his next story.

At first, he wanted absolutely nothing to do with you considering how well you got along with Alastor. But that opinion quickly faded the more you hung around him. Every time he’d tell a story, he noticed you always doodling in delight, listening to every detail. You didn’t participate in conversations much but he could tell you were listening to the whole thing. Your legitimate interest in his stories warmed his heart a little bit more than he’d ever admit. He soon realized that you two were probably the most sane demons in the entirety of the hotel.

“The usual?” He asks. You nod and continue to fill your sketchbook with drawings, the act visible to him by the way your eyes shine. He poured three glasses for you both. One glass of whiskey for him, a glass of champagne for you, and one of your old paint cups with water. He handed you your drink in a champagne glass and your cup next to your sketchbook. Last time he handed that to you, you accidentally drank the paint water.

You quietly thank him as you gleefully kick your feet in the empty space under you. The chairs hoisted you up enough for you to not touch the floor when you sat, something he found admirable. He hummed as he cleans a couple of glasses left over from when Angel was drinking.

Oh how he wished to take a peek at your drawings. He would never try to ask, he learned from one of your small conversations together that you said it’s like a diary. And he’d be damned if he pried into that. The only time he’ll ever get any information from people is when they’re absolutely fucked up wasted. He watched as your face was unbelievably close to the book, the sound of your pencil against the paper was soothing to him. Oddly enough, it was never complete without it.

“Hey, Y/N? Could you do me a big big big favor? Pretty please?” Charlie speaks up, breaking the silence between you two. He sighs and starts to stock up his shelves knowing that you were probably going to get hoisted away now. He feels the weird shift in his chest that made him realize he was actually in love with you this whole time.

“Yes, Charlie?” You looked up at her as you put your pencil down. “What can I do to help?” Your voice was smooth jazz to his ears. He wanted to hear you speak more. And he hated when other demons talked to him. But your voice. He’d fight in a war with the exorcists to hear you speak to him more. He secretly wished you said his name instead.

She gives you a guilty grin, “So, I was trying to make a sign for Sir Pentious and well…”

“It looks a little bit like vomit!” Nifty chimed in, unashamed.

Charlie laughed nervously, “I may have chosen the wrong green…Would you mind, helping me out?”

You smile, “Of course.” You get up, following Charlie and Vaggie to the opposite side of the lobby to give aid in their color struggles.

Nifty continued her cleaning and while she did, she realized that you had left your sketchbook wide open. Of course, as it is in Nifty’s nature, she snatches the book off of the bar’s countertop, just out of Husk’s view and takes a look at the page it was open to. She gasps and runs over to Angel and Alastor, eager to show her finds.

“My my. What a wonderful find you’ve got there, Nifty.” Alastor grins. He was not much of a lover but he sure as hell enjoyed seeing his little pet get flustered. And perhaps he’s been more tolerant lately so he figured he can have a bit of happiness in this hotel.

“Oh. My. Fuck.” Angel stares at the sketches you have of Husk. The two pages were filled with him and just him. Him cleaning the glasses, him fixing his hate, him with his wings out. Some were obvious direct sketches from his day-to-day life but the others were all from your mind. There was one of him in a fancy suit. One with his hair slicked back the way he briefly mentioned it during his stories of being an overlord. Angel stares at the page a bit longer before looking over at Alastor who shared his mischievous grin.

While you were painting the sign with Vaggie, Charlie is pulled to the side by Alastor. “Charlie, my dear. You would say that you are a lover girl at heart, would you not?” He asks.

“Uhm. Yes. Yes I am, Alastor.” She answers with confusion in her voice, “Why?”

“Why, Nifty had some groundbreaking finds just a moment ago that I believe I should be sharing with you.” He smiles widely as Angel hands her the open sketchbook.

“Somebody,” he whispers, “Got a little thing for Whiskers~”

Charlie takes one long look at the page and was about to start squealing in delight until Alastor puts a finger up to her lips. “Ah ah, my dear. Now’s not the time for that. Wouldn’t it be best that you talk about this with her in private.” He suggested.

“You’re right! Ohhhh my gosh! This is amazing!” She grins, “I’ve known her in all my years here in hell and I have not seen her take a liking to anybody. I’ll definitely talk about it with her!”

-----------------

The sign for Sir Pentious was up in congratulations for his arrival and his development. Everyone was cheering him on by the bar. You scout around for your sketchbook, swearing you left it by Husk. He wouldn’t be the type of guy to take personal things like that.

Just as you were about to ask him where it was, Charlie quickly drags you into a spare room, filled with excitement. Excitement that drove you a bit nervous.

“Charlie? Is there anything you need me to do here?” You ask, scanning the empty room around you.

She simply could not contain her excitement. “It’s come to my attention that you, my lovely lovely friend, may have a teeny tiny crush on someone.”

Oh fuck.

“Haaaa. What?” You ask, trying to contain your composure. “I don’t like anybody. That’s funny. Hah hahhh…” You nervously laughed.

Just then, Charlie hands you your sketchbook. “Nifty found it and well…you left it open to your most recent sketches…of Husk!” She squeals.

Your face turns a bright red as you swiped the sketchbook out of her hands. “Charlie! Oh fuck, please don’t tell me you told him.” You were every shade of red possible in hell out of sheer embarrassment.

“Of course not! I wouldn’t take that adorable opportunity away from you and him!” She hugs her shorter friend, “So. Tell me all about it! When did it start? When did you know?” She gasps in excitement as she thought of more questions to bombard you with, “Why? How did you find out? What do you like most about him?”

“W-well I…” You stutter, hugging your sketchbook close, “I’m not sure when but I just know that, these last couple of weeks he’s been…um…you know. Kind of inspiration? My…muse. If you will.”

Charlie loved your answers and continued to ask more questions. “So when are you going to tell him?” She gasps, “Oh my gosh—You guys should totally go on a date!”

“A DATE?” You choke, “Fucking hell—Charlie. I cannot bring myself to do that. You’re the only person I can talk to without stuttering too much and you want me to go on a date with the very demon I like?”

The answer was yes and before you know it, you and Husk are getting pushed out of the hotel with a pile of cash in both of your guys’ hands, courtesy of Charlie. She somehow got you both into matching outfits. A dress with hearts on the collar with a white and red pearly necklace to match. Husk was somehow, probably by Alastor, shoved into his overlord suit and tie.

“You motherfuckers better not fuck up my bar! I worked all day to keep shit organized!” He yelled at the closed door, “I’m talking about you, Angel Dust!” He scoffed and fixed his sleeves.

You couldn’t bear to look dead at him. You safely got peeks from your peripheral. On one of your attempts, the two of you made eye contact for a brief second. You immediately looked away, muttering an apology under your breath.

“Are you gonna stand there staring at nothing or are we going?” He elbowed you gently.

“Oh! U-Uh. I’m not quite sure…where we have to go.” You admitted.

He rolls his eyes, “Thrown into battle blind, huh?” He chuckled before moving in front of you, “Take my hand. Can’t have other demons fucking with our artist.”

You look at him, memorizing the way his grin sat on his face. A light blush forms across your cheeks as you take his hand. He walks with you down the city and into the nearest fancy club in your area.

“Ah. I think this is gonna be a little…”

“You scared?” He grins, “You’ll be fine. You’re with me. I’ll fuck shit up if I need to.” He flashed you his playing cards, edges as sharp as can be.

You sigh and nod, walking in with him. He sat you down at a quieter side, as quiet as a famous club can be. You both share a bottle of whiskey, your sudden interest shocking him.

“You know, that art thing you do is mesmerizing.” Why did he have to bring that up now? You internally groaned. “It’s like magic whenever you put whatever’s in that brain on paper.” He stirs his drink with a claw, looking at you. You swear you see a bit of sparkle in his usual dull eyes.

“Th-thanks, Husk.” You stutter. The way his name came out of you warmed him up more than his drink. He wanted you to say it again so badly. "I’ve seen you do magic too y’know.” As much as he paid attention to your work, so did you. You have endless sketches of him playing with cards, fucking around with Angel’s hand with a smooth move so quick one could barely catch it without attentive eyes.

“Ohhh,” He leans in a bit, a teasing grin plastered on his face, “So you watch me that close, huh?”

You choke on your drink, spitting a bit out, “Wh-what! No.”

He chuckles a bit, leaning back, “Cut the act, Y/N.” He closed his eyes, putting his glass up to his lips, “Alastor told me already. And Nifty. And Angel. And Charlie, you know she can’t keep a secret well.”

You were a mess. They told him and they didn’t tell you that they told him? You’re definitely messing with their rooms later. But how much did they tell him? You can’t pinpoint it. “I-” You coughed, trying to clear up your throat from your near death experience via literal drowning in alcohol. “I can’t help that you’re just…nice to draw.”

You turn away, a bit ashamed and definitely flustered. He was quiet, watching you intently as he sipped on his drink. “I like drawing anything I like.”

Now it was his turn to choke a bit but you didn’t catch it. He wiped his mouth, “So you like me then, right?”

You turn to face him not expecting his face to be so close to yours. A little shift and you two would fall into a kiss. You weren’t able to read his face well. He had a blank expression. You stare at him, face red.

“It’s okay, fucker. You know how it is,” He elbows you, laughing a bit before grabbing your hand to drag you out of the club. “I’m the bartender that knows everything about everybody.”

He rarely used his wings, unwilling to accept his demon form. But tonight, he stretched his wings out. “What’re you-”

“Do you trust me, Y/N?” He looks at you over his shoulder, holding your hand a little tighter. You nod in response.

Without a second thought, he pulled you close to him, hugging you to his chest. You blinked and you were off the ground, soaring through the air. He held you close, careful to not let you fall.

“I want you to see something. Something I doubt anyone’s ever shown you.” He keeps his head up, unaware of how starstruck you’re looking at him. You were also too scared to look anywhere else.

