#frank holding a box

[luveline]

I’m obsessed with the sister!hotch and Reid fics. I can’t stop imagining that scene where Rossi goes to Garcia’s house and she’s fresh from the shower with Kevin. But instead is Hotch at readers house and Spencer is there.

—you and Spencer are in the midst of a long weekend together when your brother shows up unannounced. fem, 1.3k

“You’re really handsome.” 

Spencer laughs as you drag your hands back over his ears and through his sopping wet hair. The shower water is blissfully warm and soaking your front as it rains down on his head. You shield his eyes but otherwise have your fun. His hair is softer than anything you’ve ever felt. 

He holds your hands flat to his head. “You’re handsomer.” 

“Am I supposed to take that in a good way or a bad way?” you ask. 

“A good way!” he says, forgetting your hands in favour of guiding you under the water. “Handsome has nearly always been used for men more than women, but it didn’t fall out of fashion for girls until the fifties.” He tilts your head upward and to one side as his own begins to fall the other way. “You’re beautiful.” His voice is warm on your lips, “you’re so–”

His kiss is ridiculous; he kisses like he’s starving. You didn’t realise men could actually kiss like this until you met him. It’s not just in the movies, it’s right now, his hand at the back of your neck, unbothered by your laughing or your hand slipping down his wet t-shirt. 

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” you say. 

“We were covered in mud.” 

“We should’ve just got naked.” 

“We’re taking things slow,” he says, laughing, “it’s fun. But what are we gonna do about our wet clothes?”

“You got the most of the mud on you,” you say. Spencer had performed a valiant rescue in that when you fell, he was straight down into the grass after you in an attempt to save your jeans. It didn’t work, obviously, but the thought was there, and he’s such a good kisser in the shower that you don’t mind the loss. “I’m gonna get out and get changed, you can have a real shower, okay? I’ll get you a towel and your pyjamas and stuff.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, it’s fine. I think all the mud from my top half is gone.” 

Spencer takes your face into his hand. His thumb rubs a line along your jaw. “Now it’s gone.” 

You beam. Who knew Dr. Spencer Reid was such a tender guy? You could sort of guess from looking at him that he’d touch you like that, but it’s a contrast, too, to be kissed as though you’re some irresistible siren and to have your face held like fragile glass. 

You step out of the shower still sodden, clothes heavy, and close the frosted door between you and Spencer to strip down. Separated but still shy, you hurry out of your clothes and into a towel, wrapping yourself tightly to head into your bedroom. 

You put on blissfully dry underwear and blot your face. Next is loose pyjama pants and a big t-shirt: you’ve never worried about being sexy for Spencer and you’re not about to start. Your first date was a walk in the park, your second date at the bowling alley. He’s not concerned with that stuff. It’s why his frankness about wanting to take things slow isn’t scary, because when he holds your face and tells you you’re pretty, you believe it. 

“Y/N?” 

You flinch so hard your neck cracks. “Ow,” you whine. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You walk forward before Aaron can let himself into your bedroom. Sure enough, your older brother is in your apartment (as he’s allowed, given that he furnished the entire place and paid the security deposit, and, also, awfully, is a very nice big brother). He’s smiling, carrying two pizza boxes and a carton atop it that smells like French fries. “What have you done now?” he asks fondly. 

“I hurt my neck, you scared me.” 

“If you answered your phone, you’d know I was here.” 

“I was in the shower!” 

“I can see that. You’re getting slovenly, it’s almost midday.” 

You’re so genuinely happy to see him that you forget for a moment your predicament. “It’s the weekend, I can do what I want.” You’re gonna have to let him down, which won’t be easy. “I’m not feeling the best, actually.” 

Aaron lets the pizza boxes rest against his stomach. “How come?” 

“I don’t know, I just feel tired. Maybe we can do something tomorrow.” 

“Honey,” Aaron says, with all the cadence of someone who’s used to rubbing your back when you’re sick, “what’s wrong? Let’s go sit down, I can make you something less greasy.” 

“I think you should just go home, actually. I might be contagious.” 

He looks less concerned and more gutted. “What? I don’t care if you’re contagious. When has that stuff ever bothered me?” Aaron takes another step toward you, his gaze flitting past you toward your bathroom. “What’s really going on?” 

The age gap between you and Aaron is expansive. Your being adopted is another gap, and neither have ever bothered him. The moment you showed up in his life he gave you everything he could manage, which has manifested in long phone calls, in hugs, in homemade soup and delivery when he couldn’t be there. Asking him not to look after you is like telling him you don’t want him to, and it isn’t true. 

He means a lot more to you than whatever awkwardness your confession will inspire. 

“Aaron,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. “Spencer’s in the shower.” 

He squeezes his pizza boxes. “Sorry?” 

“We went to the park and I fell by the lake. He’s in the shower.” 

“But you were just in the shower,” Aaron says. 

“Well, we weren’t in there at the same time,” you drag. 

Your lie is obvious to him, not just as a profiler but as your brother. His brow pinches and his nose wrinkles, not disgusted with you or anything so cruelly stupid, but dissatisfied, at least. “Did you have to tell me that?” he asks, pained.

“I didn’t tell you that, you profiled that, and it’s sort of not what you think anyways! We didn’t do anything–”

“Honey.” 

“I’m really sorry, but it’s not what you think.” 

“Listen to me.” The shower turns off and Aaron’s cheek twitches. “You are a grown up. You can do what you like with who you like. It’s my fault for coming here unannounced, I keep thinking of you as younger than you are.” Says the adult. Then, the more friendly part of being a sibling emerges, “Could you send him home?” he whispers. “I got your favourite.” 

You laugh at his proposition. “That’s kinda rude, isn’t it? Can’t he stay? He’s cool.” 

“I’m having trouble coalescing the two of you as more than acquaintances in my mind,” he says, as though he has much more to say about it, even if he’s smiling. 

Spencer chooses that moment to walk from the en-suite bathroom and out of your room, a t-shirt stuck to his chest with damp, his own pyjama pants baggy at the ankles.

“Hey, are you okay?” Spencer grabs your hand impulsively, twining his fingers in yours. Then he sees Aaron and does a double take. “Hotch?”

You give Aaron a sorry smile. “Does that make it easier?” 

“I’ll wait in the kitchen.” 

You and Spencer watch Aaron retreat. His hand stays in yours, but he squeezes you too tightly. “Wait for what?” Spencer whispers fervently. 

You lean up on tiptoes to kiss his eyebrow. “You’re about to get the shovel talk, I think.” 

“Oh. Great.” He drops his forehead against your shoulder, wet hair dripping a path down your shirt. “This is really bad.” 

“He brought pizza.” 

“I don’t think that’s going to help me.” 

You crane your head and kiss-kiss-kiss the top of his ear. “You’re really pretty when your hair is wet.” 

Spencer murmurs to you reluctantly. “You’re really pretty all the time.” 

[beasangel]

a very bad time p2

⤷ joel miller x fem!reader

💭 “You think it’s hope?” You shrug. “I don’t know what it is.”

Summary: You noticed the signs back at Bill and Frank’s - missed period, morning nausea. You told yourself you'd wait until you found Tommy, until you were somewhere safe. Until Joel was ready. Then Kansas City happened.

part one joel masterlist main masterlist

The silence after Kansas City hangs heavy.

It follows you like a second shadow, quiet and careful, just waiting for one of you to break it.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Not in the middle of a shootout. Not with your back pressed to a rusted-out car and Joel covered in blood. But fear had cracked you wide open, and the words had slipped out before you could stop them.

Joel’s reaction was instant. Unfiltered. The kind of knee-jerk panic you weren’t used to seeing from him.

But he hasn’t brought it up since.

Neither have you.

There have been nights, long, quiet ones where your ribs press into his under the blankets, where the fire dies too early and neither of you says a word, when you almost did. When his fingers brushed over your skin too gently for someone who hadn’t asked a single question about the possibility of a life growing between you.

But the words stayed in your mouth. Stuck. Swallowed down like ash.

You survived the ambush, but barely. Your body still aches from being thrown against the ground. The bruise on your shoulder blooms like ink, sharp and dark, another addition to the collection of marks you’ve gathered from trying to stay alive.

There are more immediate concerns: a place to sleep. The sharp echo of gunfire in your memory. Food supplies thinning. Joel’s shoulder, which he swears isn’t dislocated but still hasn’t moved quite right since.

So you hold it inside. Try not to count the days. Try not to notice the way your stomach swirls each morning, or the quiet weight that’s settled in your chest. Maybe it’s stress. Maybe it’s nothing.

But it isn’t. And it’s getting too loud to ignore.

You find the pharmacy by accident.

A sun-bleached skeleton of a building, wedged between a burned-out diner and a tire shop caved in on itself. The sign is half-gone. Inside, it’s cooler. Still. Dust floats through the air like pollen.

Most of the shelves are empty. Looted long ago. But your feet move through the aisles anyway, like muscle memory.

Joel takes the back. You crouch behind the counter, sleeve pulled over your hand to avoid the shards of glass glittering across the cabinet doors.

That’s when you see it.

Tucked behind a warped stack of cotton swabs. Slightly crushed, but unopened.

A pregnancy test.

You pause. Just for a second. Then you grab it, fast and clumsy, like someone might snatch it away if you hesitate.

Joel’s boots creak behind you.

You don’t have time to hide it.

“What’s that?” he asks.

You turn slowly. It’s in your hand, stupidly obvious, like a bomb with the timer counting down.

His eyes flick down to the box, then back to you.

“You said you weren’t sure.”

“I’m not,” you say too fast. Voice too tight.

Joel doesn’t nod the way he usually does when he doesn’t want to talk about something. Doesn’t shrug it off and shut the door on you. Instead, he says quietly, “You wanna take it?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Your throat’s dry.

“I want to,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “But… until we find Tommy. Until we’re somewhere safe. I don’t think I should.”

He watches you for a moment. Then nods.

“Okay,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.”

Later, you’re tucked into the woods just off the highway. Ellie’s out cold, collapsed like a dropped coat. Joel sits by the fire, sharpening his knife with the kind of focus he only uses when he’s trying not to feel.

You settle beside him. Pull your coat tighter.

“So… you think we’re close to Tommy?” you ask softly.

Joel doesn’t look up. “I know.”

You hesitate. “I just- I want to be somewhere it’s okay to hope.”

He draws the blade down the whetstone. Once. Twice. Then pauses.

“You think it’s hope?”

You shrug. “I don’t know what it is.”

There’s a stretch of silence.

Then Joel says, voice quiet like it’s been untouched for years, “Sarah had this shirt. Blue. Covered in little butterflies. Got too small for her, but she wouldn’t stop wearing it. Said it made her feel like she could fly.”

You don’t speak. Just stare at the fire, the way the flames curl like hands.

“I kept it,” he says. “After. Couldn’t throw it away. Still had it when I met you.”

Your breath catches. He never talks about Sarah. Not like this.

“I haven’t been fair to you,” Joel says. “I’ve been… afraid. That nothing would ever matter after her. That nothing would be more than memory.”

You turn to look at him. Your heart hammers.

“But then you showed up,” he says. “Ran into me in the North Zone. Didn’t flinch when that clicker came at us. Shot it between the eyes. Called me old.”

You laugh, startled by the sound.

“You were limping,” you murmur. “I thought you needed backup.”

“I thought you were out of your damn mind.”

You smile. Eyes sting. “Maybe I was.”

He looks at you then. Really looks for the first time in days. His face is tired, lined, worn down from too many years of surviving. But there’s something steadier beneath it. Something warmer.

“I don’t know if it’s hope,” he says. “But if it’s you… it doesn’t feel like a mistake.”

Your throat tightens. The fire crackles.

“Still,” Joel adds, dry now, “if you ever tell me you might be pregnant in the middle of a gunfight again…”

You groan, covering your face. “Oh my god, can we not-”

“No, we have to talk about it,” he says, lips twitching. “That might’ve been the worst timing in human history.”

