#i need a raise. i need to stay longer at work. i need all kinds of things

[dickvinci]

and i know i could and possibly might just start posting about fics and what not that i'm writing her and set up a kofi and take suggestions and what not but. it's a lot of work.

[retiredteabag]

Sukuna assimilating to you

Synopsis: After discovering that Sukuna has been wide awake every time you nap together, you become embarrassed around him.

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

It is a scientific fact that when we are around people we love and trust, while in a healthy relationship, the release of oxytocin makes us sleepy.

Sukuna does not need sleep. He is the king of curses, able to continuously use his technique without ever becoming exhausted. When you first suggested that his chambers were "perfect for napping", he had simply raised a brow and considered what that could possibly mean.

You are like a weak creature to him. A kitten or perhaps a rabbit. And since you are never safer than when you are in his presence, you frequently find yourself growing sleepy when you are around him.

Throughout your strange relationship with the king, something that you loved most, is that there never needs to be words exchanged between the two of you. You were both contented to sit in silence. Frequently dozing off together, or so you thought.

You caught on eventually, that he was always awake before you. That his breathing pattern never really changed. That his face never relaxed more than it would if he had simply been sitting with his eyes closed.

One morning, after having stayed the night sleeping, you mumbled to him, "How is it you're always awake before I?"

He rose a brow at you, his upper set of eyes were looking into yours, the lower staring at how you lay across his bed sheets.

"I do not know your meaning." He grumbled out.

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "You never sleep in longer than I do, one day I would like to wake up before you."

"I never sleep at all." He stated before you had even really finished your sentace.

"What?" Your breathy outburst echoed slightly in his bed chamber, "What do you mean you don't sleep?"

"I do not require such things." He turned his torso now toward you, all four eyes studying your face, you had quickly sprung up, seemingly miffed.

"So... so all this time, you've just been... laying there while I've been sleeping?"

"I suppose I have, I do not see how this matters in the slightest." "It matters because I've been... It's just been a big waste of time for you. Sukuna you should have said something." You're upset, he can tell. Your face is scrunched up, your blood is pounding in your veins. Sukuna, however, does not know what to say in this situation.

In all honesty, he figured you knew and were just including him. Did you really think he was that weak? Or could you simply not conceive of a restless existence? Whatever the answer, he had no response for you, expecting a shrug of the shoulders- you he would discover, would not so easily let go of things.

And how humiliated you were. How many HOURS had you spent sleeping with him, within his grasp, in his space for him to have been conscious the whole time? You tried thinking back, attempting to recall a time you had requested a nap when he was uninterested.

He had never uttered a word about it. Never turned you down. Sukuna was not a kind king, he rarely ever did things that were not out of necessity, and he certainly did not do things he didn't like. That, at least, was consolation. You knew he had not been suffering for your sake, but even so, it was embarrassing.

Sukuna, still, could not understand your sheepishness about the subject. He did not care to explain that time works differently for him, that his mind is not so simple as yours and does not require entertainment all the time, that he could sit still for years and not be bothered, and frequently did before you came along.

He assumed you would get over it quickly. In your time as well as his. But days passed and he rarely saw you. You took your dinner with other people of the palace and spoke with him in the most cordial manner. One night, he informed Uraume that they needed to prepare a dish suited for you, something that would entice you, and serve it to him.

He figured this would bring you crawling back to him, tail between your legs. Yet, you did not budge.

Odd.

You were wallowing. You knew it. He did not care to spend time, what? Watching you sleep? Of course, he wouldn't, but it hurt your pride, to know you had been taking up such huge chunks of time lazing about in his presence. Well, not anymore. You slept in your chamber and your chamber alone. Gone were the days of blankets on the engawa, gone were the days of resting beneath the kotatsu while laying your head in his lap, gone were the days of sharing his bed.

If ever he wished for someone to share his bed, he had a whole cast of concubines, though you knew they were never of any use to him, they were mostly just house staff with a fancy title.