He flies as high as he can, stopping at a certain point before holding you in his arms in a bridal style way. “Look around, Y/N. Take it all in.” He speaks softly. You look around and from where you guys are, you can see the entire Pentagram City. Your eyes are filled with a breathtaking view of the city you grew up in. He smiles at the sight of your interest, “As much as I fucking hate this place. It’s not bad when you can’t hear the chaos going on down there from up here.”

“It’s beautiful. I…I have to paint this.” You state, wishing you had your book with you. You rest your head on his chest. After a while you feel him fly towards a high point at the edge of the city, landing on a mountain. He doesn’t let you down as soon he lands though, he didn’t want to ruin your adoring looks at the view.

Your face is lit up with admiration, you feel at peace. It was quiet but a soothing kind of quiet. Your ears caught onto a different sound while you rested on his chest. Is he purring?

You look up at him, “Thanks for the ride, Husk.” Smiling warmly, you cupped his face in your hand. You swear you felt him lean into it. He puts you down gently before putting his hand over yours, returning your warm smile. “Can I ask you a question?”

He purrs softly, the vibrations reverberating on your hand. He nods. “Is it okay I…pet you a bit. You’re just so fluffy.” He went from looking at you with his eyes half shut to wide open, in disbelief. “I-It’s for my art! My drawings.” You laugh nervously, “You know…reference…” It was half a lie, which he is aware of, you actually do want to capture his soft looking fur in your drawings but wanted to know exactly how dense or fluffy it is.

He laughs, closing his eyes as he sat on the ground with you following after him, “You’re lucky I like you, Y/N. Go for it.”

He hated when people treated him like a cat but for you, he’d make an exception. He’d make multiple exceptions for you. You begin to stroke the top of his head, making sure you remember how it feels in your palms in case you never get the chance to do this again. His purring grew louder as he leaned into your touch.

You began to pet his cheeks, getting a closer look at his face, taking in every detail. From his heart shaped nose, to the way his eyebrows fluffed out of his face. He slowly opened his eyes, peeking at you. You were too mesmerized by how unbearably handsome he is to see him inching closer.

He grabs your hand on his cheek, “I could kiss you right now.” He could what? Before you got a chance to react he pulled you into him, his lips crashing on yours. You yelp before giving in and melting into him. The kiss didn’t last too long but it felt like hours.

You stared at him as longingly as you did dumbfounded. “Look, babe, I notice everything about you. Everything you do.” He holds your head in his hands. “I see the way you light up when Charlie brings you paintings. How you paint with that focused look. You’re one of, if not, the only demon with sense in that hotel and respect my boundaries. You’ve never pushed my buttons once. And I truly, truly appreciate it.”

You lean into his hold, holding his face in return, “I understand you a lot more than you think, Husk. I know it’s silly but I find comfort in you. I love the way your voice sounds. I love watching your magic tricks. I love the way you effortlessly make a drink without even looking. And I love the way you fight. You fill me with so much artistic desire and you get me out of the toughest art blocks out there.”

“And you help me stay calm when everybody gets on my nerves. I’ll take a fight on for you any day, babe.” He rests his forehead on yours, “Who would’ve thought my cold little heart could be warmed up in hell of all places, huh?”

He shifts and rests his head on your lap as you continue to pet him, humming softly as you did.

"And who would've thought I'd be able to get the grumpy bartender to purr in my lap?"

You two enjoyed the rest of your night together. He actually stole a bottle for you two and you both drank the night away.

“You think Y/N’s ruffling his feathers? If you know what I mean.” Angel laughs followed by a quick slap on the back by Vaggie. “Ow! It was just a joke. God, tits.”

“Oh I believe Husk is having a wonderful night.” Alastor grins, aware of what the soul he owns has done, “And might I say, he is quite the charmer. Truly a hidden gem. Under all that gruff he is but a little kitten.” He hummed, teleporting away into his tower.

Charlie was so excited and had set up a congratulations sign on the wall for when you two return. She was happy her dear friend finally found comfort in somebody.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel husk #husk x reader #hazbin hotel husk x reader #fluff #hazbin hotel x reader #did i mention this was fluffy #fluffy

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laughroditee · 5 months ago

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You're Coming With Me | A COD fanfic

Simon had been on his way to meet up with the rest of the task force when he heard a tiny mewling off to the left near the woods. Scanning the tall grass, he paused mid-stroll, his dark eyes falling upon a tiny orange kitten emerging from the underbrush.

“Meow!”

“Where’s your mum?” Simon asked, keeping his eyes and ears open for any signs of other kittens or a mother cat. Unfortunately, there were none. This cat was probably around three to four weeks old; it was not going to survive on its own. Bloody hell, he thought, squatting down to seem less threatening, holding out a hand, palm down.

The kitten slowly approached him, noisily chirping and mewling. With its hackles raised, the kitten’s back slowly arched in a ferocious display, snaking sideways toward him in an effort to scare him away.

Simon barked out a laugh. “Spitfire, huh? Come on then, do your worst.”

An airy hiss and a swat were the kitten’s best efforts.

Beneath his balaclava, Simon smiled. A few raindrops falling from the sky decided for him. “Can’t stay out here, love. You’re coming with me.” He looked down at himself. Where the fuck was he going to put a kitten? The kangaroo pocket on his hoodie might scare the poor thing, and it’s not like it would fit into his pants pocket. Pulling his arms in through the sleeves, he turned his sweatshirt around to put the hood in front. As gently as he could, he picked the orange tabby up, his large hand swallowing it whole, its tiny legs poking out from between his fingers.

He was met with Hell’s fury and a stern letter to the manager as he nestled the tiny thing into the soft basket of his hood.

“Easy, love. You’re alright. Let’s get you home.”

Simon cradled the kitten in his hood the rest of the way, his feet striding faster as the rain got heavier.

The pub wasn’t too busy this time of day, so it was easy to spot his teammates.

Price was the first to greet him. A simple head nod and glass lift always did the job while a chorus of “Ghost!” and “L.T.!” rang out simultaneously from Gaz and Soap.

“Yer late, L.T.”

“Sorry, Johnny, I was bringin’ a friend.” He carefully moved his hand away from the hood, and the kitten’s head popped out of it to much “oooing” and “aaahing.”

“And who is this?” Price, ever the gentleman, asked for introductions right away.

“I’m callin’ her ‘Honey*,’” Simon said as the kitten in question climbed onto his shoulder, meowing insistently at him.

“Aww, Ghost, that’s a sweet name–” said Gaz.

"Named her after my gun."

There was a pause and the sound of resigned acceptance. "Of course you did."

“How do you know it's a girl?" Soap asked, examining Honey and trying to pet her.

"She ain't got balls." Simon picked Honey up and turned her butt to Soap’s face.

Gaz sniggered into his drink while Price just smiled in his amused fatherly way. "Good work, Simon. Good work."

Author's note: *Honey, as in the Honey Badger gun, or the Chimera as it’s renamed in the Modern Warfare II and III games.

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pastafossa · 1 month ago

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"You’re who I want." (Michael Kinsella x F!Reader)

Time for Day 3 of the Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! For Day Three, I chose to combine the fluff and angst prompts ("I feel real when I'm with you" and 'Broken'), and I also decided to try my hand at one of Charlie Cox's other characters for once, that being our favorite sad, tragic, sweetheart of a mobster Michael Kinsella! You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! And off we go!

Ship: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Wordcount: 2k

Warnings for this fic: mentions of blood, kiss at the end, angst (but with a happy ending obvs)

It was Birdy that called you right as you were getting ready to settle in for the night, the heavy downpour a drumbeat against your windows that you’d hoped would lull you into a peaceful sleep. But that wasn’t in your cards tonight, it seemed.

“He’s headed yer way. Things… didn’t go well tonight.”

Not for the first time, you quietly cursed the way the Kinsellas had dragged Michael back into their business as you dug out the first aid kit, setting it beside a change of clothes and a few clean towels to help Michael dry off from the rain when he arrived. You didn’t care what the Kinsellas got up to on their own time, who they sold to and what their family business was. What you cared about was whether Michael had actually wanted this. You knew he'd had different plans when he'd finally gotten out of prison, plans of a quieter, more peaceful life. But he was a loyal man, one who was endlessly devoted to his family, and that loyalty, that devotion was something Amanda was all too happy to take advantage of.

You had thoughts on her, too, but much like your night's rest, it would also have to wait.

“We lost a few o’ ours. He managed ta turn it around at the last second, but… Well, the family argued after. Things were said to him, and…”

Some nights, nights much like these, you wondered just how long Michael had left before he broke beneath the weight of expectation and grim responsibility. It was a burden he shouldered without complaint, even as it became clear he was destined to crumble beneath it. In the two years since you’d met that beautiful, quiet man in a small coffee shop, you’d watched those brittle cracks form, line by line. Over time, as he'd gradually begun to let you in, you’d discovered far deeper fissures that lay buried beneath his fractured armor. Your lack of fear, your absence of judgement over what he’d done in the past, had only pried open that door further until he sought you out with regularity, just as you did him. Time passed, and your orbits revolved closer and closer together, spiraling planets caught inescapably in the pull of each other’s gravity.

Neither of you had named what this was between you. But if he could find comfort here, safety here, then you’d happily give it.

“Just… be gentle with him, dear.”

Somehow, even the quiet knock at your door sounded exhausted. You hurried out of the kitchen where you’d been filling up the kettle—you’d learned very quickly how important it was to have it ready at all hours when you’d moved to Ireland—and headed down the warm hall to the front door. You unlocked the door and tugged it open, letting in the roaring sound of the pouring rain and a gust of chilled, bitter wind.

“Oh, Michael,” you whispered.

He was soaked down to the bone, his dark hair plastered against his skin as he leaned tiredly against the doorframe, his body wracked with shivers from the cold. What was worse: even with the rain, you could still see traces of blood on his shirt and his hands, with more of it leaking steadily from a ragged split on his lip. Fortunately, only the blood on his mouth seemed to belong to him. He tried to throw you a small smile, but it was far too crooked, too brittle to be real, and you had a feeling his eyes weren’t red because of the rain. The moment he realized you didn’t buy the act, that shield fell away, and you were left with just Michael at his most exposed, empty and limp on your doorstep.