“I panicked!” you protest. “There was blood everywhere, I was panicking!”

“Even so. You couldn’t wait five more seconds?”

“I wasn’t thinking rationally! I just-” You hesitate. Your voice softens. “I didn’t want either of us to die without you knowing.”

Joel doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease. His whole expression shifts, gentles.

“You’re not dying,” he says. “Not on me. Not like that.”

Your chest twists.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He reaches over. Brings his hand to yours. Callused and warm. Steady.

“We’ll figure it out,” Joel says. “Together.”

And for the first time since Kansas City, you believe him.

Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “Joel…”

“Hmm?”

You rest your forehead against his shoulder.

“It was positive.”

He freezes.

Then slowly, without a word, he wraps his arms around you. Holds you to his chest like something fragile and beloved. Like he’s not letting go.

You close your eyes and let yourself feel it.

Just for a minute.

Hope.

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

could you write about Robby’s gf/fiance coming into the ER and the residents don’t know they’re dating but they’re blown away by how beautiful/kind she is 🙏🙏

Pairing: Dr Michael 'Robby" Rabinovitch x younger! Langdon's little sister! reader

The sun was shining in Pittsburgh today and the last thing you felt like doing was going to work and dealing with emails and co-workers and the general panic of having a job that your body thinks is a war zone but really it's just not calling Brenda from Marketing a ‘dickhead’. So after a couple of fake coughs down the phone and a promise to check your emails as the day progresses you earn yourself a ‘snow’ day.

But it wasn’t so much fun having a day off in the middle of the week when your boyfriend was at work, and by the messages coming through it was a hectic day filled with unhelpful meetings with admin and too many beds filled with people that should be elsewhere.

So as the sun beats down on the city, you slip on shorts and your favourite shirt, a slightly small tank top from a long closed Irish bar and head into the hospital via the local donut shop.

The donut shop was your boyfriend's favourite new spot, he was always finding an excuse to swing by there almost daily for a pistachio creme for himself and a simple cinnamon glaze for you. So with your hands now filled with most of the shop you wandered the four blocks from your apartment to the hospital, smiling at the admin desk before gesturing with more your shoulders then hands for Dana’s attention.

No one really knew you at the Hospital, which was fine, both you and he kept your work lives pretty separate after an almost disastrous Christmas party at your work, where someone compared your job to his as the same high stakes. You had almost thrown your wine in your colleagues face, and your boyfriend had tried to defend your work before you laughed at the absurdity of it all.

It also didn’t help that your brother worked with your boyfriend and that made life always a little more challenging.

The charge nurse Dana ran to the door and helped you with the boxes, laughing as she glanced down at the absurd amount of sugar.

“What do we owe for this wonderful surprise?” She asked as you both made your way to the staff room.

“I took a sick day and thought I would give everyone a little treat.”

“Everyone or just-”

“There may be one or two pistachio creme’s in there for him, but really it's for everyone.”

Dana had been there when life had gotten a little too hard about a year ago and you had had to put everything on hold to help your big brother, Frank. Everyone at this hospital had been so kind and helpful as you managed work, your niece and nephew and then a love life. No one more than your boyfriend.

“You are a sight for sore eyes!” A familiar voice said as they almost fell through the break room doors, Frank was all limbs as he pulled you into a hug. He was clean for 13 months now, and was back at work under strict watch of his seniors but he was good, healthy and back to his normal over the top ways.

“If my work calls you, I’m terribly ill and may never recover.” you joke.

“Deathbed and all that?”

“It's sad and I want roses and frangipanis on my coffin.”

“Frangipanis?”

“I don't know they’re pretty.”

You both bantered, his arm around your shoulder as people started milling into the room, no matter the workplace, free food was a beacon to all.

Frank wandered off, his attention span failing him again as he went to talk to another doctor while you looked around. With your overly comfortable clothing you stood out like a sore thumb compared to the staff in scrubs.

You settle closer to the door about to make your leave in the way you loved, without a goodbye. Your boyfriend was obviously busy but Dana had hidden his treats away so you knew it was time to go and enjoy the rest of the sun filled day.

As you gathered your bag you heard the whispers.

“Who is she?”

“I saw her with Langdon? Maybe his new girlfriend?”

“Nah, I think they are related.”

“Seriously?”

“Same nose?” Which made you immediately grab your nose to check it was nothing like your brothers.

“Why else would she bring him donuts?”

“I thought he was not dating at the moment?”

“Plus she is way too nice for him!”

“And too pretty!”

“Dana knew her, maybe she's her friend?”

“Her daughter?”

“Don’t let Dana hear you say that!”

“Does Princess know?”

“Nope, just told us to mind our own business and eat the treats.”

“If there are no pistachio cremes left I will be very disappointed.” a gruff voice whispered into your ear sending a shiver down your spine as you smiled broadly.

“You’ll have to check with Dana, she is in charge.” You smile turning to the tall figure who had just entered.

All the whispering stopped as broad hands wrapped around your waist and pulled you close.

“I thought I was in charge.”

You smile against his lips as he kisses you deeply. His fingers almost bruise against your skin, as your shirt rides up and you lean further into the kiss, standing now on your tiptoes as you kiss him back.

“We let you think that, Dr Michael Rabinovitch.” you whisper to him as cat calls are heard around the room.

You can’t help but grin brighter as his beard bristles against your neck as he hides his face. You knew he had forgotten where he was the moment he saw you in the tiny shorts and tank top and you knew his colleagues would not let him forget it anytime soon.

“Get your hands off my sister!” Frank yelled before throwing his napkin at Robbys head.

[mountaesan]

boynextdoor when their s/o is on their period

pairing. ot6 x afab!reader warnings. period mention , therefore reader has a uterus but other than that no other terms are used to specify gender , period cramps & cravings mentions , jaehyun has women in his life ? , and woonhak is a feminist ( LMAO PLS DON’T TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY IT’S A JOKE ) notes. gave up on my constipated leehan x constipated reader fic and decided to write this banger on a whim more under the cut !

sungho : 

he 100% tracks your cycle with you. if you don’t have him added to your tracking app, he has his own where he makes note of your different symptoms (safe to say you were deeply impressed and got emotional when you found out). also does a lot of research about menstruation and your cycle. he wants to know everything there is to know so that he can be there for you throughout all four phases of your cycle. genuinely becomes concerned sometimes when you’re doubled over in pain and you can’t get out of bed. sungho also has a tendency to stock up on hot packs/water bottles because he absolutely hates to see the love of his life struggling. always willing to wrap you up in his arms 

riwoo : 

says ‘miss bitch is back’ when you’re on your period. yes, he has nicknamed your period ‘miss bitch’ (mostly because it’s a bitch to you whenever it’s that time of the month). let’s you do anything and everything you want to do. if you feel like going to the nearest convenience store at 2 in the morning because you want to eat three bowls of buldak, he’s right behind you. if you feel like crying while watching ‘The Notebook’ for the thousandth time, he’s holding the box of tissues for you. to be frank, he enjoys it when you’re on your period (not when you’re in pain ofc) because that means he can bring home the gazillion different desserts he’s been meaning to try. the two of you have a taste testing on the bed, taking bites from different tarts, cakes, donuts (duh), and other sweets to your silly little hearts’ content. 

myung jaehyun : 

gets upset that you have to be in pain for a week every month. curses the menstruation gods and begs for the pain to be transferred to him (half joking, half serious). so, to prove his solidarity, he bought one of those period cramp simulators and tried it on himself. afterwards, he apologized to every single woman in his life. twice. he likes to cuddle up with you and pretend to punch your abdomen, saying he’s fighting the period cramps for your honor. it’s silly but you’re too tired to say anything. will immediately fix up any absurd cravings you have because if his baby is craving bacon and chocolate, his baby will be eating bacon and chocolate! 

taesan : 

he can recognize your period before you do, without the help of a tracking app (sungho is seething with jealousy). you’re impressed, but taesan doesn’t think much of it; he just notices the slight changes in your diet and attitude, and acts accordingly. wordlessly stocks up on snacks and junk food a couple days prior. once it’s leak week, taesan refuses to let you do anything. you’re basically in bed arrest. if he catches you waddling out of the bedroom with the hot water bottle pressed to your abdomen, he’s ushering you right back to bed. likes to push your hair back and kiss you on the forehead. it’s weird and random, but it’s something he only does when you’re on your period. otherwise, he’s back to usual kissing regimen. 

leehan : 

clueless #1. he doesn’t know much about periods or menstruation cycles so he does his best to research on it. he does know a thing or two about mood swings though, so if you’re ever in a mood, he just lets himself be yelled at until you’re feeling better. afterwards, he’ll give you a kiss and swaddle you with blankets to help you unwind and relax. you noticed that leehan liked to be the little spoon when you were on your period, which is weird because he usually likes spooning you. turns out, he liked the warmth of your hot water bottle and used cuddling as an excuse to warm himself up. likes to cozy up with you in bed and do netflix marathons, re-watching all your favorite rom-coms and tv shows. 

woonhak : 

clueless #2. woonhak cried the first time you cried when you were on your period. you weren’t even crying because of him, you were crying because you remembered cheesepuff, your pet hamster from the third grade, was dead. regardless, he was freaking out! researches and asks around a lot, especially his hyungs, about periods and what he can do to help. steals sweets from riwoo, hot packs from taesan, and uses leehan’s netflix account. oh he also stole borrowed jaehyun’s period cramp simulator and almost cried a second time that week. becomes a feminist whenever you’re on your period and whips out his copies of Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, and The Awakening to prove that he stands with you. ig it’s the thought that counts ?

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[wintertime-in-june]

Reverse Arranged Marriage

Colonel!König x Recruit!Reader

The Colonel.

Your Colonel.

König.

You looked at him, twisting a strand of hair around your finger, big eyes shining adorably up at him, hanging on his every word...

So you can imagine the shattering feeling you felt when he arrived back to the base after a short sabbatical back home in Austria with a woman at his side.

His fiancé.

König has no experience when it comes to women. No previous relationships, no dates, not even an attempt at obtaining one... and his parents to be quite frank were worried.

Their little boy... their not so little boy... turning 30 and not so much as an interaction with a women to their knowledge.

When he had returned to Austria for his birthday, they decided to surprise him. Waiting back home was a woman, Katharina, 'a good Austrian woman' his mother had described her as.

König, well, he didn't say anything. His parents took this as a good sign. They had everything already arranged, the two of them would stay in KorTac military housing, Katharina would work as a nurse at the local hospital and they would return to Austria for the wedding in June.

Katharina was nice enough, there was nothing explicitly wrong with her... but König felt nothing. He didn't even try to feel anything. He didn't kiss her, he didn't hug her, he didn't even speak to her.

Since their meeting they simply just walked together, around his parent's house in Austria, through the airport and now through their house on base.

It didn't take long for König to move his things over, he wasn't a very materialistic person, he helped Katharina unload her boxes from the lorry, still, wordlessly.

That's when she heard it for the first time. You.

"Colonel, do you need help with that?"

And it just progressed from there, like a high pitched drone in her ears, annoying, inescapable.

"Colonel please help me with..."

"Colonel can I show you..."

"Colonel do you want to maybe..."

"Colonel this..."

"Colonel that..."

She was sick of it, and she was sick of you.

How come he would pay attention to you? You were just some dumb little recruit, she was his fiancé and he didn't even give her a word most days.

He didn't even take that stupid mask off in front of her, but he lifted it up for you to kiss the grazes on your knees, the tiniest scratches on your arms, even a frickin' paper cut. He couldn't have his little recruit get hurt in his training sessions and not kiss it better!

They slept in their bed, on opposite sides, untouching, rigid, mask on. But if you had a nightmare, he was there in an instant, tucking you up tight in your covers only to stay and hold you when you said...

"Please, Colonel, I'm scared..."

The final straw was when you had come round to their house one evening, uninvited, to give them some Topfenstrudel you'd baked... because you just so happened you made too much... yeah right.