The evening he finally decided enough was enough, you were in the washhouse doing laundry.

Your back was arched over a bin full of soapy water. Your hands working tirelessly on some cloth.

"Have you not circumvented me enough?" He spoke in a low and slow tone.

"Lord Sukuna." You bowed, clothing in your hands, suds up your forearms, you bent your neck as to not look at him.

"You will reply now." He raised a brow, watching your hands quietly splash in the washbin.

"Was there something you would like me to assist to?" You questioned. Your head was full of possible reasons for what the king meant by seeking you out personally.

"Do you believe that by not sleeping in my presence I would come to believe you do not require rest?" He spoke in an unserious tone, eyes unblinking.

"No, my lord." Now what was he playing at? Of course that wasn't your intention.

"Then you hide yourself from me because you no longer have time for your king, I suppose." He mused.

Oh, for heaven's sake, "No, my lord."

"I see," He bent down to look you dead in the eyes, "So, you must no longer crave my occupancy of your space. You must not desire my hand running through your hair? I suppose you have tired of staying in my chambers?" His tone remained deep but his eyes were dead serious now.

"I-" You began, but suddenly you felt the urge to cough, swallowing you tried again, "I wished not to preoccupy so much of your time."

"And you made this decision without enlightening your king."

You said nothing.

"You will eat with me tonight, you shall stay in my chambers henceforth." He rose in record speed, turning without a second glance your way, maids were staring wide-eyed at the king of curses as he halted at the entrance of the washhouse. You could not see, but there was finality in his voice.

"I wish not to waste-" You were cut off by Sukunas voice, his broad back still facing you.

"Your wishes do not interest me now, so it seems. It is my wish for you to spend your time with me." His steps resounded through the compound, your face slack.

The maids smirked, and with shocked faces, side-eyed one another. A couple entered the washhouse giving you big open-mouthed smiles, and patted your shoulder as they passed.

That night Uraume made something you would go on to beg them to make for years to come. And when Sukuna pulled you prone from your seated position on his bed, he took a firm fingertip and stroked the space between your eyes, one of his enormous hands encircling your skull and massaging your temples with his thumb and ring fingers. He traced the bridge of your nose to your forehead, the way you would stroke a cat.

Perhaps he thought this would induce drowsiness but all it did was make you feel all floaty inside at his silliness.

And for the first time since that night, you slept alongside him. Within his embrace, and when you awoke, Sukuna's eyes were closed.

[mohammedziara]

Help Us Survive This Winter: A Father’s Plea ❤️‍🩹

My name is Mohammed, and I never imagined that one day I would have to write these words, asking for help to simply keep my family alive. I used to work as a painter and decorator, taking pride in providing for my family and raising my two boys, Arafa and Mohammed, with love and security. But everything changed overnight.

Our home, the place where we built memories, was destroyed in a bombing. The car I depended on to make a living was reduced to ashes. We were left with nothing. Now, my family—my wife, my parents, my brother Ahmed, and my boys—are crammed into a school near the Port of Gaza, a shelter that is no longer a place of learning, but a refuge for the displaced.

The constant sound of gunfire and bombs haunt us day and night. Each explosion shakes the ground beneath us and tears at our spirits. My children, Arafa and Mohammed, once so full of life, now cower in fear. They have nightmares and cry in their sleep. The trauma they are enduring has stolen their childhood. My heart breaks every time I see the fear in their eyes, knowing that I can’t make it go away.

We are living in survival mode. There is no money for food. No fuel to stay warm as winter creeps closer. No medicine to treat the constant sicknesses that come with our living conditions. And no warm clothing to protect my children from the freezing nights that are just around the corner. I watch them shiver, hungry and cold, and I feel utterly powerless as a father.

We’ve lost everything, and I have no means to provide for my family. We’ve reached a point where we cannot survive without help. I never thought I’d be in this position—having to rely on the generosity of strangers to keep my family alive. But I am here, pleading with you, because the alternative is unthinkable.