“That bad, eh?” he asked tiredly, trying for dark humor and missing by miles.

“Shit, get in here before you freeze.” You caught his sleeve and tugged him forward until you could shut the door behind him. He didn’t fight you on it physically, for which you were grateful, but he couldn’t seem to resist at least a little verbal stubbornness.

“I’m gettin’ yer floors all wet,” he said distantly. Without the need to pretend, his tone had gone empty and lifeless, drained of all energy as if he’d used up what little he had left on the walk over. He dropped his head slowly, staring down at the growing puddle of rainwater on the floor, his face twisting through an unreadable expression. “‘M sorry, pet. I shouldn’t have—”

“Floors can be dried, Mikey.” You waved the objection away, locking the door before turning back to Michael where he was still standing shivering in the hall, curled into himself as if he were reluctant to take up any further space, as if he feared he were unwelcome. And something about it, about the way he seemed to barely be holding himself together, just… broke your heart. “Come here.”

He shivered again, even as he shook his head, arms wrapped around himself. You could almost see him changing his mind, a wave of regret rearing up inside him, flashing in the dark of his eyes, eyes still looking too damp for just the rain. “I’ll… I’ll get blood on ya.” “I don’t care.”

He clenched his jaw, still refusing to meet your eye, a sign of just how bad things had gone for him. Some of the blood on his clothes and skin had joined the puddle of rainwater at his feet, the pale tile darkening to a tinted, rusty pink. And that only seemed to make him feel worse, as it seeped into the grooves and lines between each tile, staining it. “No, I-I shoulda stopped ‘a home first, cleaned up. And it’s late, yer clearly dressed for bed. We can talk another time—”

You crossed the distance between you both before he could take a single step towards the front door. He went stiff and rigid, closed off the moment you pulled him into you, but you let him work through it as you wound your arms tightly around him, hooking the fingers of one hand in his belt loops. You had to make it clear you weren’t going anywhere. You used the other hand to stroke gently down his back, heedless of the water and blood that began to dampen your clothes, breathing in the scent of warm whiskey and leather, of gun oil and fresh rain and blood. “Stop worrying about my clothes or the floors, you silly man,” you said softly, setting your chin on his shoulder. His breath hitched at your voice, his arms still locked between you, a barrier you knew he needed help to break down. “I don’t care about those. I care about you, Michael. No matter what happens, that won’t change. I’ll stand here all night with you if I have to.”

He choked out a shaking breath against your hair, and you could feel it the moment he began to break, his arms tentatively unwinding so his hands could find their way around your waist. Almost as if he were still convinced his touch, his need for comfort would be rejected. Something far warmer than rain dripped against your neck. “Why?” he whispered. “I don’t understand. I have nothin’ to give ya. To give anyone. I keep tryin’ to be what everyone needs, but I can’t even do tha’ right. Why do ya keep openin’ the door for a broken man, pet?”

“You might be hurt, but you’re far from broken,” you murmured, turning your head to lay it on his shoulder as his hold gradually tightened around you, his hands fisting in the fabric of your shirt. Another shaky breath rattled out of him, more of his tears rolling down your throat until he finally let his head fall to your neck, accepting what you’d offered. “I open the door because I just need you, exactly as you are. You’re who I want. So you can let go, Mikey. There’s nothing here you need to fix, no one else you need to be.”

That was all it took, and between one breath and the next, he crumbled in your arms, the entire terrible night, terrible year, terrible life tearing its way out of him in choked, ragged sobs, the sounds of someone who hadn't been able to let go for some time. You held him as tightly as you could, soft, comforting whispers in his ears, your hands running gently down his back and back up through his hair as he let fall every last wall he’d put up between him and the outside world.

It took time for that cresting wave of emotion to ease, time you spent with your head on his shoulder, with your chest to his, until eventually the shaking of his body began to slow, his breath easing against your throat into something slower and gentler. Only then did you guide him to the bathroom, setting him down on the side of the tub so you could clean him up. He accepted the care in silence, his eyes half closed, his form slumped and exhausted, drained after the emotional release. You knew better than to press before he was ready—and besides, people had demanded enough out of him tonight without you adding to it—so you let the quiet have its place as you bandaged him up, cleaning the blood from his hands and drying him off without so much as a hint of judgment. Whenever his breath grew a little shaky again, you’d lift his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles to remind him he was safe.

You left him alone just long enough for him to change, and you were grateful you'd both decided he should keep a few changes of clothes here. It was another unspoken intimacy between you both, this knowledge that your home was a retreat for him just as his home sometimes was for you, even if neither of you had said as much. Once he was changed and he stepped out of the bathroom, dark eyes immediately seeking you out, you tipped your head in a request he follow you before heading towards the bedroom.

He hesitated, and you paused in the doorway, waiting.

It wasn’t every time he came here that you both wound up curled up together. So far, it only seemed to happen on those bad nights, those nights when one of you needed the other’s presence to act as a shield against nightmares, against waves of grief or bloodied hurt. Until now, however, those moments had always taken place on the couch, the two of you dozing off together under the excuse that you’d never intended to fall asleep at all and well, it was late, wasn't it? It was expected. Tonight, however, you just… thought he deserved a bed.

That you and he had never taken this step before hung heavy between you, weighted and intimate as he considered you, his gaze shifting over your shoulder to the open doorway in thought. Neither of you had dared offer access to the other’s bed until now. Hell, you hadn’t even kissed yet, though there’d been… moments when you’d both come close, dancing along that edge, driven by adrenaline or alcohol or just a quiet moment when you both seemed to be drawn into it. But there was no alcohol now, no mistaking the shift in the air. There’d be no going back after this, no more pretending, even if no one had believed either of you before now when you’d both sworn you were simply good friends.

After a long moment… the soft padding of his footsteps began to follow.

The bed came first, soft sheets and the gradually returning warmth of him, one of your arms draped over his waist as he buried his face in your hair, the two of you twined together so closely that there was no space at all between you.

Then came his voice, the soft lilt of it soothing you as much as your touch seemed to be soothing him.

“I don’t know what I’d do without ya,” he murmured, his breath slowly easing down into something like peace, like contentment. He nuzzled at you gently, and you tipped your head up to meet his eyes. The warmth in them stole your breath away, filled with tender light and a devotion so deep you knew you could spend the rest of your life searching for the bottom and never find it. “Every time I think I’ve lost who I am again, yer there to bring me back. I just… I feel real when I’m with ya. I…”

His eyes searched yours for a moment before he seemed to make a decision. He dipped his head down slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. Instead, you tilted your head back, your hand sliding up to tangle in his damp hair as his lips finally met yours.

Your first kiss with him was a soft, new thing, fragile as spun strands of glass. His lips still tasted a little of copper and whiskey, skin chapped from the cold night air, but his breath was warm, and his mouth moved against yours with a growing confidence as you leaned into him, using your fingers in his hair to pull him in closer, his beard a pleasant scrape against your skin. His name on your lips was a sigh, a gift to him, one he breathed in as if he wanted to draw it down into the very heart of him. When he finally pulled away, he laid his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed as he just... breathed with you. You reached up to stroke your fingers warmly against his cheek, and he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, though he didn't seem ready to open them just yet. “Wanted ta do that for a while, now,” he admitted. “Since not long after we met, if ’m honest.” “I may or may not have wanted the same thing,” you huffed softly, his smile growing wider.

“Can I take ya to breakfast tomorrow?”

You made a contented noise as you curled into him, and he wound around you, the two of you getting comfortable for the night. It felt… permanent, as if you two had simply been waiting to find your way here, this place you were both meant for.

“I’d love that.”

And maybe tomorrow... you'd tell him you loved him, too.

#tuna-tober 2024 #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella #kin #fic #fanfic #reader #reader insert #x reader #angst #fluff #emotional hurt/comfort #tw: blood #or mentions of it anyway #in which we all just want to give him a hug and hold him and tell him he can just be loved for a while #i hope i did this right like i am N E R V O U S about writing him for the first time #he was very cooperative and was just seemingly happy to have some attention which is great cause i adore him #10/10 would be his mob wife

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kindofatheatrekid · 6 days ago

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Soft Yandere! Veteran being pegged! (No. You're not on top.)

How long has it been since I promised a male reader pegging this old dude? Uhhhhh... 😢

How about we not think about that and like- uh- focus that it got done? I have absolutely wonderful pookies that motivated me to finish this so let's all thank my lovely alphas for this! I wanted this to be on kinktober but writer's block and all dat- 😄

This has pegging. Which is in the title. It's clearly NSFW. So like-

MINORS DNI. MINORS DNI. MINORS DNI.

Alright! Now that that's all said and done! Enjoy fucking this old man!

TWs: overstimulation, condescending behavior towards reader, cum play, nipple play, I think that's it- comment if I forgot something pls-

WORD COUNT: 1.6K

KINKTOBER DAY ONE: TEMPERATURE PLAY

Pleasure. That’s the only thing you could possibly be thinking of right now. With your dick shoved into his ass, yet he was the one in full control of this situation. It didn’t matter that it was your hands on his hips— no. Your hands were just finding a place to grab onto while he rides you like he’s trying to drain you dry of both cum and life. This had to be why he looked like a silver fox, right? Stealing the vitality of the poor youth that got caught in his seductive ways. Which, in this case, was unfortunately and fortunately you. It was so warm inside him, the slowly cooling water only accentuating just how much more warmer he was— both from the soft walls that were clenching onto your dick like a vice, and from his skin. The wrinkled, aged skin that only made him even hotter in your eyes. White mixed with black hair on his arms just like his head.

Your eyes tear up from the sheer euphoria he was giving you, tongue almost shamelessly lolling as your mouth stayed open. If it wasn’t for that familiar, irritatingly enchanting glint in the old man’s eyes— moan after loud moan would have been falling off your kiss-bitten lips by now.