She didn't buy it, not for a second, you just so happened to make too much of this dessert, an Austrian dessert, an Austrian dessert that just so happened to be the Colonel's favourite.

She was seething with she had one and it was... well, delicious.

As the Colonel showered you with praises, saying what a good young lady you were, how you'd make a man very happy one day, how you know the way to people's hearts. She glared daggers into your very soul, a glare that you answered with a sweet, innocent smile.

I mean who comes round, uninvited, in their little silky pyjamas, acting all innocent and cute, she could see right through you... but the Colonel couldn't.

"It was lovely chatting with you two, see you at training tomorrow Colonel!"

And with that the door shut and you walked with a skip in your step back to the recruit's barracks.

If you hadn't been so all consumed in your own little world you just might have heard the arguing that ensured as soon as you had left...

That next morning the Colonel came in with a smile under his mask, not that you'd have known, he placed a firm hand on your shoulder, looking down. After a pause, he eventually spoke.

"Katharina had to go back to Austria."

"Oh, how come?" you say feigning worry, as though your heart didn't skip a beat.

"It seems we were not a good fit for each other."

You hold back a smile, instead putting on a look of concern. "Aw that's such a shame! I hope she finds who she's looking for."

He chuckles at your sweetness, you were always thinking of other people in his eyes.

"I'm sure she will." He said with a little sigh.

"You know, I was thinking, I still have the military housing until the end of the season, how about you come over and show me how to make that Topfenstrudel, ja?"

You smile up at him, nodding profusely.

"For sure! It'll be cool me teaching you for once." You giggle.

The Colonel may not have a fiancé but he was more than fine with that...

Besides, perhaps his parents wouldn't need to cancel the wedding plans set for June...

[saturngas]

never leave me

[🪐] gojo has a very realistic dream about you leaving him and he goes insane

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader

genre: angsty with confort <3

warnings: established relationship; there is a lot of angst; but also a lot of confort; fluff; insecure!gojo; clingy!gojo; a bit possessive!gojo; again me breaking down gojo's character bc im tired of the mischaracterization (hope im not doing it or ill kms); not thoroughly beta-read but ill do it asap;

word count: 3.1k

..

it felt real. way too real.

the setting was gloomy, as the clouds concealed thoroughly the warm sun rays, making the environment appear more grayish as it was unusual for the hot summer season that enveloped the vivid city of tokyo. you and satoru were walking down the streets, making time before the sumida river fireworks festival that was held late in July. however it was still the middle of June. was this timing correct?

you were wearing the newest sundress satoru had proudly bought you with the biggest grin. you looked great in it, certainly making satoru blush each time he glanced down at you. but wait, wasn't the sundress white? why is it all of the sudden a cooler shade of blue?

the ice cream you were holding changed to a box, which was immediately recognized by satoru. it was the jewelry box that contained the most precious purchase he had recently made: the engagement ring you weren't supposed to see—or even know the existence of—. satoru is still thinking about the perfect place and time to ask you the question he considered the most important of all his life.

his blue eyes were too focused on the ring box that he completely missed your words. as he shifted his gaze on you to listen carefully, he still couldn't make out your words. your voice pitch was totally off.

and as he blinked, now you were standing in front of him at least ten meters away. your whole frame in sight. you no longer wore the color-changing sundress. dark ambivalent shades decorated your figure, being unable to even determine your legs and arms. your face being the only clear piece of you.

satoru panicked. the cold sweat he felt running down his neck and arms felt too real. he knew the view in front of him could be—to one point—false; however his feelings were genuine.

one of his arms reached out to you, as if to grab your form, only for you to grow further. but as if there were amplifiers all around his head, your voice buzzed through his external auditory canal, stimulating his eighth cranial nerve.

"i dont want to be with you."

"you always act like a child, ive been putting up with you for years. im tired now."

"ive found someone else. someone who has time for me and our relationship."

"this isn't exactly your fault. you can't control being the strongest and everyone needing you. but can't you see I need you too?"

"you leave me alone too much."

"are you seriously planning to marry me? you dont even have time for me as a boyfriend and you want to be my husband?"

"haven't you noticed im slowly drifting away? I dont want this anymore."

"im tired of your nonexistent time for me."

"im tired of this relationship."

"im tired of you."

it was your voice declaring all those statements. but satoru knew where they were coming from. the island full of insecurities that was deep in the back of his consciousness was expressing the most oppressed feelings he had. his easy going facade did an excellent job concealing his self-doubt in real life, making difficult for someone to accept the fact the strongest sorcerer had insecurities.

even so, he was a natural emotionally-closed person. the long months of attempting to open up to you at the beginning of your relationship were very difficult to him. even with his former best friend, suguru geto, satoru wasn't completely frank.

he knew he was a good boyfriend, at least acceptable, to you. once he bestowed his heart to you, he was yours, giving you his all.

still he felt insufficient.

the time dedicated to your relationship took a sharp turned when he started attending his obligations as the strongest sorcerer. he wanted to give you more of his honored time. he wanted to be fully devoted to you. however his status in the sorcery society fell in between you two.

satoru was afraid one day you would finally snap, disregarding completely of your relationship with him.

your voice materialized in front of him in the form of your figure again, your limps now distinguished. he couldn't exactly make out your expression as it was drawn between sorrow, tiredness, and frustration. your hand spanned toward him, handing him the ring box you were still holding.

"I won't," was all you said as you turned away, no other words following your unmoving lips. it was the answer for a question satoru had been picturing himself asking you: will you marry me?.

he only caught a glimpse of your face, emotions unchanged, until you departed. your hair was the last thing he identified as literal darkness danced around you, metaphorical darkness invading his heart and soul.

the setting was back to the bleak tokyo. the pitch black sky lacked its most trusted companions: the stars, as the new moon was merged within the loneliness of the murky sky. faceless pedestrians walked mindlessly around the lone tall man while others stared at the sky where the fireworks were being displayed, though their bright colors were absent and the blast was silent.

the innate technique limitless has always been a wall between satoru gojo and the rest of the world. even when he mastered it as a teen to be able to use it automatically instead of manually, satoru has been isolating himself. sometimes deliberately, other times unconsciously.

he knows what his dream means. he knows he is afraid of losing you, the person he loves the most. after witnessing at first instance the departure of what used to be his best friend into immorality and radical idealisms, going through a bitter break up of his friendship, satoru realizes he fears you would do the same.

as blackness coats what he thinks is his range of vision and light passes through the slim skin of his eyelids, satoru regains consciousness. his body feels cramped, as if he would have fought a special grade curse without stretching his limbs first. his neck is sore from the awkward position he is in.

the tall man´s strong body is facing the wall, placed in a fetal position, almost hugging himself. his high cheekbones feel wet. the soft touch of his lifted hand confirms he had cried during his dream—actually, nightmare.

the visions of his nightmare still present in his mindfulness, recreations of the pictures he saw—lived—so vividly in the dream play at the back of his mind whenever he tries to close his sensitive eyes. then he realizes.

you.

where is she? is she still with me? she hasn't gone to any place? she didn't leave? anxiety and panic rush through his body as he hastily turns to face the other side of the marital bed.

oh.

you are still there, stirring slightly at the sudden wave movements satoru caused. you are still sound sleep, your chest meeting the soft mattress below you, arms spangled plastered on the pillow you were pleasantly drooling over.

satoru feels his heartbeat decrease to a normal rate, his lungs no longer burning with the sensation of a upcoming panic attack. was he seriously going to have a panic attack over thinking you would leave him? yes. ten thousand yes.

even when he has you, his students, and his coworkers who sometimes seem to not be entirely fond of the tall man, satoru still feels alone. alone in this world of sorcery. he is in another level even as a living organism. no other human being and sorcerer can compare to him. not right now when he thinks he isn't over discovering more of his honorable traits.

but he is over that strength moral compass his best friend had doubted some years ago. he got over it when he met you. satoru was convinced he was satoru gojo because he was the strongest. but you proved him wrong when you started loving him for being just satoru gojo, not for being the strongest sorcerer of the modern era, the head of the gojo clan, or the supreme entity he was supposed to reach. you love him for the person he is, his personality, and his heart.

he knew that, right?

maybe he needed a bit of assurance.

strong arms envelop around your smaller form, your boyfriend getting on top of you without crushing you. soft lips dance around your ear and neck, tickling you to awareness.

your gentle giggles and whimpers fill satoru's brain of serotonin, a big toothy grin flashing his pretty face.

"good morning, my queen."

you stir in your place as you try to pull the over 180-pound weight off you. however, satoru clings his arms around you even more, his hands going to your mid area, grabbing your waist and pulling you to him. you are on your side with your back brushing his hard chest.

"don't leave my arms, please," he shares in one single exhale, his breath caressing your neck. you just know there is a lot more behind those words. you have learned to read your boyfriend like a book.

still, you don't want to disturb him. you know his book doesn't like being forcefully opened, because his pages are stuck to each other and are difficult to separate. you let him absorb your presence and wait patiently for him to uncover his feelings to you.

it has been out of routine, actually—the way satoru has been acting around you and only you lately.

if you have to word it out, it would be clingy, clingier, clingier than ever, though you have caught him acting his usual same with his students and coworkers. not once wanting to leave your presence, almost as his atoms would undergo unconventional transformations if he isn't breathing the same air within your range.

you were buying groceries and your boyfriend decided to tag along. of course you didn't mind, but it definitely took you out since it wasn't his day off and he had an appointment to train his students. satoru completely disregarded of said students which was such very strange situation since he loved them. guess he loves me more? you questioned. he couldn't keep his hands off you, almost as if you were to run away at any given chance. your boyfriend was usually handsy, but it surprised you when you passed through the candy hall that satoru's touch on you didn't even budge. he would usually go running and pick his favorite sweet provisions.

when you were called to a meeting, satoru followed you. it was shocking seeing satoru gojo—the progressive sorcerer who hated the higher ups—in such meeting. but it was to be with you, holding your arm tightly as his mind drifted away in other thoughts, not hearing a single word of the meeting. his ears would only spiked at the sound of your voice or the call of your name, listening in for a few second to make sure those old geezers were respecting your living form.

satoru would ask vigorously to be of company during your missions. you thought it was cute. maybe he wants to make up for the wasted time, you would assume. and you were partially right, considering that satoru also did it to protect you with his mere presence—it being his innate technique wrapping around you, or his strong cursed energy forcing the curses to escape and hide pitifully.

satoru's existence has been constant around you lately: not leaving you unattended for more than five minutes when going out, going everywhere with you along him, always having an arm securely attached to your waist or shoulders, his limitless isolating you from the world. it was almost becoming overwhelming to say the least. you loved satoru with all your life and the remaining lives left for you, but his persistent company was a bit too much.

you knew this wasn't some jealousy attack he had, proving everyone his possession over you. no, that wasn't characteristic of the man. perhaps satoru was having some resentment over leaving you alone so much? or perhaps he was having a fit of insecurities? it didn't happen often, but it had happened before.

a mush of white hair adorns your chest as you two are plastered on you shared bed, watching a reality show about a family of overly successful women. well, it is actually just you watching, since your boyfriend has his sensitive eyes closed. one of your hands underneath his shirt and the other is caressing his scalp at such low pace, satoru was almost drifting to sleep. your fingers are tangled in his mess of hair. your boyfriend has his arms wrapped around your tightly, as well as his long legs.

he isn't focused on the tv show, his mind picturing you leaving him, making his heart race abruptly and his breathing catch in his throat. his traitorous head has been torturing him over and over for the past three weeks. after that super realistic dream, no, nightmare, satoru has been anything but calm. anxiety plotting against him, making him believe the longer you are alone—without him—the more chances of you living him.

"oh my, I can't believe they didn't invite her ex-boyfriend to their family reunion. he is the father of the baby anyway!" you exclaim as the tv screen turns black showing the end credits, a rectangular button displaying at the right lower corner to go to the next episode. you moved your hand off your boyfriend's head to grab the remote. you immediately hear a low mumble coming from him.