Please, if you can spare anything at all, it could mean the difference between life and death for us. Your donation, no matter how small, can help us buy food so my children won’t go to bed hungry. It can help us find fuel to keep warm in the brutal winter months ahead. It can provide medicine for my boys and warm clothing to protect them from the cold.

I know the world is full of need right now, but I hope you can find it in your heart to help my family. We are just one of many who have lost everything, but to us, your kindness could change our world. It could give my children a chance to feel safe again, to heal from the trauma they are carrying, and to survive the months ahead.

Thank you for reading, for caring, and for anything you can do to help. Your generosity will not only provide us with the necessities we need to survive but also restore a bit of hope in a time when it feels like all hope has been lost.

With all my heart, thank you.

[floatyflowers]

Dark! Dracula x Single! Mother Reader

           

After the mysterious death of your husband, you meet the man he had been working for at the funeral, and it turns out to be none other than Count Dracula.

He offered you refuge at his castle, claiming your husband was a dear friend. He insisted he could not possibly allow his friend's widowed, pregnant wife to live in a financial crisis.

At first, you reject the idea, claiming it is improper. But after much pressuring, you accept his offer, feeling ashamed of yourself.

You only want your baby to avoid suffering from poverty.

Things seemed like a dream at first.

Dracula's servants treated you like a countess rather than a guest; anything you needed was granted to you on a plate of gold.

However, things take a sinister turn when Dracula begins to assert a possessive claim over your unborn child, referring to it as his own.

This unsettling behavior escalates as he prepares for the baby's arrival, going so far as to construct a nursery within his castle.

Disturbingly, he has even chosen both a male and a female name for the child, further solidifying his intention to claim it as his own.

You understood why the count had been acting so strangely when you walked in on him one day, catching him in the act of drinking the blood of one of the servants.

He hadn't noticed you as he drank, a look of predatory satisfaction on his face.

The servant didn't even have the energy to scream, their skin drained of color.

At that moment, the horrifying reality crashed down on you. All the strange deaths happening in town, the whispers of a bloodthirsty creature lurking in the shadows, it was him all along.

And the two puncture marks on your husband's neck, the ones you had attributed to an accident, were from his own sharp, elongated canine teeth.

"You are the devil," you hiss, the words escaping your lips like a venomous breath.

Moments before, you had fled the noise and chaos of his study room, seeking solace in the quiet of your chambers.

He had followed, his presence as unwelcome as ever.

"Devil? No, my dear," Dracula chuckled, his voice calm.

"I am merely a provider, ensuring the continuation of my lineage."

His words sent a shiver down your spine.  

Lineage. Your child.

This wasn't about friendship or kindness; it was about possession.

He saw your unborn child as his heir, a thought that made you feel physically ill.

"You won't have my child," you spat, clutching your swollen belly protectively.

Dracula's eyes, usually filled with a charming warmth, turned cold.

"You have little choice in the matter," he stated calmly, taking a step closer.  

"You are under my roof, under my protection.  This child," he paused, his gaze piercing through you,

"Will be raised as mine, and you will become my wife."

Panic welled up inside you, choking you with its icy grip, as he reached for your face. His long, cold fingers with perfect, long nails traced your skin.

"I don't want to stay here any longer. I will leave, and you won't hear about me anymore," you declare, your voice trembling with determination you hope your body will soon follow.

"You are not going anywhere," he scoffs, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Because you have nowhere to go, have you forgotten how people view widows? Especially pregnant ones who refuse to remarry? You will be shunned, left to fend for yourself and our child. This is your new and better reality, and you will learn to accept it."

A sharp pain forms in your abdomen, causing you to quickly place your hand on it.

Feeling witness, you look down only to acknowledge that your water has broken.

The vampire count also takes notice, a cruel smile spreading across his face.