Speaking of lips, the reason for your current dilemma was now sliding his thumb over your bruised lower lip. His other hand goes to caress your cheek, the warmth forcing a groan to slip from you without warning. He notices the drool that threatened to leak, using it to coat your dry lips— dry from the heavy breaths you forced yourself to take as he rode you.

“Why aren’t you saying anything? Cat got your tongue?” He chuckles out as you try to focus a glare on him, pathetically failing due to your vision blurring from the incoming tears. His hips suddenly slam down onto you; a brash, animalistic noise leaving you as you’re buried down to the hilt.

Heaven. This must be what heaven felt like.

Your hands scramble to grab onto his hips, grip almost bruising as if he was the only thing grounding you to reality right now. The almost hypnotic grinding of his groin towards yours not helping with the way your mind wanted to shut down immediately. The cool water, the heat from your combined breaths, the way his hands left trails of fire with every inch they grope your skin— there was just so much for your poor brain to handle.

It honestly felt like you were being used as a dildo with how little work you were doing for maximum pleasure. To be honest, you would happily live your days out as his dildo if that was a choice. His raging hard-on kept on rubbing against your stomach, pre-cum and bath water slick on your skin.

Water droplets dripped down from your hair as you chewed on your lower lip— eyes laser-focused on his cock. His cock that you wanted to touch and feel in your hands. Your left hand lets go of his hip just for it to tentatively stroke his neglected dick; the heat in your palm making you shiver in the water. Thumb slowly tracing circles along the slit of its head, pre-cum continuously dripping down to your wrist and into the already cloudy cold water.

You didn’t want to be the only one losing their head, determined to make him fall into this mindless pleasure you were presently in too. You wanted him to bear himself out like you were doing, to show you the raw, primal instincts that you also had. To the point where manners would be shoved aside, and the two of you would just take and take from each other.

His pace noticeably slows down at the growing pressure of your strokes— hand slowly, yet purposefully, running down his entire length. Fingers smearing the thin fluids along the veined skin, feeling it throbbing in your hands. You could hear the way his heart quickens to the same -if not faster- pace of yours, could see the lust-induced haze in the corners of his eyes.

You use this chance to buck your hips up without warning, relishing in the way his throat hitched. Hand reaching down to squeeze his aching balls that were full of cum ready to be released. Your own cock twitched inside him, not faring better than him— overstimulated, needy, desperate: those were the words that could perfectly describe your deafening thoughts at the moment.

Right when you think that you’ve managed to win this unspoken game between the two of you, his lips curve up into a grin. His eyes held a knowing glint, as if he could read what was exactly on your mind right now— it felt like he was stripping you with his gaze despite your nudity. Crow’s feet deepened while his eyes held an obvious twinkle of mischief.

You should’ve remembered that unspoken games have unspoken rules.

He brings his roughened hands up from the water, skin ice-cold from being in the water for too long. His hands sensually slide up your body -your warm skin prickling from the cold- until they stay on your chest. He could probably feel how hard your heart was pumping right now, wrinkled palm right on top of it. Your eyes meet: calm meeting with panicked, smug meeting with wary.

Rule #1: He’ll always be in charge.

Your back arches when his weathered fingers pinch your nipples— senses confused as warmth floods inside your body, yet everything outside is cold. A gasp-like moan involuntarily leaves your lips, lips formed into an o-shape as your grip on his cock tightens reflexively. A deep groan escaping him as well from the squeeze, cool fingers still refusing to stop as he twisted your nipples almost painfully.

Another, louder, moan is forced out from your vocal cords when his head dips down— lips clamped onto one of your nipples, rough stubble grazing against your wet skin. You couldn’t help but come when his hot tongue swirls around the sensitive nub, teeth grazing against the already tortured skin. Eyes rolled back once again for what felt like the hundredth time. Your other nipple, receiving the same cruel treatment with his icy fingers. He definitely felt when you came; the water significantly more opaque as your cum dripped down his thighs and into the tub you were both in. Your cock still painfully hard in him despite coming just a few seconds ago.

Rule #2: You’re the bitch. Not him.

His eyelashes flutter when he finally releases your nipple from his soft lips, fingers already tweaking it before you could even sigh in relief. Your hand quickly lets go of his cock to grab onto his steel reinforced hips for bearing again— forehead pressed against his chest as you whine for him to stop.

“Why are you moaning, лапочка? I’m the one with your dick in my ass so why are you acting like our positions are reversed, little one?” Fuck. His dirty talk only made you want to beg him for more.

Your moans only get louder as he pulls on your nipples, drool pouring out from your lips like you were a brainless zombie— lips unable to remain closed. Shivers ran across your entire body, body trembling from both the cold and your overused cock. You were sure that you were only shooting blanks by now, every pathetic squirt easily seeping into the cloudy bathwater. You’d need to take a shower afterwards to clean all the come off you.

Rule #3: Don’t ever expect to walk after he’s done.

A choked whimper leaves you when he finally pulls himself off you agonizingly slow, your limbs feeling like jelly by now. You didn’t resist when he brought you into his arms, mind a slurry of contradicting sensations and abused instincts. Your eyelids drooping when he captures your lips in his, the kiss a slow, but careful one— everything he did had a reason and was meticulously planned out. A likely habit from his youth.

“You did so well, Солнце. Such a good boy for me. I’m so proud of you~” He croons out in a heavy voice, peppering kisses all along your face as his scarred hands snake up to your neck— his touch tender as he strokes your warming face. His own, ignored, cock still stiff and raised while he pampered you with the kisses you desperately needed right now. Your voice just whines for more of his attention, arms wrapping around his cold body to pull you closer to him.

The two of you just stay in the chilled bathwater for a moment, clinging onto each other for warmth as your labored breaths become background white noise. His lips trail down to your neck, pressing kisses onto your frigid skin— your breath hitching as his tongue slips out to run a fiery trail of saliva up to your jawline. An almost hissed out groan leaving his lips when he tastes the cold salt on your skin.

His eyes looked practically feral at this point, licking his lips clean of your taste before he crashed his lips onto yours to share what he thought was his own heaven. Swallowing down all your moans and whimpers like a starving man who finally got a feast laid out in front of him.

He reluctantly breaks from the kiss for the both of you to breathe. His hot breaths harsh on your skin as he leans his lips closer to your ear— whispering at a volume where you could only hear even if there was no one else around you two. A little secret that only you would know with him.

“As sweet as ever, Милый.”

Translation:

Солнце = sunshine

лапочка = sweetie pie / cutie

Милый = dear / darling

A/N:

Damn. I honestly didn't think this pegging would win. It was honestly included as both a joke and the consequence of staying up too late for too many consecutive nights... (Y'ALL TORTURED ME. THIS WAS SO HARD TO KEEP THIS OLD MAN'S HOLIER THAN THOU ATTITUDE WHILE BEING RAMMED!!) 😟

There. Y'all got to fuck the old dude. Happy now?? But anyways please comment anything you want me to do. (It'll take time, though. I'm not chat GTP okay?) 😩

Just no vomit, scat, and the works okay? Golden showers are a hell no too. Look. I'm not going to kink shame here, but I cannot write anything like that due to my BOUNDARIES. Non-con, baby trapping, and other dark matters are fine. I love that shit. But yeah. Maybe I'll make another OC, maybe not. It really depends on my mood. 😘

AUTHOR OUT! 😌

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be-an-echo · 9 months ago

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happy (belated) valentine's day!

#please go and listen to waylon jenning's lovin' her was easier while looking at this pls and FEEL THE LOVE #cuz joel sings waylon to tess a lot #this might me valentine's day morning or any other morning in jackson #joel tries to leave their bed but tess is too persistent so they are always late to something #sunny mornings in wyoming sure look perfect #that bedframe is broken but u cant see obviously:D #tommy looked at him funny when joel mentioned they need a new bedframe because *cough cough* it broke down outta nowhere *cough cough*#silly sunny sweet domestic fluff and nothing more #tess servopoulos #joel miller #tess tlou #joel tlou #tessjoel #tess lives #joel x tess #i know i promised “dance with me” but i did it twice and tried to fix it twice and it still doesn't look right but im working on it

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beholdenlie · 2 months ago

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tendou satori headcanons #2

fandom: haikyuu!!

characters: tendou satori x reader

tags: relationships, dating, fluffy fluffy fluffy

author's note: LET'S GO TENDOU NATION. still here, still in my haikyuu era. also loving these pastel text dividers by @cafekitsune!

tendou is scary good at board games/video games, esp. anything that requires any amount of mind reading or guess work. you almost gave up playing any kind of game with him, but the rush you feel whenever you can pull one over on him makes any losses worth it. (your fave memory: beating him at a game of strip poker, though you think he lost that one on purpose)

the only time you two will watch horror movies is if you both like the actors/actresses in the movie. even then, you'll take turns hiding behind the other and pretending to be brave (even when your hands are sweaty).

you were a little intimidated by ushijima at first just because of his size and general resting b face (sorry not sorry), but you relaxed when you saw how tendou acted around him. they are best friends, after all. now you and ushijima are pretty close and even put your heads together to plan surprise birthday parties for tendou every year.

whenever he's at away games, tendou will still text you as much as he can, including sending voice messages of him singing you silly little songs. you can often hear his teammates telling him to shut up in the background, but you're not annoyed by it at all.

attachment style? tendou's a little clingy, tbh, but it doesn't bother you. he's just protective and trying to make sure you're happy and safe.

tendou thinks you're always beautiful (and doesn't hesitate to tell you), but his favorite version of you is when you're wearing one of his hoodies.

one of your favorite couple-y pastimes is getting into playful arguments which usually devolve into tendou chasing you around trying to shove chocolate or a baked good into your face.

"that's what she said" jokes are not beneath you two.

tendou loves cooking for you and you love watching him in the kitchen. sometimes you two will get into impromptu dance-offs while waiting for the food to finish cooking or cooling.

he's not big on grand gestures, but on your anniversary, tendou hand-delivered a dozen double chocolate cherry cupcakes to your homeroom.