"sorry, baby what did you say?" your eyes scan his face as you question him. the unmistakable pout and frown on his face goes noticed by you. "what's going on, toru?" you ask as softly as possible, both hands now grabbing his soft cheeks, making him look at you.

a groan now escapes from his lips as he moves his neck to position his chin on your sternum, facing you. satoru opens his eyes, bloodshot and glassy.

"satoru, are you okay my love?" tenderness paints your voice as you speak, a delicate finger whisking off the small eye crust on his left eye. "where you crying? is there something you want to tell me?" you try as hard as possible to linger the softness in your voice.

the sorcerer says your name in a whisper, suddenly feeling smaller under your constant gaze, eyes minding his surroundings. his blue orbs return again to you after a few seconds of thinking his response. "i... had a nightmare," you stay quiet to let him continue. "im sorry for not telling you earlier and acting so... irritating over the past weeks."

satoru sounds genuinely troubled, as in asking for forgiveness after committing the most atrocious crime of all time. your hands on his cheeks hold him tighter to bring his face close to yours, brushing your lips with his in a chaste but loving kiss.

"you dont have to apologize for that, toru," your lips graze his as you speak. "I just want to know why, if you want to, of course." you propose sheepishly, you still dont want to push him.

his concerned blue eyes look away once more, finding the correct words. "i... dreamed about you leaving me, after saying things that... were hurtful..." satoru actually sounded distressed and devastated. you immediately dismiss this as one of his tricks to be clingier to you and make you baby him. he is slowly opening up.

"we were in a festival and then everything went pitch black as you told me I wasn't good enough to be your boyfriend," he continues, his arms losing a bit of their grip on you. "I actually felt... anxious, and stressed about you actually leaving, so I guess I made myself... believe that if im with you all the time you wouldn't think that."

"think what satoru?"

"well..." the tall man is a bit uncomfortable, not because he was with you, but because he was opening his locked heart. "you said you were tired of me leaving you alone so much, that you were seeking someone else—someone better. you said you were tired of our relationship..." his gloomy voice saddens your ears. "you said you didn't even want to marr—" satoru cuts his words before completing his sentence. it comes out as a mumble so you luckily dont hear it.

"oh my big baby..." you sing as you hug him with all your mighty force. satoru almost feels his bones crackling at your demonstration of love. he then realizes he doesn't need to say more. you have understood him. the thing he craved the most.

he didn't need someone to match his strength, he was happy living as the strongest, he was proud of the title, sometimes even filling up his overly boosted ego. but he wanted—needed—someone to understand him, his feelings, his emotions, his position. he learns you dont need to be as strong as him, as powerful as him, as inhuman as him, to understand him, since your mere and pure love for him is sufficient to empathize with him.

satoru is lucky to have you, he knows that. he can be all of him to you—the strongest, satoru gojo, the head of the gojo clan, the beholder of the legendary six eyes and limitless, gojo-sensei. he can be all of himself to you or even a portion of him. and you would still receive him with open arms and a loving heart.

even when it took him almost three weeks to open up, you still waited and listened to him. you understood that he wanted more physical assurance than verbal assurance, your big bear hug becoming more meaningful than the thousand words you could have told him.

satoru comprehends he loves you just as much when he realizes and comes to his senses that he does not want to leave you and he fears the idea of you leaving him. he suffered lost once with his best friend, he got through it, but he doesn't believe he will be able to do it again if this time it is you who drifts away.

if it were up to him, you would be with him covered up in his limitless technique, isolating you both from the word. but he can't be that selfish and insecure about your commitment and devotion to him.

satoru then realizes his choice of marrying you is the correct one. as your long hug continues, your hands caressing his back and his rubbing your sides, satoru thinks of the pretty ring sitting in the box of his sorcery uniform, ready to be pulled out and worn by your pretty finger.

taglist: @snwvie @fanficsforkicks

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

You know Lea, I was having such a bad day at work yesterday and I just found myself daydreaming about your THUYW series and it honestly made my shift so much more bearable 😭💕

I couldn't help but fantasize about Billy + Frankie absolutely WRECKING Reader. It'd be SO delicious in this verse holy shit.

You seriously got me daydreaming about THUYW to cope with work WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME LEAAAA

a/n: AAHHH I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!! i'm so sorry that work sucked, but omg, i'm so happy this slutty little au could help distract you ♡ but also omg i just gotta point out that gif i found?? that’s them. that’s frat!billy and frat!frank omg omg omg look at theeemmmm

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

take her under your wing au masterlist | 101, intro to the au

masterlist | join my taglist 

okay, so, imagine Billy inviting you into his room while you’re waiting for Steve to get back from the boxing gym

then he leaves you alone for a second to go get you a glass of water

but as you wait for him to return, you spot something curious on his bedside table and it’s not till you’ve scooted closer that you realise it’s sex toys that he has just left laying around as if it wasn’t something utterly scandalous

I mean, the drawer is even open! It’s so stuffed full of toys that it almost can’t be pushed back closed!

but then when Billy does return, glass of water in his hand and now also his best buddy Frank at his side, your curiosity has gotten the best of you as they catch right when you had picked up one of the toys you weren’t sure what was.

you, of course, drop it immediately when you notice that they’re back, and as soon as it hits the ground, it turns on and starts buzzing against the floorboards. 

probably one of the top most embarrassing moments of your life at that point… 

but then, when they finally get their laughter under control (or maybe Frank is a total sweetheart about it and elbows Billy to quit teasing you) they fish out of you how you don’t really know what any of the toys are and it’s only because you recognised a few of them as dildoes (because your rich stepbrother bought you a few purely for slutty training purposes) that you realised they were objects of a sexual nature

so, naturally, they then treat it as a fun little teaching moment

they go through the whole drawer, one by one, first making you take a guess before they explain them all to you. 

now, Billy is a hoe, so his collection is stocked.

there’s everything from all sorts of dildoes (realistic, glass, cute curved ones, double-ended, fantastical monster ones), various vibrators (wands, rabbits, app-controlled, those amazing clit suction stimulators), butt plugs, fleshlights, all of the lube you could ever dream of, cock rings, nipple clamps, ben wa balls, paddles, whips, handcuffs, ropes, blindfolds, ballgags

and with each toy that they get through and explain to you, the worse the tingles between your thighs get…

do they end up trying a few of them on you?

of course they do!! 

though I think you’re still a bit of a scaredy cat at that time, so you don’t wanna be too adventurous yet

I’m thinking, in that moment, you’re the most curious about the vibrators because you’ve never played around with that before, and just feeling them switch one on against your fingertips makes your brain melt simply imagining what it would feel like against your pussy

when they do press it against your pretty clit for the first time, you nearly fall off of the bed from the way the unfamiliar and intense sensation makes you jump (which of course just makes them giggle because holy fuck you’re so adorable to them)

maybe they’re both laying on their stomachs, between your parted thighs, Frank holding the vibrator against your puffy pearl, grinning at the way it makes your pussy weep before them like a fucking leaky faucet to quench their thirsts

perhaps then Billy gets out some of the dildoes… one for him to play with your cunt and one for him to stuff in your mouth and watch you drool around… 

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

How about: showing Frank Castle your new lingerie? It can be fluff, it can be smut, do with it what you please! <3

Spin For Me.

frank castle x female reader

warnings - allusions to sex. cursing.

valentines masterlist. masterlist. inbox.

“Keep your eyes closed, Frank. I’m serious.”

He’s grinning, both hands pressed to his face as proof. He’s sat on the edge of the bed, waiting patiently for you to come out of the bathroom.

“Come on, baby. Don’t think I can wait any longer.”

“Good things come to those who wait!” you yell through the wood. Frank laughs, shaking his head.

You finally swing open the door, leaning against the frame with a hand on your hip. You take him in for a moment - the smile on his face, his relaxed stance, the way his sweatpants hug his thighs just right. Inhaling deeply, you clear your throat.

“Open ‘em, Frankie.”

Frank blinks in the lamplight, adjusting to the brightness. When his eyes land on you, his breath hitches in his throat. He rakes his gaze all the way down your body and back up again, slow and sticky sweet. His irises darken, lust blooming across his skin.

“Shit, baby.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Goddamn.”

You push yourself off the doorframe, standing up straight.

“Spin f’me.”

“Hmm?”

“Spin for me, baby. Let me see you.”

You twirl around gently, like a ballerina in a music box. When you stop in your place, Frank gestures with his finger for you to spin the other way.

It’s almost voyeuristic, the way he’s devouring you with his stare. You feel like predator and prey, in the moonlight of your bedroom.

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

The lace hugs your body exactly, every dip and curve accentuated. The colour compliments your skin perfectly, and your mind is running a mile a minute wondering what Frank is going to do to you first.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Frankie.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” he chuckles. “Yes it is.”

He stands up finally, making his way over to you. You’re waiting for him to twist his fingers into the material and rip, like he usually does. Instead, he runs his fingertips over the lace trim on your chest, gentle and featherlight. He dances his touch down your sides and onto the top of your underwear, playing with the band softly.

“Want you to keep it on,” he murmurs. “Wanna see this lace against your skin when I eat you out.”

You exhale shakily, nodding your head.

“Plus,” he whispers, leaning down to mouth at your ear. “This pretty thing gives me something to hold onto. Better grip when I fuck you into the mattress.”

You drop your head forward onto his chest, bare skin warm against your forehead. You can feel the way his lungs are heaving, just as buzzed on the anticipation as you are.

“You’ve given me a gift, honey. Now let me give you one.”

He drops to his knees in front of you. You’ve never seen anything prettier.

[riverbends]

SECRETARY AU (jack abbot x f!reader)

part one: the blouse | mdni | MASTERLIST

tags: sexual content, mentions of smut, power imbalance, age gap, angst, perv jack, perv reader, dubcon elements??, masturbation wc: 5.6k cat says: this fic is a deviation from the source material, although i will include some of the other characters who play different roles in the story. i also initially wrote the entire thing as an abbotmohan fic and i spent so long deciding if i wanted to keep it that way. i changed all the pronouns and verb tenses to see how it looked and now i can’t be bothered to change it back to abbotmohan but also i think im okay with this anyway. i've planned a different fic for them. i’m also pretty much basing this off of the film secretary and i’m not familiar with the american healthcare system (if that still...even exists today...) so I’m just drawing things from an australian perspective (yeah ew). thaaaaaaank you bye

Five days a week. From 7 AM until only God knows when. Supposed to be 5 PM. Most of the time, 7 PM. On the rarest occasions, 8 PM. If you didn’t get paid overtime, you’d complain about it more. Not to him, obviously.

You never really share anything with him, much less your grievances. Nor does he, save for a random but contextual anecdote from his life in relation to a patient he’s just seen or maybe a very brief retelling of an encounter he had with somebody on the way to the practice.

Apart from that, the two of you tend to keep to yourselves when he isn’t giving you tasks or instructions for correspondence. A few glances when he enters the waiting room, some tight smiles at the reception. No lingering, no small talk, no jokes (it rarely occurs to you that you might be the one avoiding any interaction possible).

Though, to your embarrassment, he does seem to foster a habit of saying something very normal and, arguably, platonic in such a way that sends an agonising heat searing through your belly. This is only an embarrassment on your part because it feels nearly impossible to hide the effect he has. The dewy, sticky mess he leaves underneath your skirt with only a few words in a warm, hushed tone.

He has never indicated any awareness of this apprehension—at least, not to your knowledge—but you fear the patients might catch your eyes lingering on his back as he walks away. Your mouth drawn in tight, eyes shining under furrowed brows as you endure a throbbing ache down south.

The same praises you whisper at night against your sheets while you work yourself up, and up. Fingers pruned, sore—

Fear they might hear your heart punching your ribs or, God forbid, the soft chafe of your stockings against your skin as you squeeze your thighs together.

Thank you, doll.

What would I do without you, honey?

A whole year of casual praises and brief compliments.

You swear there’s something tucked between those words, something that tears away all the lights and the patients and the furniture. Like his voice dissolves the waiting room, sponging up the sludged air until your blood runs in your ears. Only you, in your chair. Him, standing at your side, mere inches away.

Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot

Perhaps, he doesn’t mean it the way you think he does and it only sounds different to you, and you unprofessionally engineer unspeakable fantasies when you shouldn’t be…and you are unfit for this job and maybe you need to leave for good and hopefully you’ll forget the smell of him whenever he leaned over your shoulder.

Robust cologne. Blade slicing through fruit; bleeding sharp, heady wine—

Your name is called.

Out of focus, your eyes flit up. Frank stands behind the counter holding a takeaway box over the top of the glass case displaying sandwiches, pastries, and cookies.

“Oh,” you stop fiddling with the button of your coat and step forward, returning the smile. “Sorry, Frank. Thank you.”

“No need,” he laughs as you take your order from him. “I’d be out of it too if I sat at that desk all day.”

Internally, you grimace. You don’t even really mind the desk job. The paperwork, the phone calls, the patients, the hospital correspondence, the tidying, the pay, the hours of nothingness. You are good at this. Well-rehearsed and comfortably attuned.

It’s the dread that pulls you into wanton lapses, into daydreams. No, ‘dread’ just gives the feeling an ugly suit. It isn’t so much dread as it is anticipation. The anticipation is ugly. For what, you don’t want to admit. It even borders on hope, and it’s pathetic.

From hopping on the bus with a flame in your belly to opening the practice at 7 AM while your head spins to waiting for Dr Abbot to appear at the door half an hour later to bracing yourself for his greeting to expecting a task from him to imagining how his thumbs would pry apart your labia minora, nice and wide, so he can slot his tongue—

To secretly hope for whatever you are secretly hoping for. Yes, you do feel quite out of it.

“It’s not so bad,” You smile, shrugging. “Although, I sort of envy you. I’d kill for free lemon slices after every shift.”

“Okay, you know I don’t get free stuff every shift,” Frank raises his hands as if in surrender, “but all you have to do is ask.”

Two months after you initially got the job at the practice, you were already a regular at the café off the corner. You know all the employees, but it’s always been Frank Langdon who's given you discounts and, of course, the occasional freebie. Maybe he flirts a little sometimes and maybe you flirt back. It’s fun, you can’t lie. You also can’t ignore his momentary glances slipping below your eyes, settling on the valley of your breasts.

The blouse was a bad idea. You knew it the moment you buttoned it up this morning. There must be some kind of dress code that warns against it, but you’ve been having little to no sense these past few months anyway.

The sweet, silken pink flatters the slope of your waist with seven magenta buttons stopping right up at the source of Frank’s inhibited attention. Your breasts aren’t on complete display but anyone with eyes can make out the soft cleave between them, despite your many futile attempts to tug the fabric over the middle of your chest.

(A deviant part of you wore it for Dr. Abbot).

“Will do,” you salute before heading for the door.

Dirty. That is the recurring adjective.

Dirty, old man, Robby had once playfully mocked Jack in response to the small and, in his opinion, insignificant confession about you. Jack didn’t even say anything bad enough to warrant that kind of epithet. Definitely nothing as bad as the things he thinks about. Only that, sometimes, the way you look up at him from your chair puts his stomach in knots. And that, of course, you are pretty.

He didn’t dare mention that the look—the gleam in your eyes when you peer up at him, as if you are lost; unmoored. Like you need guiding and, oh, does he want to guide you—sends him over the edge. That his pants suddenly feel taut over his crotch when your mouth parts ever so slightly. A few warm breaths away from his twitching cock.

Dirty, old man.

Jack harbours a medley of perverted reveries, all of which are the fruit of a desire that has burgeoned from the moment you walked in for the job interview a year ago. He remembers it like it was only yesterday.

It had rained that day. Heavily, and evidently. You hadn’t anticipated the bucketing showers. The bus stop was a fair walk away, so it made complete sense that your hair was dripping and plastered to the sides your neck. Drops of water trailing down your temple, slipping over your throat to settle on your clavicle. You apologised profusely for the state of yourself while Jack tried not to stare at the imprint of your bra through your soaked shirt.

You scrambled for any and all explanations for your late arrival when Jack simply said your name, mouth softening into a half smile at the sight of your stunned, wide eyes. Said it like he had known you for years. You shut up. He had already made up his mind.

It’s still a mystery to you, how you ever got the job in the first place. But you needed it too badly to ask why at the time. Your résumé had listed an odd number of administrative jobs you had worked over the years. Twenty-something and cautious. You were polite and well-dressed (from what he could tell, even with the rain-drenched clothes). It wasn’t like there were people lining up to interview for the job either, so he had to take what he could get.

The practice belonged to his late father. A quaint block in the middle of a strip of stores hiding a small staff carpark out back for everybody. Independent surgery with loyal patients and a dedicated secretary, Mary, who worked for his father for over three decades. Jack took over the place five years prior to your interview, leaving behind his old practice with Robby and Heather, who were now joined with two new providers.

Conveniently, the patients have adjusted to Jack quite well over time, the elderly reminding him every now and then about how it was sad to hear that his father had passed, and does he miss him very badly? Oh, and does he have anybody waiting at for him at home and, if so, what’s the lucky woman’s name? And doesn’t he long for someone and isn’t he getting older? And isn’t his secretary just so sweet and have you settled down yet? And are you really so young and where did he find you?

(And why doesn’t he fuck you senseless?)

So vividly, he can still remember the sheer pleasure ripping through him as he pumped his cock in his hand, picturing you drenched in water earlier that day. He was fond of the tremble in your lips too. You were shivering. Your nipples were probably hard as pebbles from the cold. He came, then.

It had been too long since he bothered to get off like this, a grunting mess in his bedsheets. That first time, ashamed after he rode out his high. Dirty, dirty, dirty.

Jack is ravenous, and he has mastered indifference with great difficulty. It is, however, thrilling to think that his depravity knew no bounds.

Months and months of deterring his want. He has found some kind of succour in your inadvertent touches, his wrist brushing past your shoulder or your foot knocking against his. Your knee just barely skimming his shin when you turn in your chair to face him. Anything, any kind of innocent contact in lieu of your warm, wet cunt milking him dry. He is convinced he can live with that, just the momentary sweeps and grazes. But he’s had to pace himself, stretch out the weeks and refrain from thinking about you every night. Hand wrapped around his base as the showerhead (perversely) baptises him in freezing water, chasing his spend down his thigh. He can get off on the scent of you alone.

There was a day, maybe six months into your employ, where you both ended up in the break room at the same time. Jack had walked in to find you, back turned, leaning against the countertop on both hands. Fingers tapping the laminate as you stared at the simmering kettle of water. The coffee pot he was looking for sat near your left hand.

The hot churning of water seemed to conceal the sound of his footsteps for you hadn’t acknowledged his presence. He paused for a moment, a few feet away from you. You had worn a pair of slim black tailored pants that day, and he thanked whatever God he could for the sight of your ass stretching out the fabric. Thighs perfectly sculpted and visible to him. Had to suppress a groan when he caught the strip of soft, bare skin revealing itself between the bottom hem of your shirt and the low waistband of your pants. His knuckles paled and locked around the handle of his stained, empty mug.

Without a word, he softened his footing and approached you, heavy-lidded eyes boring into your spine. Blade slicing through fruit—

He sidled up to you, a little to your left, extending his hand around your frame to reach for the pot. So menacingly quiet about it. The movement in your peripheral and the sudden murmur of a breath over your shoulder ripped a sharp gasp from your lungs. In an impetuous panic, you stumbled backwards into the wall of his chest, haphazardly trampling over his foot. Jack’s free left hand jerked back and flew to your hip. Both of you were too stunned to realise that his other had abandoned the mug to latch onto to the meat below your right hip and above your thigh, far lower than where his left was situated.

His fingers dug into your pelvic bone. Couldn’t resist the temptation to press further. He let the tip of his middle finger prod the crease between your inner thigh and your mons, swearing he could nearly feel the faint imprint of your panties. Jack had half a mind to shove an angry hand under your waistband and slide a finger over that velvety bundle of nerves—

The clash and shatter of the mug drew a memory from your childhood many years ago.

Elementary: third grade. A classmate of yours shared an unusual object for Show & Tell with everyone. You pictured the hunger of it now, flashing in the backyard of your brain. A slender green neck with a pink mouth, eagerly open for prey. Spindly teeth, splayed out like eye lashes. An unsuspecting, though crafty, insect swooping into its treacherous jaws in search of nectar. Treading carefully around the trigger hairs, thinking it had plenty of time before it was too late. You and your classmates watched, enthralled, as the jaws enfolded its guest. Snapped itself shut, like hands interlocking fingers, to squeeze its victim in a carnivorous embrace.

“It’s just me,” he whispered, pinching your flesh between his hands. You shuddered; it didn’t go unnoticed by him.

You could wager this was far more paralysing than getting caught in a Venus Fly Trap.

Jack’s iron hold on the curve of your hip steadied the both of you. But, for him, the heat of your skin burning through your shirt was secondary to the way your ass had rubbed against his crotch from the moment you stepped back. He thought his blood was aflame, the way it surged and swelled between his legs.

Neither of you moved for what felt like an eternity. You could only focus on the steady rise and fall of your breath while he burned his fingerprints through your clothes. It took everything in him not to fold you over the counter and fish his cock out from his fly. Drive himself into your pussy as he toyed with your puffy clit. He wondered if you’d even object.

Split you open, tickle your cervix.

“You can return to reception,” he murmured over your shoulder, stiff cock notching against the cleft of your ass. His breath was strong and hot against your neck when he, to your quiet dismay, released your hips. “I’ll clean up the mess, sweetheart.”

You thought you’d soaked yourself through your pants, but wasted no time to follow his instructions. Nodding and catching your breath, you stepped aside when he didn’t move and spun around to scurry out of the break room.

Neither of you could look at each other for the rest of the day. Didn’t say goodbye to each other either. That was the first night he had left at exactly 5 PM. You kept your eyes glued to your keyboard as he strolled past the reception in his dress coat with his bag slung over his shoulder. Out the door without a word.

Walked around the back to climb into his car and dry-fuck his fist like a madman. Barely spoke to you directly for a week after the fact.

(You, on the other hand, have opted to erase the memory of it entirely. If you linger too much on the phantom pinches and his fingertips almost teasing the place you needed him most, you fear you’d do something mortifyingly regrettable. You’ve gone as far as to convince yourself that the delusion only arose from the lack of coordination between you two. A defect in your recollection. The semi that hardened in his pants and poked your rear could not have been real.)

The practice has always been something you considered near ‘cosy’.

A waiting room with space for at least a dozen chairs. An intimate reception is nestled to the left corner against the wall. You face the opposite side of the waiting room where the small flat-screen is situated on the wall, the glass doors and windows kept to your right. Not to mention the play zone wedged between the window and the short end of your countertop. The children are usually well behaved, aside from a few screamers.

Sometimes, if someone’s tall enough, they’ll stretch on their toes and claw at the countertop to beam at you. Shiny doe-eyes blinking for your attention until you turn your head to the right and smile.

For this reason, you’ve always kept stickers and gadgets behind the desk as small prizes for them when the toys in the play zone aren’t enough. And, if their parents approve, you hold out a jar of candies for their eager choosing (although, this is usually a reward for after their appointment, you’re not opposed to breaking your own rules once in a while. Especially for those damn screamers).

It’s not so bad for the most part. You’re always kept busy and distracted enough to stay awake. There is this relentless creeping dread, though. Working for him will do that to you. Waiting with bated breath when he grows closer in proximity, your fingers itching to hold onto anything. Keyboard, mouse, paper, pen, throbbing cock—

The majority of the patients are easy and conversational, many know you by name. You do your best to keep your eyes on your computer and off the TV.

Very early into the job, you had once been quite visibly tense at the desk and he frowned down at you in his own sympathetic way.

“Just a small headache,” you smiled, your elbows pinned to the desk while you rubbed your hands down the sides of your neck. He didn’t hide his scepticism. How did Mary work in this horrible lighting?