"It seems our child has decided to grace us with their presence a little earlier than expected," he purrs, his voice laced with an eerie excitement.

He claps his hands together once, and two servants immediately appear at the doorway.

He commanded in a sharply authoritative tone.

"Prepare for Lady (Y/n)'s delivery. And ensure that everything is perfect in the nursery for our child."

You try to protest, to fight against the iron grip that seems to have closed around your arm, but your words are lost in a wave of pain as another contraction rips through you.  

                                ⋆☽◯☾⋆

The piercing cries of a newborn echoed through the stone halls of the castle.

The sound should have brought you relief, but instead, dread coiled tightly around your heart.

Sweat clung to your skin as you lay exhausted in the grand bed of the lavishly prepared covers.

Yet, as you gazed at the tiny, delicate features, the baby now is calm against your chest.

While Dracula stood at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes drinking in the sight before.

He has a family now, a wife and a son.

Walking to your side, he slowly leans down, placing a gentle hand on the baby's head, his touch lingering for a moment as he admires the sleeping child.

Not having the strength to fight him after a long labor, you allow him to have his way this time.

Dracula's smile grows wide as the child opens his eyes, finally deciding on what to name the baby.

"His name shall be Alucard."

[nemesyaaa]

sweet babyface // toxic!bbydaddy!rafe x reader

summary ; rafe was decided to make your little one, a kook princess. and if it means to spend a million of dollars on a diamond swarovski tiara just to see it on the head of his daughter, you can be sure he's gonna do it.

warnings ; basically fluff but i would add +18 bc of a little bit of suggestive content but not real smut. mention of breeding kink. kind of toxic relationship. a bit of stalking. financial dependence. be aware of the warnings.

author's note ; i just wanted to mention @princessbrunette for the bbydaddy!rafe verse. you can check it on her account <3

even if you tried every time to keep him away, push him away, avoid him or chase him, rafe always came back. you could be cold, distant, suspicious and even cruel, he didn't care. by the way, he was better than you at that game anyway? it wasn’t for nothing that you always lost trying to fight him. he was winning while you were just exhausting yourself out. sometimes you wonder why you let him into your life, why you thought it would be a good idea to have a baby with him when everyone on the island told you he was unstable and uncontrollable. some even laughed at your situation, saying it was like giving something to the devil and hoping he doesn't use it against you.

you couldn't say rafe was a bad father. your daughter had always been outrageously spoiled. he always gave her the biggest and greatest gifts. nothing was ever good enough for his princess. he always thought big when it came to his baby. even if you were a pogue, he wanted to raise her as a fucking kook.

and sometimes you wondered if he did all this out of pure fatherly love or out of narcissism or ego.even if you hated him so much, he absolutely needed to make sure your child was on his side. every time he was there, it was like you no longer existed. the house was full of "dad," "daddy, “ or “ papa, " and babbling and laughing. it was always his name, she never called you. and you always felt a pang in your heart every time he grabbed her in his big veiny arms, making her the happiest little girl before taking her away from you to go on some weekly trips.

even when he was not at home, it was always with the toys he gave her that she played, the dresses he gave her that she wore, the hairstyles that he validated by facetime that she asked you to make, the meals he delivered that she wanted to eat. she was truly daddy’s girl. even in her facial features.

so no matter how much you tried to ignore him, he was still there somehow . through the demands of your daughter, the hundreds of deliveries a day to your door, the objects in this house and even its walls because he was obviously the one who paid for it.

you didn't need to work. you had access to all his cards. at first you spent tons of money on unnecessary expenses hoping it would drive him crazy but the next day you saw that even more money had been added to the bank account.

but rafe cameron didn't give you access to his banking data out of pure kindness and affection alone. he was also looking for a way to control you, and stay in your life. then, with that, he could also stalk you and do inappropriate things like when you bought lingerie and he received the bill. he couldn't stop himself from sending you a message. “don't want to see me, but you dress yourself like you want me to give you a second baby ;) ”

the only rule was that you were forbidden from going to see another man and even less from inviting him to the house. he manipulated you by saying it was for your daughter's mental balance but it was purely out of jealousy. and you knew it very well. you weren't the stupid naive girl he had gaslighted in the past and who he could lie to so easily anymore.