#tendou satori #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu headcanons #tendou satori x reader #dating headcanons #rewatching season 3 and eating chocolate ice cream today in honor of my fave weird guy #fluff fluff fluff #saccharine sweet #did I mention fluff?#this show still has me in a chokehold #I mean any show with a weird and slightly off-putting character immediately has my interest so #divider source: @cafekitsune

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sealrock · 6 months ago

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andromache: ... there's no such thing as a god-uncle. achille: there is now!

(based on this)

#ffxivsnaps #hyur #ffxiv gpose #ffxiv oc #gposers #the gpose i mentioned the other day. it's so stupid and not polished but it's funny to me #me and my friend love the original comic and it wouldn't leave my head. it haunted me #where is hector during all of this? idk but he would not be happy hearing about this #this is foreshadowing btw. paris did grow up to hate him #anyway here's some fluff before the pain #mygposes.

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generalsdiary · 2 months ago

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the spice will warm me from the inside

Jiaoqiu x Moze

warnings: description of injuries, mentions of the 2.5 events, Jiaoqiu’s history, Moze’s history, nightmares, anxiety, breakdowns, knives/weapons mentioned, one swear word, assassination attempt (dw)

word count: 5.5k

description: a hurt/comfort fic, angst & fluff, life after the events of 2.5, kinda found family trope as well. Jiaoqiu's life with his newfound trauma and disability, Jiaoqiu and Moze living life and communicating in healthy ways. As much as it goes over their "angsty" pasts and traumas it is very healing and focused on moving forward and learning to find a way to go on even when all has gone dark (pun not intended). Feixiao shows up a few times, Sushang comes to visit. As much as it is hurt/comfort, dw as soon as it hurts you, you will be comforted. One has to process through their past traumas and everything they have been through in order to start moving on. A realistic approach.

Jiaoqiu's fingers pressed against the smooth surface of the window. Cold, smooth, glossy. Traveling between the ships of the Luofu wasn't something new to him, but the experience felt different. The darkness, the shadow didn't move no matter how wide he opened his eyes, hoping for light to seep in, for a picture to form. It was hopeless, the poison took its toll.

“Moze.” his voice was gentle as ever, trying his best to hide the tremble in it. The fear as every space feels unfamiliar. The small tremor in his hands that hasn't left since he was... rescued.

“Yes?” a deep-toned voice beside him makes his ears perk up, trying to pinpoint the location, to naturally turn to the man as he usually would. With the way he could before. He turns, hopefully towards Moze. A small crinkle in his eyes as he recalls how March corrected him twice because he wasn't facing her nor the others. Jiaoqiu expected his hearing to be better, to be a better aid, especially as a foxian.

“Describe the room for me. Please.” there's a small pause. A silence. The shadow guard was incredibly quiet, not even a rustle of his clothes.

“It is the same as the last time. Small room, red velvet seats, three across three, sliding glass door, warm light from the headlight, grey floors. The regular transportation.”

Jiaoqiu nods, bringing his fan out, hiding half his face and gently moving it creating a small whiff of air. He remembers some of it... such a mundane thing, he never paid it too much attention. It hurts. Leaning his head back against the soft seat he closes his eyes. They are straining him. an unfamiliar feeling this early in the day.

“Mhm, thank you, Moze... and. General Feixiao, where is she?”

“Arranging a private port for us three to exit at. to avoid crowds.” Moze keeps his answer concise.

The trio is still greeted by guards and some of the general’s usual caretakers. They have received the news, and a man eagerly approaches the trio. His hand is quickly gripping Jiaoqiu’s forearm, making him lose his balance, making him stumble. He desperately uses his tail to balance and tug his arm back. The irritation barely hidden in his voice, “You do not take my arm- one does not simply drag a blind man with them.”

Commotion. Calming words of the general. And a voice that cuts through the multiple voices talking. A low tone, beside him. “I’m on your right, half a step in front of you.” being taller than Jiaoqiu, Moze’s soothing voice is heard easily, mouth so near the foxian’s fluffy ears.

Jiaoqiu takes a calming breath. Another one. This is fine. No. It is not fine. He just has to get home. Home. Yes. Everything will be fine when he gets home.

His hand reaches out into the unknown, the rough fabric meets his fingertips, he gently rests his arm tucked into Moze’s and then grips his forearm. “Thank you. Please. ..Slowly. I can’t.-“ Jiaoqiu’s voice breaks, why did it- no he is fine. He is not breaking down in public. It has been years since has was able to cry. Not after he served in the military. Those tears have long dried up.

You don’t need to cry to break down. To feel the pain engulfing you. The war took most of his ability to taste away. The once lover of subtle, bland flavors, now chased the spiciest, hottest meals- no matter how much it burned his tongue or hurt his throat. It made him feel alive. The spice burned inside him, warming him up when all he could feel was an icy cold throughout his bones.

The familiar crack of the wooden floor beneath his feet lets him know he is finally home. Jiaoqiu immediately took his shoes off and let go of Moze. Stretching out his arms, feeling the smooth texture of the walls in his home. Navigating to his bedroom. Through many dark nights, he could move around his house effortlessly- but this wasn’t a dark night. No moonlight. No lamp. No candle. No soft lights coming off the electronics. He bumps into the couch, and a cabinet, until he finally sits down on the soft bed. Opening his eyes. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. Nothing? Jiaoqiu wants to rage, to throw furniture around. Hasn’t he done enough? Given enough? Deep breaths. He will not succumb to the anger that wants to drown him. Mindlessly caressing the cotton sheets beneath him.

“G-give me a scarf.”

Silence. Jiaoqiu cannot hear him. Moze was always someone he could see, even in his shadow form, he could always SEE him. he could not even smell him. the clean man. Not a single scent.

A fabric touches his hands, soft, strange patterns swirling on it. He drags his fingers across it. Deep breaths. Calm down. He folds it neatly and brings it over his eyes. Tying it up around his head.

“Why?” Moze asked quietly. The sound seems to be coming from below. He is… kneeling beside the bed?

“Every time I open my eyes I hope they will heal. That… that something maybe changed. And every single fucking time that hope is crushed. And I-“ his voice wavers, “I cannot deal with that. I cannot bear another time of my heart getting broken by my inability to see. … with this, I won’t be able to open them. Just. Just… until I get used to… things.”

“I can order a cane for you.”

“No,” Jiaoqiu says a bit too harshly. “I will not. I can’t. I… just. Please, I.” he stumbles over his words like he is falling down the stairs. Shaking his head. Hands trembling. Moze’s habit of not speaking is upsetting at this moment. The bed squeaks under the weight of the other man, strong arms encircle him. Firm chest pressed against the foxian’s back. Calm breathing on his shoulder and a strong steady heart beating against his own works wonders. Making him ground his own breathing in the pace he feels the other’s ribs expand and contract. Heartbeat soon enough coming into sync with Moze’s. A comfortable silence. Although to Jiaoqiu it isn’t a silence. The inhale, exhale, a reassuring sound in this abyss.

Jiaoqiu’s fingers gripped the peeled onion a bit too roughly. He worried it might roll away. Just have to tuck in his fingers, and it is okay. Chop, chop, chop.

Cooking is a big part of him. and his situation will not take it away from him. The last thing that makes him feel like himself. His hand hovers above the deep pan, warmth seeping in. It is hot enough. He chops more veggies and meat and puts it all on a low simmer. Doors open and close, and as per usual he turns towards the sound. It has to be Moze or Feixiao. A burglar wouldn’t enter that casually, right? These thoughts don’t ease his life. The constant worrying and anxiety-

“It’s me.” he doubts he is able to recognize everyone’s voice. Humanoid hearing is simply not suited for it. Expect that it is Moze. Jiaoqiu can recognize his voice. “I have brought you something” With a quick step he is beside him, warm hands holding his and handing him something… smooth. “You said no cane. This is a walking stick. Older people use it- I know, you maybe don’t want it, and it may cause more trouble. Simply put, at least it’s here to help you not fall. okay?”

That’s a lot of words for the shadow guard who prefers to stay silent. Jiaoqiu feels out the walking stick, tapping the ground with it a bit. “I appreciate the thought, I will. I will keep it near.” With that, he sets it against the kitchen counter and stirs the food. Sour and spicy notes hit his nose. Home. Breathing it in like smoke. Wishing it could take him back.

“Why are there green peppers in the trash? They appear fine.” Moze questions. Jiaoqiu exhales, his throat tightens. Opening his mouth to explain but the strain stops him from voicing anything. Why are they in the trash can? A perfectly good ingredient, still fresh, he is never wasteful. The everpresent tremble is his new companion, his imagination makes him feel the finger that pressed against his back causing immense pain so he may give away secrets about Feixiao. The claws that ripped his clothes apart and left rough textured scars- still wounds, they have yet to heal to become scars. The makeup that ran down his face. The tugged hair. Flashes of scent induced fear. The last thing he ever saw was that monster. Hoolay. Green peppers. No. It isn’t something he can see- … it isn’t something he can smell, eat, or feel again.

Moze quietly observes the way Jiaoqiu grips the counter, the way his breathing becomes shallow, the silence piercing his ears, worry coloring Moze’s face now that he doesn’t have to conceal his expressions anymore. “I will take the trash out.”

“Please, thank you.” Jiaoqiu answers in a shaky, broken voice. The voice one sounds like right before they will break down. With swift movements, Moze ties the bag and takes the trash out.

With a slow step and one hand on the walking stick, he carries the food to the table. Plate by plate. Chopsticks, spoons. Beverages. If it were any other normal day he’d carry the pan to the table. But it isn’t any other normal day. This is the new normal. And carrying a heavy, soup-filled pan is risky. Finally satisfied, he sits down and smiles gently. Like he used to. Small wins, little joys.

Moze returns and wishes to say how he could’ve helped. Those words die down in his throat. Would it be more condescending than helpful? Would he even care for his words? Moze lost his voice, his will to speak, from his “second family”. Where no one cared for what he said. He convinces himself that this time he isn’t speaking because it might be rude.