“You sure?” He pressed, and you managed a nod. “You can come in and see me, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t want to?”

“It’s probably nothing,” you sputtered hastily, fearing he’d take offence to your hesitation. “I’m okay, really.”

A small headache was bad enough. Being in that office alone with him—his soft reassurances and his close assessment of you and his watchful eye and his thumb on your slack jaw—would’ve atrophied your brain.

He shrugged, still doubtful: “Alright. If you say so.”

In the following weeks, he had the harsh overhead lights switched out for softer canned lights, washing the waiting room and reception in warm off-whites and yellows. Whether or not he detected the source for your headaches, the gesture is still fresh in your memory when you open up the practice most mornings.

A rectangular, high-rise countertop frames your workspace like an L and separates you from the patients, leaving a walkable gap between the countertop and the wall where you or Dr. Abbot can easily move in and out near the corridor.

Said corridor leads to the treatment room on the right, while Dr. Abbot’s door is on the left. Only one wall separates your reception from his office, allowing you only muffles of conversations you cannot cognise. There are, of course, many times where you’re both in the break room at the far end of the corridor, but never for long. One of you is either entering or exiting (the incident from six months ago shivers like a ghost between the two of you).

When you unlock the clinic in the morning, you prefer to keep the lights off and blinds drawn, door locked again, so as not to leave an invitation for people to creep in before appointments are actually supposed to begin. This means that Dr. Abbot’s arrival gives you at least five seconds to prepare yourself for a greeting when you hear his key click in the door.

At 7:30 AM, you’re stood and leaning over the printer with a stack of pristine white A4 sheets when you hear that click. To your relief, the blinds over the door always conceal him. And you.

He turns the lock and pushes on the handle to find you refilling the printer tray. Everything feels like a balancing act in front of him.

“Morning,” he greets, calm and mellow, as he locks the door behind him.

You wear the same sweet but not-too-eager smile: “Good morning.”

Looking away from him, you still notice the pause in his step. As if his foot stopped short before a pothole. You tuck the slab of paper into its tray, eyes trained on sharp white, waiting for him to say something.

In the blurred corner of your vision, he rubs a hand back and forth over his jaw. But he regains himself after a moment. Leaves the waiting room and disappears down the unlit corridor. The sound of his door quietly latching shut tugs your head in its direction. Soundlessness fills the practice again.

He lowers himself onto his chair, unbuttoned coat still on and bag between his feet. His hands run slowly up and down his thighs. Dress pants burning electric under his palms. Closing his eyes does little to fight away the image of you and the low neckline of that slippery, salmon-pink blouse perfectly framing your tits. The printer faces the windows so he was able to see you head-on the moment he walked in. Low yellow lights bathing your chest golden.

If he let his index finger tug on the curved hem, he could probably pop one out. Had he lingered near you any longer, he fears that is precisely what he would’ve done. Walked around the countertop and cornered you against the desk just to hook his fingertip in your blouse. Give himself a glimpse of your stiff, peaked nipple under his breath.

Lean down and suck—

Jack can probably get off on the thought of it now, pathetic as he is. First appointment isn’t for another half hour. Not like he hasn’t found release in his office before.

Are you trying to vex him? Part of him (all of him) considers firing you.

By some miracle, he contains his urges. His coat feels tighter the longer he keeps it on, so he tugs it off furiously to relieve himself. Most days, he wears a plain, long-sleeved dress shirt underneath a sweater; habitually rolls the sleeves halfway up his forearms. Pale, freckled skin laid bare.

Jack’s standard consultations run for fifteen minutes at best, with maybe an average of twenty-five to thirty patients per day, many of whom have attended the practise for years and years. The absence of his father, to Jack’s awareness, is somewhat mended. Or, at least, the patients seem to think so. Initially, he had worried he’d find trouble filling the gaps and building over the relationships they had already established with his late father. His worries diminished within the first month as he developed a strong rapport with all the regulars.

The very, very elderly often fall into lapses of time and lost recollection where they confuse him for old Dr. Abbot, referring to memories and stories with which Jack is not familiar (though, he is quite fond of this).

He is also moderately aware of his…charm, however dry it may be. Particularly with the women that come in. There have been too many offers and flirtations to count over the years. He doesn’t mind it, and it’s never gone anywhere dangerous. He knows how to keep things separate. Tidy. Clean. Untouched.

Once divorced and quite content on his own (or so he chooses to believe). He won’t deny that his fist gets old, the way he can only forage for fading memories of you when he gets himself going. He’s all leaky when he remembers the press of your ass in the break room. Or a skirt you wore one day, a tad too tight and stopping halfway down your thighs. You had dropped a pen on your way to the door of his office after handing him paperclipped forms. He watched you leave, as he always does. Didn’t expect to see you bend over slightly, just for a moment, to retrieve the pen.

He fooled himself into thinking that if you had parted your legs and leaned forward a little more, he’d just catch a hint of the lacey garters of your sheer black stockings.

Dirty, old man.

Jack curses himself, alone in his office. That infernal blouse of yours is now slotted beside all of his other decadent memories. His own erotic memorabilia.

Throughout the day, he communicates with you as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. He speaks with you when he needs to, maintains steady eye contact (anything below your nose is marked as a hazard zone in his head). Takes your calls, accepts your paperwork, says his pleases and thank yous. Makes sure he stays flaccid and unaroused. Impossibly.

Some time during lunch, when the waiting room is empty, you hear Dr. Abbot before you see him, approaching from your left with a collection of referrals. He doesn’t get a chance to speak because the front door is suddenly pushed open to reveal none other than Frank. The both of you look up to your right where he stands frozen in the doorframe.

“Shit, sorry. Hi,” Frank pants, mouth splitting into an embarrassed smile. “Uh, am I able to make an appointment? With him? Soon, if that's okay.”

You don’t know why, but you look back up to your left, almost like you’re trying to gauge whether Dr. Abbot is okay with it. You don’t need to, obviously. It’s your job to make appointments for him. The man just shrugs, unbothered.

“Yeah, of course, Frank,” you laugh softly. Dr. Abbot shifts impatiently beside you as Frank walks up to the counter.

“Thank you, thank you. I burned my hand on the panini press pretty bad. Few minutes ago,” he raises his left hand, revealing the flimsy bandage wrapped loosely over and around his palm. “I wasn’t sure if you guys take walk-ins.”

“Not often,” you smile, searching the appointment book on your computer for an open slot, “but I think we can fit you in.”

Frank nods, sighing another ‘thank you’ before silence circles the three of you.

Dr. Abbot places the referrals on the desk, “Fax numbers are in that email from Peter’s mother, thank you.” He’s just about to step away when Frank perks up again.

“You working late tonight?”

The both of you look up at him again, but he’s very clearly beaming at you. His curiosity is endearing.

“I don’t think so.” / “Yes, she is.”

A nervous laugh bubbles from Frank while you and Dr. Abbot flick eyes at each other after clashing your answers. You hope to God he didn’t mean it.

Politely, you try to answer differently, “Maybe, depending on—”

“Y’know what, I can probably just see him now,” Dr. Abbot interrupts, quite gruffly, as if he has somewhere else he desperately needs to be. Taps two fingers on the desk. “He can fill out the registration form in my office,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the corridor.

He slips around the counter, leaving the waiting room before you can say a word. Returning to Frank, you just smile again and hand him the clipboard of forms with a pen, “Here you go.”

“Is he alright?” Frank quirks a brow, accepting the form from you.

“He’s just tired,” you falsely reassure him, very unsure of why Dr. Abbot responded so bluntly. He can be dry in tone, but he doesn’t usually have such an edge with patients. “He gets like that sometimes.”

“Okay, then,” says Frank. “Thank you, again.”

“Any time.”

Frank chats you up at the reception desk ten minutes later, eyes twinkling as he nurses a freshly dressed palm with his prescription in his other hand.

Sometimes, when you really let it, a small consideration crosses your mind. Presumably desperation bred from a lack of…venery from someone you cannot have. So, naturally, you’d feel inclined to look at the options more available to you. And Frank makes himself ludicrously available any chance he gets.

You’re not unaware of it. The dragging glances, the sweet-talking he’s peppered in over the past year. Preening your platonic relationship into this hazy in-between where he hopes he can bribe you into his bed with free food and (arguably) innocent banter. There’s nothing stopping you either. You’re free to latch onto the bait, get his hooks inside you. Curling horribly.

Can’t fill you up nice and good like Dr. Abbot.

Appointments ended at 5. It’s 8 PM when he finally fucking decides to leave his office.

He rounds the counter, ruffling through his pigeon hole at the wall behind you. “I don’t wanna see that Fred guy again.”

“You mean Frank? Was everything okay?”

“Does he bother you?” He ignores your question with his own, straightening up when he finds pamphlets held in a rubber band. He’s never cared to read through them, so it appears to you that he is, for whatever reason, stalling. “He seems eager.”

“He’s friendly.”

“Oh, come on,” a laugh jumps out of him, which compels you to turn your chair in his direction. “The way he looks at you, he’s dying to fuck you,” he smiles and it’s so sickening. Like it amuses him. “Kid probably creamed his pants, seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.” You’re frozen in your seat, barely processing the utter bluntness of his wording. Serrated knives. “Y’should put the poor guy out of his misery.”

In an attempt to brace yourself, you turn back to face your computer. Your clothes kiss your body uncomfortably now. It’s impossible to soothe the ache pulsing between your legs.

He flips through the pamphlets indifferently and sighs. “Anyway, I think I wanna cancel that meeting with the psych rep on Thursday. The ginger with the goatee. Spencer, I think it was? Doesn’t take any of it seriously. You won’t believe the shit he said last time, that ignorant fuck.” Then, he laughs bitterly, running a hand down his face after he tosses the pamphlets in the bin at your feet. You can only nod, acutely aware of the slick flooding your panties. Slippery clit longing for his hot mouth.

The room tips on its side when he gently squeezes your left shoulder.

“Good job today, yeah?”

You swallow thickly, struggling to look up at him, “Thank you.”

Releases his hand. Though, it feels like he almost rips the skin off your shoulder. Like the sheer heat in his touch had fluxed your flesh with his. Amalgamation. The grooves of his fingertips leaving cracks in the molten rock of your arm.

“And don’t wear that again,” he orders as he walks back around the counter.

Your brows pull tight in confusion. “Sorry?”

“The blouse,” is all he says, passing you and disappearing out the door.

One morning, too many months ago, you had rummaged through the storage room at work in search of decade-old vaccination files for a stubborn patient. Hopelessly, you dug around papers in drawers to find the last thing you were supposed to be looking for. Old prints of Dr. Abbot’s headshots for practice advertisements and pamphlets from two years ago...

At present, on your bed, you are kneeling back against your feet, thighs spread. Loose top hanging on your form, pair of cotton underwear. His crumpled photo, pinned to the sheets under the heel of your outstretched palm.

He looks exactly the same in it. White collar folding out of his sweater. Cropped ashen hair, snowy stubble. An indecipherable vacuum in his eyes (if you aren’t careful, you could sink in and deliquesce into nothing). No doubt, he probably cringed at the idea of getting his picture taken like this.

But one of them has been yours for a while now, always folded and tucked away in your bedside drawer. It rarely leaves its nest, but you can’t help yourself sometimes. When your thoughts aren’t enough, the photo acts as a crutch for an orgasm. Something tangible; real.

With shame coiling in your belly and your free hand wedged between your thighs, you screw your eyes shut to think of him. If you try hard enough, you can probably feel the ghost of his hand trapping your shoulder. His hands clutching your hips. His hands on the desk. His loins obtruding your ass—

—seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.

Long breaths pour from your open mouth when you feel your core string itself tight, hole clenching around your sore fingers as you thumb your clit. Electric shimmers dot the abyss behind your closed eyes. You pull yourself forward to lean on your other hand while you aimlessly grind against your working wrist. The hovering and the sustained pressure of your thighs set your knees ablaze with overuse. Pain is easier to endure with the precipice of pleasure drawing closer and closer to you in every stroke you manage to thrust into yourself.