one day, you were giving your kid the extremely expensive cupcakes rafe had bought for her breakfast, trying not to comment on the ridiculousness of the prices but especially the situation, and there was a knock at the door. when you saw through the blinder that it was him, you stepped back discreetly, swallowing hard to not clench. your heart was beating fast in your ribcage as you were trying to silence your stepfoots.

“I know you're here.” you had heard his loud firm raspy voice through the door. “baby, i can hear you breathing and backing up from here. come on, i thought we both get over the time i scared you. ”

he continued to knock on the door until your old neighbor called you claiming that a crazy madman was in front of your house and didn't want to leave.

you had been forced to open up to him which made you even angrier.

but that didn’t stop him from smiling at you, the insatiable white colgate smile. his clean and fresh mullet was long enough that hair brushed the back of his neck. he was wearing one of his perfect black suits with the sleeves rolled up to show a glimpse of his nice shirt. a Rolex was tight around his veiny wrist, and the same rings he always wore were wrapped around his fingers.

he had his ear pierced recently with your daughter. you had been against it, but she still wanted to do like her father so you had no authority over the sweet monster. but you had to admit that the jewelry suited them both so well. especially on rafe, you couldn't help but think about kissing his ear, but especially biting his earlobe while caressing the silver piercing until it's wet and rolling against your tongue. all this perhaps while thinking of having a baby again.

“I should be allowed to come here whenever I want. " he had sworn under his breath, staring at you with his evil blue eyes.

“tell me what you have to say or I’ll call the police.” you replied shortly.

"I want to see my girl. I mean, the one who likes to call me daddy. "

“It’s not funny and she doesn’t want to…”

you hadn't had time to finish speaking before your babyface's little footsteps were running on the floor to come into the hall.

“daddy! " she exclaimed before being carried off the ground to snuggle into her father's strong arms, her little frame being hidden by the size of his biceps.

“that's my little girl.” he welcomed her with a kiss on the cheek, making her chuckle.

"I missed you! please, stay !" your kid had asked with bubbly face and pleading eyes, her childish pout so irresistible to say no.

“of course, I’m staying.”

“raf…” you started but he ignored you, walking in the house without your permission into the living room.

“I have something for you, peaches. ”

he took a present out of his bag and you rolled your eyes. you already knew it was going to be something crazy like the giant dollhouse he built in her bedroom, or the huge dinette in the playroom, or a scary tall comfort teddy bear that she couldn't even carry in her tiny hands. sometimes you wondered what he could offer to her because she already had everything. he had literally built her a heaven.

your daughter's eyes widened in surprise, while a smile floated across her lips in excitement. she opened the gift and took out a silver tiara set with diamonds and stunning crystals signed by Swarovski.

“she’s a baby, rafe…” you commented.

"no, she's a princess. " he corrected you and fixed your little one's hair before putting the tiara on her head, and placing a smack on her forehead. “ don't you see that kook babyface ? ”

she giggled before wrapping her hands around his neck to thank him.

“we need to talk.” you said.

"later. i have a princess to honor for now."

you wanted to fight back and kill him but you couldn't resist your daughter's face. she was happy to be with her father. and you knew it was important for girls to establish a strong bond with their father. and there was this bright spark that shone in her eyes every time she saw him that made you melt.

so you let him stay at home. he stayed with her all day. she managed to make him do whatever she wanted, and that's how he found himself playing with dolls, watching the princess and the frog, doing karaoke to barbie songs, serving as a client for a makeup session, and judging all of her princess dresses while she was making him a haul.