“Would you text the trailblazer for me?” Jiaoqiu inquires during the meal, once Moze returns from washing his hands.

“Now?”

“No, no. after we eat. And could you switch the settings to voice commands and audio-specific notifications?”

“Consider it done.”

Technology is another thing Moze has a great understanding of. Updating the phone and other digital items in their home poses no issue. “When I call you in the future, or anyone whose number you have saved this is how it will sound” Moze calls Jiaoqiu’s phone, and instead of making a pleasant melody, a robotic voice starts talking ‘Moze Moze Moze Moze…’ Jiaoqiu nods with a small smile. “That is helpful, I appreciate it.” “And you can text the trailblazer by giving voice commands to the phone. You don’t need my assistance.” Moze sounds proud, showing Jiaoqiu that he is perfectly capable of doing it alone, just a bit differently than what he is used to.

“I’m going to meet Suyi. You can take the time to clean, Moze” Jiaoqiu takes his cane and exits their home. Hopefully, by giving him obligations and keeping clear of the area, it will make Moze not follow him.

It has been a few weeks. He took an orientation and mobility class. Learning how to use an actual cane. It felt easier to exist. Jiaoqiu was once again mobile, he could go to the market, buy fresh produce, and go out to meet old friends. Tap tap taping his way to the café. Jiaoqiu had a preference for a nonfoldable cane. The subtle vibrations carried through much better. And concrete felt like hell so he tried to stick to the pavement the best he could. The Yaoqing, sadly, had no pathways adjusted to those with impaired vision. Tap tap tap. Jiaoqiu made do with what he had. Walking in public with his cane made him feel free again, akin to feeling in control again. There is a lingering hope in it. Reminiscent of a small candle’s light, not too strong, yet it may illuminate a whole room.

Another assassination attempt failed. Moze groans. The general suggested asking for advice from others, and the trailblazer, the first person he asked, had nothing useful to say in that regard. The silver shine of the knife glistened in the artificial sun. Like sharpening it will make the attempts successful. Feixiao killed his entire family. His family. His close ones, they healed him, gave him a roof over his head, they fed him… poisons under the claim he will live forever with it, his words ever only falling on deaf ears, mantras shoved down his throat like rose spikes. Intoxicating his insides even after he knew of the evil those same words caused. Not to mention the first family that abandoned him, the village that left him to die.

Is this what you call a family? Moze asks himself as the sharp blade lingers above Feixiao’s throat. There he stands. About to succeed. To win his freedom. Is he not already free tho? No, no, she killed his family. This was the agreement and the rightful vengeance. Moze outdid her. Snuck into her home, he won. Yet his hand is frozen. It stands still in the dead of the night. Unmoving. Static. Immobile. Eyes observing the resting face of the woman who saved him. Educated him, showed him kindness, and actual warmth. And in his adult years, she is the one who introduced him to his current partner. Be that as it may, what becomes of him if he let go of it all now? What is his worth? This was his goal, all this time. The driving force of his medically adjusted body. Is this what you call a family? Is this who has been his family all along? The general and the healer? The borisin and the foxian. The air is deathly still. His hand is calm, free from tremors. His brow furrows deeper, thinking through all of it. Until he comes to a decision.

“Feixiao.” Moze says in a normal tone. The knife was still against her neck. The general stirs awake, eyes widening at the surprise, however she makes no move to shove him away. Feixiao knows if he wanted to do something, it would have been done.

“I have won. … I shall remain your guard, General. Death will have to walk through me to get you.” in the blink of an eye he is gone. Feixiao exhales and returns to her sleep with a smile on his face. Moze finally, slowly, started to move on. Decades later, he managed to take small steps toward acceptance.

A few minutes later he is holding his partner in his arms. “Jiaoqiu” Moze whispers into the soft ear. The foxian stirs, “hm?” “I have succeeded in my revenge.” Small shuffle and a sharp inhale, Jiaoqiu turns towards him, “Hm?” sleep-driven hum. “I couldn’t bring myself to kill her. She is my family. I cannot. I would never bring harm upon the ones I care about. Never.” Moze speaks his vow aloud and nuzzles his head into Jiaoqiu’s neck. Nothing more had to be said, in his opinion, time to sleep. A gentle hand caresses his hair, “Good.” Jiaoqiu leaves a feathery kiss on the grey hair after which he continues sleeping.

Misty rain soaked his clothes and the small boat rocked along the smooth surface of the Rainsoar lake. Jiaoqiu used to come here often. Alone he’d collect herbs and fruit in the herbal basket on his back.

“You didn’t have to come with me, one of the locals could’ve taken me.”

“It is not a problem for me, Jiaoqiu. I’m glad to be in your company, we see each other less… and it brings me joy to be beside you.” Feixiao answers, slowly rowing the boat through the lake covered with heart-shaped foliage, blossoms, water chestnuts, and the occasional fish jumping out. A beautiful sight, a tranquil atmosphere surrounding the two.

Jiaoqiu reaches out beyond the small boat, dipping his fingers into the icy cold water to collect the lotus flowers and floating heart plants. An old tradition for him, one he did even before he joined the army as a doctor. The cold fingers pluck a wild rice stem and open it up. Bringing the fresh rice to his mouth.

Years before it had a wonderful sweet and refreshing taste. His taste changed after he came back from war. Jiaoqiu’s taste buds were the price he paid in the war. A renowned chef, and healer, lost his delicate sense of taste. The gaze of an Aeon who looked down upon the thousand-year war, and their choice to end it, burned everyone involved. Jiaoqiu’s tongue was the price he paid for running into the white light to save the young kid. Feixiao. The cold region was something he got accustomed to. Nonetheless, when the almighty power sliced down the battlefield, Jiaoqiu felt a cold unlike any other. Freezing him from the inside. With the leftover survivors, he decided to cook a stew. A warm flame. Some spice. More spice. Chili peppers. Not enough. All the spice he had in his pouch. Until he finally felt a taste on his tongue. A burning sensation. The last flavor he can actually taste. For it made him feel alive despite everything that happened, everything around him, the cold air, the cold insides, the tasteless tongue. And the heat… it sent a jitter down his body. So alive. … the sensation bordered on pain. As spice tolerance grows, surely his grew as well. And he might today very well be dancing with pain every bite. After he returned from the war the rice stems tasted too bland. No flavor to them. He reaped the consequences of his actions. Of choosing to save the girl. His scars from the war.

Years later, at the same lake, with the woman he saved during the war, the boat rocks with her movements. The second time he saved her he paid with his sight. Jiaoqiu never blamed her, why would he? It was his choice the whole way and his goal. The jump to save her from the Aeon. To drink… Tumbledust. To give everyone a fighting chance and to heal Feixiao’s moon rage. Jiaoqiu is an adult and he made his decisions to the best of his judgment in the circumstances that were given to him.

The wild rice lands on his tongue. For a sacred moment, he feels a tinge of sweetness, however, it is only for one moment. And gone with the wind. Even so, for one moment it was there. Is it because he lost his vision that his other senses have enhanced the tiniest bit giving him a single second, less than a second of something that used to bring him joy? The foxian could cry at that moment if his eyes had not dried from any tears while he was still in the army. A moment is still a moment. It is enough. Enough to give him more hope. To keep him moving forward. To have faith in the future. To even dare to look into the future.

For a man to willingly drink poison, deadly poison, he had to give up all hope. Any faith toward the future, any life he thought he had left. Jiaoqiu had to make peace with the fact that no one was coming to recuse him- that he would not be saved. So what was the last thing he could do? After Hoolay drained him of any secrets about the general, humiliated him, treated him less than the ground they walk on, and broke his ego and pride by allowing him to walk around knowing he will “always return to his master”. The only thing he could do was give the others a fighting chance, somehow use the knowledge he acquired; to save Feixiao and sacrifice himself.

The sweet flavor of rice on his tongue. A small flame of a candle, a hope. Hope for the future, he gets to live in. as he slowly finds his self-worth again, his self-respect, and his hopefulness for the oncoming days.

“We may return. I got what I came for.”

“Hm- I’m still-“ Feixiao speaks with her mouth full and Jiaoqiu angles his head a bit analyzing the sound, and a chuckle is ready to part his lips. “You are eating?”

“-mh, hey the water chestnuts are really good!” Feixiao probably has her mouth full of food. The general likely got bored and hungry. Jiaoqiu’s warm laugh cuts the silence of the lake. He hasn’t laughed in a long time. It makes his tummy hurt and he has to stop to not make the boat flip over. Feixiao laughs with him… after she chews down the food in her mouth.

How does one make noise when one walks? A question Moze never thought he’d ask himself. Hence, doing his best, it sounds like a child purposefully stomping the heel of their feet onto the floor. Heavy steps. It is ridiculous. Moze finds himself hilarious, ironic even. His stoic front breaks down when he hears his partner laughing from the couch. The sole reason why he is doing this. To fill the void Jiaoqiu sees. Moze will not move like a shadow in their home. He shall make noise. Even if it sounds like an overgrown toddler throwing a tantrum.

“I’m trying!” Moze voices between bursts of laughter.

“Ooh, I can hear that indeed~” Jiaoqiu nods and giggles.

A knock on the door interrupts their conversation. Jiaoqiu stands up, slowly making his way to the door, while Moze opens it.

A girl with a cloud knight uniform on and long dark brown hair with a big bright smile stands in the doorway. “Hello!” she says cheerfully, “It has been so long, I thought I’d come to visit, how are you, Uncle J?”

Jiaoqiu angles his head a bit, the voice not ringing any bells. “I’m sorry, you-“ Moze quickly buts in, “It is Sushang.” “Yeah, and I brought a gift!” Sushang happily stretches out her hands, handing Jiaoqiu a small box. There’s a few seconds of silence. Moze once again says, “She is handing you a small box, approximately the size of a human head, and by the looks of it not too heavy.”