One of many fantasies you’ve fabricated, where he drags his flushed tip up and down the seam of your weeping pussy. Mixing his pre with your slick. Playing with you. It’s almost like a memory to you in the way that it shoves you towards climax and sends your eyes flying open to lock in on the photo scrunched in your clenched fist. A strangled cry catches on your teeth before tumbling from your lips.

You come hard, looking at Dr. Abbot’s paper face in the low lamplight of your bedroom.

[writtenbymoonflower]

Hi! Can I please request a poly!Marauders x reader where the reader has a secret admirer? The reader is receiving anonymous gifts and letters, making the boys anxious and jealous. If not, it's okay! Thank you, author-san!

omg i love this! thank you so much, baby, hope this is okay! gn!reader x poly!marauders

cw: jealousy and possessiveness, borderline harassment and stalking, hickey

1.1k words

You groaned loudly when you opened the front door only to be greeted by yet another bouquet of flowers. You begrudgingly brought the arrangement into the house, setting it on the countertop. 

"Again? That’s like the third this week, and it’s only Wednesday." Sirius said, exasperated and (almost) as annoyed as you. 

"Fifth, actually." You hated that you were complaining, you knew you were technically very lucky to receive all these gifts, it was just distressing. And to be frank, getting very old.

"Christ, this person is thirsty." Sirius’ voice was strained, clearly more anxious than he was wanting to let on. 

"At least it seems they don’t have much of a chance, anyone worth their salt knows that you hate roses, angel." James said, between mouthfuls of his sandwich. 

"I know," You cringed. "Who should I give these to this time? Lily has enough flowers to open a shop" You rolled your eyes. "Speaking of," You reached into your work bag and pulled out two boxes. "There were chocolates at my work when I got there yesterday, and a pair of earrings on monday." You walked over to where Remus and Sirius were cuddled on the couch. 

“Geez, dove. Are we gonna have to step up our game?” Remus said, voice tinged with jealousy. 

"No, this person needs to step down. Or at least give me a return address or something. All the notes say is ‘from someone who appreciates you, xx.’ It’s actually kind of distressing." You handed the smaller box of earrings to Sirius, "Are these your style, honey?" 

"What? You don’t want them?" He sounded surprised. Of course you didn’t! Why would you need presents from a random person when you have three boys who give you all the love you could ever need? (and in the way you like it)

"No, I would feel weird wearing them." You cringed, handing the larger box to Remus. "You can have these, I don’t even like cherry chocolate." Remus took the box like it was filled with poison, a disgusted tilt to his lips, just as Sirius dramatically dropped the jewelry box onto the coffee table. 

"I don’t know whose grubby paws have been on this box." He sneered. You rolled your eyes at his dramatics, looking over to James who was still in the kitchen. He had set his sandwich down and was looking like a kicked puppy. It made your heart crack.

"Jamie, what’s wrong baby? Come here." You beckoned him over. He rushed to your side, placing his hand protectively on your shoulder and gripping you tight. You looked at your other two boyfriends, Remus’ jaw was clenched tight and Srius was still looking at the box and scowling. 

"I jus’ don’t like it." James said from your side, his voice was small like a child's. 

"Wait, hold on," You said, "Are you all actually worried about this?"

"Define ‘worried’ lovely," Remus said, his voice an awful mix of venomous and depressed. “I don’t think any of us like knowing there’s someone out there fighting for your affections.” His eyes had an angry glint to them. 

“Guys,” You said, your heart only breaking further. “You have nothing to be worried about, okay?” James’ grip tightened on you. “There is absolutely no competition here, I’m not even giving these the time of day. I don’t want anything to do with the gifts or the person sending them.” 

“But you would if we weren’t in the picture.” Sirius said quietly, all too insecure for your liking. You wormed your way out of James’ grasp, resulting in a whine being pulled from his throat, to crouch in front of Sirius. You grabbed his pretty face in your hands, looking into his sad eyes. 

“No, I wouldn’t. I’m not impressed by these gifts.” You took a deep breath, not wanting to confess the next part and worry your boyfriends worse. “They actually kind of scare me.” You admitted, making all their eyes snap to you. 

“Scared? Of what, darlin’?” James piped up. 

“I just,” You cringed. “I don’t like knowing that there is someone this obsessed with me and I don’t know who they are. And that they know where I live and where I work. I mean, who knows how much they know?” 

“Well now I feel like an arse.” Sirius grabbed you from the floor and hauled you onto the couch with him and Remus, wrapping himself tightly around you. “Here I was thinking this person was gonna get you away from us, not knowing they were worrying you.” 

“You’re not, I promise!” You reassured. “Honestly, if there was someone doing all this for you three I would be really jealous too.” You placed a hand on two of your boyfriends’ thighs, looking over at James, who was still sulking, now sitting on the coffee table in front of you. “But I can assure you, even if I found out who this person was, they, and no one else, would be able to take me from you three. You aren’t getting rid of me that easy. Besides, I don’t like stalkers.” You joked. 

Remus pulled you closer to him, gentle but still much more aggressive than usual. Your other two boyfriends had settled, but he was still heated. 

“Remmy,” You turned to face him. “I promise, you have nothing to worry about.” 

“I know,” He grunted, burying his face into your neck. You wanted to shrink at the ticklish feeling but you allowed him to stay there, knowing he needed it. Remus had a jealous streak, perhaps the most of all your boyfriends. James and Sirius were more subtle in their protectiveness, but Remus started marking you all like a wolf anytime someone let their gaze linger too long. You buried your fingers in his hair and scratched his scalp, trying to relax him. 

“As soon as I find out who this is I will get them to stop, I promise.” You said vehemently. You looked guiltily at all your boyfriends, “I’m sorry this is happening, it isn’t fair to you all.” 

“It’s not your fault, dolly.” Sirius placed his hand on your back. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, you aren’t asking for this.” You were about to hug him, but Remus held fast around your waist, you started to protest, but you felt Remus’ lips latch to a spot on your neck, nibbling and sucking hard enough to sting, but not hurt. The sound you let out was half giggle and half moan.

“Christ, Moons!” James barked, “You trying to brand them or something?” The three of you started giggling like children. Remus released your skin from his teeth, observing the red and purple splotch that was left in his wake. 

“Gotta make sure they know what’s mine.” He said, possessively. “Don’t worry," His eyes glinted furiously at your two other boyfriends, "you two are next.” 

[spacecowboyy0]

bucky barnes deserves baby reg reader!!!!

i completely agree!! i saw a tiktok of a mom who brought her kid to a martial arts gym so she could practice and her kid had a little set up in the corner and one comment said: “You watch Bluey while momma chokes the life outta someone, k pumpkin?” and i thought that was hilarious, so that's the inspo for this

notes: cg!bucky, cg!nat and reader live together but buck and nat are not in a relationship (i think they're both super gay)

~1k words

You enter the boxing gym on Bucky’s hip, head resting on his shoulder. A group of you planned to spar together in a gym that you have access to. Peter had saved the owner’s daughter from getting robbed one night and now he could use the gym whenever he wanted. At least once a month you, Peter, Natasha, Bucky, Matt, Frank and Wade (sometimes a few other vigilantes) sparred together. You had planned on sparring but when you woke up feeling smaller than usual, Bucky decided it would be best if you didn’t participate (you were a little disappointed but still happy to come). 

Matt, Frank and Peter are already there when the three of you arrive. Natasha trails behind Bucky, holding two gym bags and your backpack. You squeal when you see the others, slapping your hand against Bucky’s chest in excitement. He laughs and bounces you a bit before letting you down. You run to Peter and give him a big hug. 

“Hey Petey!”

“Hi bug! No sparring for you today?” 

“Nu uh, papa says ‘m too small.” You look beside him where Matt and Frank are watching the interaction. Matt greets you with a small wave and you give him a quick hug before turning your attention to Frank. You raise your arms, requesting to be picked up, and try to give him a convincing look. 

“Please Frankie?” He tries to keep his hard expression but everyone knows he has a soft spot for you anyway, so he lifts you into his arms. When you snuggle into him, he smiles a little bit, but enough for Peter, Matt, and Wade (who just came over) to notice. They give him teasing looks and Frank just rolls his eyes.

Natasha sets down your backpack, and pulls out a blanket to spread out beside it. Frank carries you over to your area, in a spot close to all the action. He places you down on the blanket and then hands you your sketchbook and markers from your bag. You smile up at him gratefully, and he gives you a pat on the head before heading towards the ring. Nat crouches down in front of you, a soft look on her face. 

“You sit here and watch mama kick these boy’s asses, alright pumpkin?”

“Yeah!”

They’re right over there, you can literally see all of them, and yet you feel left out and needy. Colouring inside the lines is too frustrating but you can’t let go enough to scribble like you want. You tear up, getting overwhelmed by your confusing emotions. As it happened, you are in the presence of people trained to be observant, so it doesn’t take long for someone to notice your tears. Nat is fighting Matt in the ring, so Wade nudges Bucky, who stands beside him as they watch the match.

“Buck, your kid’s crying.” Bucky looks over his shoulder to where you are on your blanket with wide, wet eyes, and your bottom lip wobbling. He jogs over to you, and carefully picks you up. 

“What’s up baby?” He looks concerned as he wipes your tears with his thumb and then softly brushes your hair out of your face. 

“I dunno, jus’ feel sad ‘n miss you.” 

“Aww kid, you can keep me company while I watch the others spar ok?” You nod, sniff, and rest your head on his shoulder. He makes sure you’re secure in the crook of his arm before rifling through your bag and grabs your pacifier. He taps it against your lips and you open your mouth slightly to accept it. He walks back over to the others who are watching by the sidelines, and you hear Peter coo when you get close. 

“We got a gym baby with us?”

Bucky bounces you a bit and then turns his body so you can see Peter. You look spaced out and cozy as you rest against Bucky. The group only stays about 10 minutes longer, and the whole time you’re attached to Bucky. 

When you get back to the apartment, you lie on the bed, waiting for Bucky to get out of the shower. You play with the ring on your pacifier and roll around on the duvet. You perk up when you hear the bathroom door open, and reach out for him as he comes out. 

“I’ll be right there cutie, let me get something quick.” You grumble and watch him as he walks over to the closet and pulls fabric out of a box. 

It was Bucky’s birthday recently and Peter gifted him a special fabric that he can use to carry you around the house. There hasn’t been an opportunity to try it yet, but you’re currently clingy and tiny, and dinner needs to be made, so it’s the perfect time. 

You watch with curiosity as Bucky wraps the fabric around his stomach and then pulls it over his shoulders. 

“Alright come here baby.” He reaches his hands out and you crawl over to him. He picks you up under your armpits and rests you against his chest. You’re squished against him so you can’t see what he’s doing but you feel the fabric wrap around you, making you nice and snug. You take a moment to shift around, getting used to the new position. 

Bucky watches as you wiggle a bit before closing your eyes and relaxing fully. When he walks into the kitchen, where Nat is chopping carrots, she coos when she sees you and pauses her cutting to brush her hand over your head lovingly. 

“We got a little snug bug hm?”

“I think we gotta get this soup started so this one can eat. That sound good baby?” With your eyes closed, you respond with a quiet “mhm” and Bucky kisses the top of your head. 

i've been meaning to write for bucky so thanks for the push anon!