No matter how angry you were that he showed up like that and decided to stay, you couldn't deny the fact that he was damn good, that in the moment, you couldn't find any reason not to like him, even when he caught you spying on them and sent you a smirk to remember that you had no control.

you had decided to do some cleaning, to leave them both for a bit until the end of the day. after a long moment, rafe decided to leave her alone for a bit.

you were downstairs, and you were making food. he raised an eyebrow when he saw you. “don’t forget me.”

“no I’m sorry, I’m cooking for two and you’re not included in it.”

“I was included in this pussy to make you a baby so you can include me in this meal for one night, baby. ‘s nothing. ” he shouted back, chewing some gum arrogantly.

“don’t be trashy.”

"you used to like this..." he carefully said, because he knew he was treading on sensitive ground.

he stood in front of you, picking a taste of the ranch sauce from the bowl before putting it in his mouth. you watched him do it, glaring at the smile on his so fucking evil lickable lips.

“ taste's good. ”

“I want you to leave. “

"We should ask every part of your body if they're okay with this. Maybe it would put you back into your place to feel betrayed by your own self. "

“You’re not good for her.” you confessed.

“I am her father. And from what i know, she's very happy with me. You're the one to have a problem with my presence here. ”

"Please, leave the house. I don't want to call the police."

“exactly, baby.” he moved to stand behind you, rearranging a strand of your hair, his breath hot on the back of your neck. “you don’t want to do it. And you're not forced to do it…” he caressed your hand, slowly putting the knife away from your fingers.

“Step back.”

"I want to stay here tonight. Just this night. She really wants me to stay and would it be cruel to make her sad? You don't want to be the villain, right ? "

“don’t try to manipulate me.”

" mmh, just telling the truth and it makes you mad. you can hate me if you want but she needs me. i'm her dad and you know if I wanted to, I could make her come with me but I love seeing you together. you're a great mom.”

"you will sleep on the couch. and that is non-negotiable. you don't try anything with me, is that okay?"

“Come on, we can sleep together. We are mature and consenting adults.” he replied. "There's nothing I haven't seen before, baby. I know all that lingerie as well as that body hidden behind it."

“about that, stop stalking my bills.”

"Mine , baby. you mean, my bills. these are my cards that you use for your pleasures so I have the right to have an eye on them. even more so when I receive bills for sex toys. you should call me instead of handling it? yourself.”

"After trying them, I'm not sure that you're big enough now. “

jesus, you knew how to provoke him and it worked. he had sniffed the air loudly, trying to contain himself because honestly, he only wanted one thing at the moment, a strong urge that was to fuck you dirty on that counter until he was sure to see your hole tearing to death and dripping to get his cock in. jesus, yeah, he would give anything to see you grimace because it will never fit in but prove you wrong by giving you a second baby.

his jaw was tense and his nostrils were flared. he was forced to clench his fist to avoid touching you. " the day when your babygirl will want a little sister or brother, you better be begging on all fours on my fucking doorstep to convince me to give you another baby. so better to start now and stretch that hole very hard before it's happening because i'm gonna make sure to be breeding you enough to change your whole dna. ”

“ aren't you tired of thr…”

“mom, dad, what are you talking about?” the little girl burst into the kitchen, still with her tiara on her head. a smile appeared when she saw that her dad was still there. because it was rare for him to stay that late.

you warned rafe with your eyes, slashing violently at pieces of vegetables with the knife back in your hand.

“ we were thinking that i could stay tonight. what's your thoughts on this, little one ? want daddy to stay ? ”

“ yes ! i don't want you to leave. stay foreveeeer with me. ”

“ but you know, he can't. he's a businessman. ” you replied.

“ what do you mean, baby ? my only business is right here. ”

” Rafe. ” you said.

“ Baby ? ” he replied with a cocky smile. “ Why don't you tell us what you're cooking ? Seems delicious. Maybe we could get a taste. ”

“ Sweetie, can you go to your room for a second ? I need to talk with your dad. It's not gonna be long. ”

She pouted but agreed after Rafe promised her something if she was listening to her mom.