“Ah, thank you, Sushang. Your presence is unexpected but I’m glad you came over, are you hungry?” Jiaoqiu carefully takes the gift in his hands and smiles. “I mean, I could never say no to your cooking Uncle J! Also... I’m sorry, you are..?” Moze sighs. This is the third time he has seen her and she fails to remember him. The shadow guard, proficient in remaining hidden, wonders why she never remembers him. Jiaoqiu speaks in his stead as he slowly walks to the kitchen, “This is Moze, my partner.” “oh! Hi there, Uncle Moze!” Sushang flashes him a bright smile and moves past him to sit at the kitchen island, ready to yap a whole storm about her life and catch her uncle up with it all. Starting with her best friend, Guinaifen. Once she finishes her stories, Sushang is more than happy to sit in a slump position, stuff her face full of dumplings while Jiaoqiu shares some new stories of his life (the happy ones). In her eyes, he tells them better than the storyteller at Sleepless Earl.

“You know I care about your thoughts, opinions, even random comments with not a single thought behind them, right?” Jiaoqiu’s hand effortlessly treaded through Moze’s silver hair, facing him on the couch. “I will try. I have learned differently and… despite it being a bad habit, those are even harder to let go of.” Moze’s eyes are closed, melting under his lover’s touch. Jiaoqiu’s voice is smooth like butter, continuing, “I know, Moze. When it gets hard, just remember that I care about you and what you have to say. I always have. I love you.” Moze leans forward, pressing his forehead against Jiaoqiu’s, “I love you too. I will do my best.” Moze softly kisses the bridge of his nose, where the cotton scarf lays across his eyes.

Jiaoqiu reached behind his head, untangling the scarf. Weeks, months have passed since he started wearing it. Taking it off only when he bathes or sleeps. He opens his eyes. “I missed seeing them. Such beautiful golden glow, Jiaoqiu.” Moze muses, enjoying the view of bright orange eyes. “Thank you. I feel finally… strong enough mentally to exist and move without it. I have gathered… hope and mental strength.” Jiaoqiu nods, the darkness beyond his eyes unchanged. “They still look beautiful to you, Tumbledust didn’t affect them?” “Even if it did, the fact would not change. To answer your question your eyes are unchanged. They cannot meet mine, but I was never big on eye contact.” The simplicity and honesty in his answer made Jiaoqiu feel secure and loved. The foxian smiles, and their home feels warm. So warm with them together, kind, loving, patient. Healing through their traumas and pain. One thoughtful word at a time.

In the peaceful moment, Jiaoqiu caresses Moze’s cheek and leans in to kiss him. One of the moments where darkness is welcomed… because of the way Moze makes him feel during the kiss, it makes Jiaoqiu feel like he can taste colors.

“The divine traces of Abundance shall heal your body... quick. Drink this...” Moze’s body was covered with sweat, his breathing was shallow. Hooded figures surrounded him.

“I don’t… don’t make drink… no…no” he mumbles helplessly, the thick liquid forced down his throat again. Goosebumps rose on his skin, “Drink child. You will… immortal… save… others…” Moze’s throat closed up, drowning on dry land and his mind disconnected from his body in an all too familiar way. Dying and fighting in the same breath. Half a second away from a silent scream or spitting the medicine back out. “Please… please… I…” his voice trembled, powerless against any of them. Once more his voice is ignored. His yelps and pleading for help, his begging for mercy shushed, ignored… put aside. Nothing more than a good test subject, convinced this is what family does. This is how it must be. Others live like this too, right? This is completely normal, right? He is cared for and nourished here, right? He will survive this, right? I will survive this…right?

A hushed voice hummed in the distance. The worn down building, cold and exposed cement his everyday environment, and the sound he didn’t recognize. “shh, shh, shh.” Rhythmical, paced… soothing? No one ever soothed him. Then he feels it. A delicate tender touch. Fingers brushing his hair. Moze’s breathing sped up as his surroundings changed, he inhaled sharply, his vision going black, all sound stopping into a painful echo of silence, a deafening sound, his lungs moving up and down with irregular breathing until there was none of him left. Abyss. Darkness. Black dots of midnight oil. A window. A window? Moonlight vaguely illuminated the space. A bed. And… “shh, shh, shh. There you go… back with me.”

Moze’s face felt wet, his vision blurry and his eyelashes stuck together, a salty taste on his lips. The sight of his partner holding him so carefully, gingerly, and taking care of him… Moze had no words. The nightmare swallowed him up again. He hated the feeling. Immediately he turns to press himself fully into his partner, to hide his face away from the shadows in the room, “Jiaoqiu” he whispers. “Yes, my precious. I’m here. You’re here. In our home. In our bed. Safe. With me.” For the next few minutes, Jiaoqiu keeps murmuring comforting words and hushed hums until Moze grounds himself in the present moment.

“I hate them. I hate my nightmares.”

“May I offer my healing abilities? A nine-squared grid hotpot will surely have a pleasurable effect on this, and help out.”

“I… that sounds good. If you say it will help, then I’ll take it.”

Jiaoqiu starts sitting up, “Very well.”

“Wait,” Moze utters, squinting his eyes to look at the clock, “it is 3 am, you don’t have to cook now.”

“Then when am I supposed to cook, Moze?” Jiaoqiu replies with a smile, “It isn’t hard. It doesn’t bother me.” He stands up and faces somewhat in the direction of the bed. “I’m happy to take care of you, Moze.” Jiaoqiu sits back on the bed and finds his partner’s face, cupping it in his hands. The texture of Moze’s unshaven face against his fingers feels rough but familiar, and in that familiarity, he feels safe. His home. He presses his lips against the younger man’s forehead and stands back up, already on his way to the kitchen.

Approximately half an hour later, a freshly bathed Moze sits across Jiaoqiu for a late night or an early morning meal. The warm liquid filled with various vegetables and spices feels good as it goes down his throat. It isn’t poison. It doesn’t hurt. It isn’t a threat.

“Thank you, Jiaoqiu. It tastes amazing.”

“Always a pleasure.” He answers with an all-knowing smile. “I could add a little more chili oil next time…”

“eh- I… it is spicy enough, darling.” Moze voices his thoughts hesitantly, which makes Jiaoqiu softly laugh and add a few drops of chili pepper flakes to his own bowl.

On the other hand, Jiaoqiu’s nightmares didn’t stop. Many nights he wakes up in fear of where he is. Is he still captive? Still kidnapped? Still surrounded by borisin and under the effect of lupitoxin? Jiaoqiu wakes up with heavy breathing every time, sitting up quickly, feeling the space around him- more often than not, waking Moze in his desperate attempt to gather where he is whether he is home or there. There’s a phantom pain where Hoolay pressed his finger onto his back to drain information from him. An itch on his chest where the wounds will form into dark pink scar tissue. In the beginning, it was every night. Every night for weeks, months. Jiaoqiu started relying on afternoon naps. Time has passed but his nightmares are still often. On the rare nights when Moze isn’t in bed, he has a good sleep schedule- most likely went to drink some water, Jiaoqiu is quick to spiral and clumsily get out of bed. Moze usually finds him kneeling on the floor, hanging onto the wall, mumbling, “No, no, no, no, no, no. I am not. This is home. This is home. It is. My walls. M-moze…Moze”

The curse of a doctor, a healer, they cannot heal themselves. The trauma he has been through, the scars from it that he carries still with him, most of them not even visible, it isn’t something that passes overnight. Healing is a long and slow process. It will take time. Sometimes he has no nightmares for weeks, only for them to torment his peaceful night’s rest for days on end. Some days, Jiaoqiu will have a bit more anxiety while walking around. What if everyone and anyone he talks to once again is under a guarantee of a death filled with fangs and claws?

Hence, he takes it slowly. When the world feels like it is crushing him, he takes a deep breath and eats spicy food. He grounds himself in his environment. Reminds himself that he is safe, Hoolay is dead, the borisin are under control, he isn’t being targeted, and everything is fine. Everything is fine. He will be fine. With time. One deep breath at a time.

The tremor in his hands never left him.

A breeze rustled various branches and leaves, providing a lovely melody of an artificial autumn on the Yaoqing. The scent of cooked apples dipped in caramel and baked cinnamon rolls filled the air.

“I see no threat in my retainers. The man you cannot see is my guard, and the foxian is my personal doctor. Surely, we don’t pose a problem?” Feixiao questioned the men in front of her, attempting to enter a highly secure space, on a very important and very secret mission.

Moze appears by her side, “I shall leave all my weapons with you.” he takes his time to slowly strip himself of his hidden knives and make a full scene out of it.

Jiaoqiu stands still with a small smile and his cane in his hands. “I do not carry weapons. I am a healer, I wouldn’t hurt a fly.” If at all possible, his smile widens subtly with the honey-dripped words that coat the actual truth. “Moreover, I am retired. I’m here on the general’s command to accompany her to this… wonderful occasion.”

Rustling, murmuring, quiet chats, “…what could a blind man do…” “…the guard left all of his weapons…” “….yeah, we can let them through..” “You may come.”

Feixiao slowly walks towards the entrance with a confident stride, Jiaoqiu steadily taps his cane following her with the same smirk on his face, Moze soundlessly steps last, with at least, still 32 weapons on him.

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emmyrosee · 8 months ago

Note

Which one of your hubbies buys this for his kid? And be creative 😉

(This was the link!!)

Honestly??? H o n e s t l y??? Suna.

Suna loves watching Akito toddle around in lil starfish onesies, he looks so goofy as he rolls around and flaps his lil arms, smiling his chubby smile as he crawls and moves through the house.