[aylinaliens]

just saw a post about unrequited kingdon and okay okay hear me out i need it. i go wild for the unrequited love trope where it’s oblivious NOT unrequited but there are too many factors and complicated baggage for them to be together. so one of the acknowledges it, they accept their feelings and pine and yearn like a fool (*cough* frank langdon *cough*) while the other decides that they should move on because the feelings won’t be reciprocated so those feelings? they go in a Neat Little Box.

i need time to go by and frank to be at his lowest. i need him to go to rehab and work on himself and attempt to repair his marriage to abby WHILE he’s lowkey emotionally cheating with mel. i need them to spend so much time together outside of work. it’s basically an emotionally affair without the physical aspect.

i need frank to go through that separation and divorce that’s a long time coming but gets drawn out because he loves abby, he does, but that relationship isn’t fixable. i need him to lean on mel throughout it all because she’s his best friend and maybe he’s in love with her

i need both of them to come close to confessing so many times. frank is holding himself back because he knows he’s not good enough for mel and mel doesn’t want to put any extra baggage & weight on him. so they do this little elaborate dance for an embarrassingly long time

and then one day at work frank sees mel with red cheeks and a bright smile, so he assumes it’s a case or something but no, mel was just asked out by a doctor in a different department. mel is happily talking to frank about it because obviously they are best friends but frank is very much torn up about it.

obviously the date goes well obviously they end up emotionally cheating whilst she’s in that relationship too because i think they should be messy and it’ll ramp up the angst factors idk

they do get together eventually but i want it to take forever. i want them to come close to admitting their feelings only to pull back. i think it would be neat!!!!! let the slow burn BURN. friends to lovers is always more juicy when you pair it with mass amounts of pain

[waitingonher]

LOVER'S ROCK [h.o.o. characters in love]

percy jackson

memorizes your fast-food/gas station order. even if you didn’t ask, percy’s still gonna get you a lil something from wherever he goes. he has a shoe box that holds every single thing you’ve ever given him. may or may not still have the receipt from the restaurant after your first date. listens to the music you recommend him. usually, percy’s very opinionated about the music he listens to but he always gives yours a try. embarasses himself solely to see you laugh. yes, the time he dropped his ice cream cone into the hudson was on purpose.

annabeth chase

waits for you to watch the latest episode of your favorite show. annabeth will wait for you no matter what, even if it pains her to not know whether or not her favorite character just died. eases up around you. she appreciates not having to be completely on guard all the time. paints your nails for you. annabeth always finds it funny when she sees your non-dominant hand perfectly manicured while your dominant hand looks as if you did it blindfolded.

jason grace

annotates his favorite books for you to read. when it’s the occasional romance novel, jason writes “us <3” in the margin everytime the love interests do anything remotely romantic. gifts you a necklace with his initial. he smiles everytime he sees it resting against your chest. jason’s phone is entirely made up of you. his lockscreen, his home screen, his widgets…everything is you. jason randomly gives you massages. if you’re working on some school assignment he’d come up behind you and start massaging your neck and shoulders, getting out the knots you didn’t even know you had.

piper mclean

allows you to bypass her dnd. most of the time, piper’s on dnd so she made it so that only your notifications could bypass it. she does the chores you hate the most. even if she hates it just as much, she’ll do it just to see you happy. piper loves making those cheesy couple videos with you on tiktok. every day she’ll tell you how you two are basically tiktok famous?? piper only listens to you when it comes to fashion advice. yeah, she’ll acknowledge what others have to say about her outfits, but she truly only cares about what you think. 

leo valdez

loves you to the point of invention. you can’t even count the amount of gadgets leo’s made for you. he also comes home with little knicknacks made from spare parts of his projects. flowers made of metal scraps >> regular flowers. lets down his guard for you. leo doesn’t feel the need to keep up his happy, humorous persona when he’s with you. he lets you take whatever side of the bed you want. even if leo likes to sleep against the wall, he’ll let you because he knows it makes you happy.

hazel levesque

buys matching couple outfits. you two have your own pinterest board dedicated to your matching outfits. takes care of your hair. considering her own hair, hazel knows a lot about hair care. date nights where she oils your hair and washes it for you over anything else. ties your bows for you. she laughs when you finish tying the bow in your hair only to realize that the loops and tails are different sizes. wears matching jewelry. you two have lockets with photos from your first date. 

frank zhang

never the first one to let go from hugs. frank can and will stand there and hug you for the entire day if you want to. ties your shoes for you. whenever he notices your shoes are untied he entirely stops what he’s doing and drops to the floor, propping your foot on his knee to tie it. always gives you his food. even if you had said you didn’t want any, frank still shares some with you.

[seat-safety-switch]

Once upon a time, everything came with an instruction manual. You'd open the box and immediately chuck that manual into the trash, because recycling wasn't popular back then, and you could still make a living cutting down trees to print more manuals with. Nowadays, the humble instruction manual is gone altogether, replaced with – at best – an interactive electronic instruction manual. I still don't read them, but now it's because I can't.

You see, "having a working computer" is a lifestyle that is simply incompatible with my existence. Despite the fact that our civilization has produced approximately 171.3 computers per person, I somehow have no ability to make them work. So I'm at the public library, where they get really mad if you take a transmission apart over their keyboard. Look, people, the keyboard catches the spring clips when they go flying out. Would you rather have this or me crawling around on the carpet?

When I'm on the side of the road because my futuristic garbage exploded, I can't always use my dumpster-dove flip phone to look up the manual, either. That would require me to buy cellular service, instead of just calling 911 and asking the firefighters to transfer my call every time (don't ask the cops to do it.) The only way forward is to assume there was no manual at all. Doing so also prevents me from receiving additional frustration, when I jump through all these hoops to find out that the fancy online manual does not have a chapter for "this product is now 37 years old and has corroded its entire wiring harness, here's your diagram on where 'purple' goes." Why even bother writing one, assholes?

Sometimes I call up the Haynes service manual people, and yell at them, telling them to make a print manual again. Then I tell them what I had to go through because of the eternal obsolescence cycle of all things electronic. Then they make me a job offer, which I refuse because it would mess with my unemployment payments. I'm holding out for an offer from Chilton. If it was good enough for Frank Herbert, it's good enough for me.

[ponett]

while i do think it’s partially true that transformers is kinda weak right now in terms of direction, media presence and largely as a franchise, i think Transformers One did more for the average person that people say it did. That film’s drama between the robots—which was sorely missing in all the Bay films—made regular people understand that Transformers are characters with emotions, lives, and meaningful conflict. And that also made people understand the fandom more—that the drama between the robots, as characters, is a crucial element to what gets people engrossed in Transformers—it is what some people truly care about, not just Cool Robot Turn Into Thing, but the glue that holds it all together.

Transformers One made Transfomers click for average people. Not many, (since it financially underperformed like hell for those unaware) but it did that for more people than just about any other piece of TF media.

I definitely think there's some truth to this. TF One didn't do crazy box office numbers, but box office numbers aren't everything. General audiences might not have cared, but a good number of animation and/or sci-fi nerds definitely saw the movie due to positive word of mouth. I've seen more than a few people on social media have their Frank Reynolds "oh my god, I get it" moment upon seeing the robot melodrama and the political themes in the movie, and then decide to get into the comics and cartoons from there. This is the most people have been talking about the IDW comics in years! And frankly that's way more meaningful to me than if it had been another billion-dollar smash hit that everyone stopped thinking about the second the credits rolled

[dearmash1975project]

It is March 18th, 1975: the Vietnam War is a month away from officially ending, Towering Inferno is top of the Box Office Charts, and like every Tuesday night you tune into CBS to watch your favorite evening TV shows. Only tonight is the season finale of the 3rd season of M*A*S*H, and it is an episode that will drastically change the course of the series; an episode that will touch its viewers so deeply that it will stay with them for decades after. Or, as my mom puts it, one that “impacted a generation.” Needless to say, heavy spoilers ahead for the episode and the show.

Season 3, episode 24, “Abyssinia Henry” aired at 8:30pm on Tuesday March 18th, 1975. The episode followed the M*A*S*H crew bidding a fond farewell to lovable Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake, who had finally received his long-awaited discharge. Over the course of 3 critically acclaimed seasons, M*A*S*H carved a place for itself in the weekly rituals of millions of Americans. Many of these viewers were children, who watched such shows as M*A*S*H, Happy Days, and All in the Family, alongside their parents and older siblings. The characters they saw weekly on the TV became not only a part of their routine, but members of the family. Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles– most children see such relatives a few times a year at holidays and family gatherings; but Hawkeye, Trapper, Margaret, Radar, Klinger, Frank, Father Mulcahy, and of course Colonel Blake–they were in your home, laughing along with you and your loved ones, weekly.

But again, tonight’s episode is different.

A tearfully fond farewell to Henry at the chopper pad is followed by the episode’s final scene. It is set in the operating room where, as always, the laugh track is silenced. Even writing this, I can feel my heart sink into my stomach as I picture Radar O’Reilly pushing through the doors of the O.R.

The camera holds on Radar as he delivers the news that Henry Blake’s plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan. And like millions of other Americans, the final words of the episode ring in my ears: “There were no survivors.”

Radar exhales to the silent room, the camera pans around to the shocked faces of the other characters; the sound of sniffles and their shining eyes the only expressions of grief visible over their masked faces. During the post-fade tag a montage of Henry plays; not that many people remember this part– I certainly didn’t until I forced myself to rewatch the episode on a full rewatch of the series. And like those shocked viewers in 1975, the sweet montage of our beloved Colonel does little to soothe the brutality of the preceding scene.

I was aware that letters were sent into CBS addressed to the M*A*S*H producers after the airing. In his 1998 interview for the Television Academy, creator Larry Gelbart discussed the reception of the episode and the letters that followed. He also mentioned his reasoning behind the choice, and why it was done. Actor McLean Stevenson (Henry Blake) wanted to move on to other things, and Gelbart, along with producer Gene Reynolds, felt that the death of a beloved character would be a poignant reminder that the show takes place during a war; and in war, people who are loved die.

In his interview, Gelbart explained that he and Reynolds responded, by hand, to the letters with this reasoning. He also said that to some he mentioned the recent news story of a plane of Vietnamese refugee children that crashed after leaving Saigon [the first flight of Operation Babylift, as it was known, crashed in early April, not that week in March. But memory is elusive, and the point still stands]. Gelbart and Reynolds invoked this association to have people consider the mechanisms that made them care so deeply for a fictional character, but not for real victims of war.

I remember sitting in the quiet archives center reading room in the basement of the National Museum of American History, opening up the manila folder and beginning to read through the letters. I set up my appointment to see the M*A*S*H Collection over a month earlier, as the collection is housed off site and had to be delivered to the archives center. The archives team was more than gracious to me, and I would not be doing this project without their help.

Now early July, I began to flip through the letters, hand-written on various stationary, until the unmistakable sight of a child’s handwriting came into view. I think Brian’s letter was the 4th or 5th in the first folder (folder 22), and reading it stopped me in my tracks. I know I’m not the only one who would react that way after reading “I am really sad” and “age 11” in such short succession. It had never occurred to me that these letters, of course, would also have been written by children.

I was 17 when I watched the episode, and even going into it with Henry’s fate pre-known to me (the follies of the digital age where spoilers are readily available, as well, I suppose, as the nearly half a century of cultural consciousness on the topic) it was still devastating to the point of heavy tears. How then, must a child of 11 have felt? Not only in watching a beloved (if fictional) friend die so suddenly, but then having to wait until the next season (which would not air until September, perish the thought!) These were questions I found myself asking, and though the idea of tracking down these children (now adults) would not occur to me until a few letters later, I figured this letter’s author would be a perfect narrative start for this project...

Credits: Screenshots from The New York Times Timesmachine, 03/18/1975, page 1 & 75. Script photo by @mashhistorian, whose article is very good: https://themashhistorian.com/2025/03/03/script-spotlight-42/ Larry Gelbart’s interview with the Television Academy: https://interviews.televisionacademy.com/interviews/larry-gelbart?clip=21088#about NPR Article: “Remembering the Doomed First Flight of Operation Babylift.” https://www.npr.org/2015/04/26/402208267/remembering-the-doomed-first-flight-of-operation-babylift Smithsonian Online Virtual Archives (SOVA): “M*A*S*H Television Show Collection, 1950-1984, undated, Archives Center, National Museum of American History.” https://sova.si.edu/record/nmah.ac.0117?s=0&n=10&t=C&q=NMAH.AC.0117&i=0#summary