Don’t get me started on when Sachie and Sachiko come into the world and now’s he’s got two terrors in tiny starfish getups, one in pink one in orange; he can watch them just run around and flail for hours ☹️🩷

#did I mention the twins in the dad!au is Sachie and Sachiko??#bc that’s their names #suna rintaro #suna rintaro fluff #suna rintaro imagine #suna rintaro haikyuu #dad!au #dad!haikyuu #dad!haikyuu au #dad!suna #dad!suna rintaro

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floral-force · 1 year ago

Text

Lay Me Down to Sleep

Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN!Reader

summary: Insomnia plagues you during your first night on-base with Task Force 141. A little midnight stroll leads you to the imposing masked lieutenant you'd been warned about. Maybe a common struggle can lead to comfort...

words: 1.8k+

warnings/tags: just really soft stuff here (but my work/blog is always 18+ only), this one goes out to my fellow insomniacs, insomniac!simon "ghost" riley, pride and prejudice mention, all fluff, technically pre-slash, soap is a lil shit

a/n: hi, hello, I am back (sort of). I took a long hiatus bc of work/life stress but I cranked this out a while ago and finally feel confident enough to post it. thank you for reading and sticking with me <3

masterlist | read on ao3 | taglist

You stared up at the ceiling of your room, rubbing the heels of your palms into your tired eyes. Hours had passed since you’d gotten into bed to rest up before a briefing in the morning. Sleep still hadn’t found you yet. Maybe it was the time difference—you had flown into England from the States not even 12 hours ago—or maybe it was the stiff mattress. Or maybe it was the way you still thought of the masked lieutenant at Price’s side when you’d gotten off the heli.

Whatever it was, you needed to get over it. You’d read online that sometimes leaving bed to do something other than try to sleep helps, so maybe it was the perfect time for you to check out that tiny little excuse for a kitchen the Scottish private—nicknamed Soap, he’d told you with a wink—had shown you earlier. With a sigh, you got up and wiggled out of your sleep shorts and into more modest sweatpants, anxiously pulling at the hem of your shirt as you stepped into your crocs and walked out of the door.

Your eyes finally adjusted to the bright fluorescent hallway light as you reached the kitchen, surprised to see a light on when you opened the heavy door with bated breath. You peeked inside and saw a broad man sitting at a table, absolutely dwarfing it with his size.

“Can’t sleep, eh?”

You jumped at the deep voice and nearly let the door slam, catching it right before impact and slowly closing it. “Uh, no.” You chuckled, walking behind him to the right side of the table.

You reached the chair, then stopped in your tracks when you lifted your gaze off the floor.

It was him—the masked lieutenant.

You could barely make out a quirked-up eyebrow under the shadow of his sweatshirt’s hood as he took a sip from the mug his large hand dwarfed, his fabric mask scrunched up over his nose. Your heart raced and you looked down at the seat of the crummy plastic chair in front of you. The kitchen was now the last place you wanted to be, but you were too tired to make up some shitty excuse to flee.

So, you stood awkwardly in front of the chair, hands in your pockets, biting your lips.

“I’m—” you cleared your throat, “I’m guessing you can’t either, Lieutenant?”

“Never can these days,” he replied gruffly.

There was the sound of another sip from his mug, a thump when it was lowered to the table, and then silence. It was heavy and awkward, and you were certain you’d never felt more embarrassed in front of a commanding officer before, even though you’d fainted in front of one during a basic training run.

There was a heavy sigh. “Christ, ‘m not gonna fuckin’ bite ya.”

“Soap told me you would,” you quipped back.

Soap had warned you about the masked man—Ghost, he’d called him—and told you not to bother him much. “That’s my job,” he’d laughed.

Right now, you felt like you were definitely bothering him.

“Figures,” he grumbled.

You finally looked back up at Ghost, meeting his brown-eyed gaze for the first time since you’d entered the room. He looked at you with curiosity, not malice; somehow, that made you feel a little better, even if it still made your heart race and your palms sweat.

“I just—I can’t stop thinking,” you blurted out, finally responding to the question he’d asked when you’d opened the door with a solid answer beyond your meek “no.”

“I get nightmares.”

It felt like a confession, and you pulled out the chair, cringing when it squeaked across the linoleum floor. You sat down to hear more, crossing your arms on the table and resting your chin on them. Ghost’s eyes tracked your movements, even as he took another leisurely sip from his mug. Now that you were closer, you could smell that its contents weren’t coffee, but tea, the herbal notes reaching your nose.

Before you thought better of it, words rushed out of your mouth. “It’s stupid, but when my insomnia is really bad—like it is now—I call my best friend and ask them to read to me. I’d do it now, but they’re at work.” You shrugged your shoulders. “Gotta love the time difference.”

Ghost shook his head. “Tha’s not stupid at all.” He took a long drink from his mug and set it down. “Whatever works. I jus’ make myself a cuppa, then see what happens.”

“And what’s happening next?” you probed.

He nudged his thumb against the mug and tilted his head. “I think ‘m gonna try reading.”

“Y’all keep books in the kitchen?” you teased.

“Hell no,” Ghost scoffed. “Did’ya bring any wi’you?” he asked.

You pursed your lips and squinted as you thought. “I think I brought Pride and Prejudice with me. I told myself I’d start rereading it since the plane ride over here was the perfect opportunity…but I fell asleep.” You sat up and smiled at him. “Why do you ask?”

He shifted in his seat and his hood fell, revealing short hair and red-tinged ears. “Could I read a bit of it?”

You blinked, a bit stunned at his shy question. Ghost, a man with a taste for Jane Austen? Something about a man like him wanting to read a period romance novel lit a tiny fire in your chest.

“Um, sure.” You stood and took a few steps, pointing at the door. “I can go grab it—”

“No, no, I’ll go wi’you, save you the trip back, yeah?” He rushed to his feet, and you stopped in your tracks at his side, gulping at the way he towered over you.

“If you say so, Lieutenant.”

“Ghost,” he nodded.

“Ghost,” you repeated with a soft smile, leading him to the door.

The walk to your room was silent except for your footsteps tapping on the floor; his boots and your crocs mixing into a twilight harmony. Ghost kept up behind you. Your cheeks burned at the thought of him seeing you in your ratty sweats and shirt and crocs—fucking crocs—as you finally reached your door. You fumbled with your keys, swearing under your breath.

You unlocked the door and hurried across the room to flick on the lamp at your bedside. Ghost closed the door, then loomed over you as you crouched down and rummaged through your backpack. You hummed in triumph when you finally pulled out the beat-up and well-loved book, turning and reaching up to hand it to him. You stood and sat on the edge of your bed, expecting him to leave. Instead, he pulled the chair from the desk across the bed over to your bedside, settling in as he read the back cover. You were suddenly aware of his musky, amber scent because of the short distance, and you would be lying if you said it didn’t feel inviting, much unlike the person it clung to.

“Making sure you like it?” you asked with a nervous chuckle.

“Do you like it, love?” Ghost’s eyes flitted up to meet yours.

The pet name and Ghost’s suddenly soft voice caught you off guard. You reminded yourself it wasn’t personal, that it was a common British thing, that he didn’t mean anything by it, that it was colloquial. It didn’t feel bad or gross—it felt like a warm hug, a gentle kiss on the forehead, a thumb softly stroking across your cheek.

You swallowed and dug your nails into the mattress. “Yeah, yeah! I’ve—I’ve read it, like, twice now.” You silently cursed yourself for stumbling over your words.

He nodded. “Have you ever listened to someone read it?”

“No,” you answered hesitantly.

“Would you like to?”

You nearly choked on your breath. You couldn’t stop your eyes from widening and your lips from parting. Having Ghost read to you would be absolutely unreal—his voice was strangely soothing, washing over you with a gentleness you didn’t think he’d be capable of. And yet, here he sat, staring you down as his thumb stroked the front cover of one of your favorite books, his offer dangling in the air.

“You said being read to helps you fall asleep,” he continued. “You’re gonna need the sleep to handle Price’s brief, I promise you that, love.”

“I mean, yeah,” you replied. “But I don’t want you to think you have to or need to. I’m a big girl, I can force myself to fall asleep if you say Price is really that bad.”

Ghost shook his head. “Nah, I want to.” He reached for the lamp and jerked his head at you. “Get settled, love. You can still get a decent amount’a sleep in.”

“What will you do?” you asked as he dimmed the light.

“Me?” he shrugged as you lay down. “I’ll live.”

“Then I should stay up too.”

“No, sleep. That’s an order,” he said, the command stern yet playful and stoking the fire in your chest. You swore he winked at you, but it could’ve been a trick of the light.

“Fine,” you huffed. You closed your eyes so you could focus on the silky tones of his voice.

“Now then,” he cleared his throat. “Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen.”

You smirked. “Off to a great start already, Ghost.”

There was a low chuckle. You smiled, hoping he was looking at the page, but also secretly hoping he was looking at you. Maybe he was, but you could already feel your mind relaxing even though he’d only read the title. There was something in your gut telling you that Ghost was softer than he seemed. The imposing, threatening lieutenant was just a man that enjoyed tea and struggled with insomnia—and apparently, he was a bit of a softie underneath his vest and mask.

As he read, you began to let your mind drift off into dreamland, lulled by Ghost’s dulcet tones and the way he tried to engage with the text, varying his intonation and even chuckling at some of the dialogue and sentences. If he truly didn’t care, you couldn’t tell; he seemed to get more wrapped up in the book the more he read.

“..but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, and noble mien, and—”

“Hm, like you,” you mumbled to your pillow, thinking of Ghost.

There was a pause, then he continued, sounding amused. He probably hadn’t heard you. He was probably just smirking at the next sentence about Darcy’s money, not your sleepy comment. You yawned, your eyes heavy and brain finally quiet enough for sleep to overtake you right as Darcy commented on Elizabeth’s appearance, Austen establishing their complicated and dramatic love-hate relationship.

Ghost wouldn’t tell you he’d blushed at your comment. That would be his sleepy secret.

masterlist | taglist

taglist: @tizylish @dheet @sinfulsalutations @oliviagreenaway @johfaam0 @sofasoap @nickangel13

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost call of duty #call of duty fic #cod fic #soft simon riley #soft ghost #cod mwii fanfic #fluff #did I mention this is fluffy?#absurdly fluffy #my fic #gn!reader

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