“you know you can’t stay. "

"All I know is that there is my name in the papers of this house, on your bills, and even on your documents. If I can't stay, you can't escape. So what's better ? ”

[flwrkid14]

Bruce shares custody of Tim with Harley Quinn

Yeah, you read that right. Gotham’s broodiest billionaire vigilante and the queen of chaotic energy are co-parenting Tim Drake. And, somehow, that’s not even the weirdest thing that's happened to the bats this year.

Why? Two words: Joker Junior.

The details are locked down tighter than the Batcave, but here’s what everyone knows (or guesses): Joker broke Tim in ways none of them can fathom. He didn’t just try to kill him—he tried to make Tim like him. And while Tim clawed his way back from the brink, he didn’t do it alone. Harley was there.

She was part of the nightmare. And then, unexpectedly, she was part of the healing. She stepped in, helped Tim survive when Joker was doing his worst. When it was all over, when Joker was (temporarily) gone, she didn’t vanish into Gotham’s chaos. She stayed.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, Tim started calling her “Mom.”

And Bruce didn’t stop him.

Cue the Batfamily losing their collective minds.

Dick is pacing the Batcave, gesturing wildly. “Bruce, this is Harley Quinn we’re talking about! You don’t just co-parent with a rogue! There are laws against this! Or, like, there should be!”

Jason is sitting on the Batmobile, arms crossed, voice dripping with disbelief. “She’s literally a former rogue. She tried to kill you! Like, more than once. This is insane, even for you.”

Steph is perched on the edge of a desk, trying (and failing) not to laugh. “Okay, but, like, can you blame Tim? Harley does make amazing pancakes. Better than Alfred’s, honestly—”

A scandalized gasp echoes from the other side of the room.

Cass just watches quietly, her head tilted, but there’s a small, knowing smile on her face. She gets it. She’s seen the way Tim softens around Harley, how he relaxes in a way he doesn’t around anyone else.

Damian glares at Bruce like he’s lost his last shred of common sense. “Father, you have truly surpassed yourself. Allowing that woman into the sanctity of our home—”

Duke raises a hand cautiously. “Okay, but can we at least talk about how Tim basically has diplomatic immunity now? No rogue in Gotham is gonna mess with him. He’s Harley’s kid!”

And it’s true. Between Harley’s reputation and Poison Ivy stepping in as Tim’s unofficial stepmom (because of course she and Harley got back together), the rogues have adopted a weird kind of reverence for him. Tim’s no longer just a bat to them—he’s Harley’s kid.

Picture this: Tim’s out on patrol, and Riddler has the gall to interrupt with a riddle—only to end it with, “You’re sharper than I thought, kid. Guess Harley taught you well, huh?” before disappearing into the night.

Harley’s brand of parenting is chaotic but deeply personal. She knows Tim’s tells, the way his hands shake when he’s overwhelmed or the too-quiet moments when he’s retreating into himself. She’s the one who sits cross-legged on the floor with him, working on puzzles and cracking jokes until the tension lifts.

She carries extra band-aids in her purse because “Ya never know when a fight with some thug is gonna leave ya with a paper cut!” She also leaves sticky notes on his projects with scribbled messages like “You’re a genius, baby boy!” or “Don’t forget snacks!” They’re goofy, sure, but they make Tim smile when he needs it most. She keeps a stash of snacks in the Manor because Tim forgets to eat when he’s working. She shows up with pancakes at 3 a.m., douses everything in syrup, and calls him “baby boy” in that soft tone that makes Tim feel… safe.

Even Harley’s chaos has an odd kind of comfort to it. She’ll burst into the Manor unannounced, dragging Tim into impromptu “self-care parties” with face masks, bad rom-coms, and every flavor of ice cream imaginable. Somehow, it works.

Ivy, on the other hand, balances Harley’s energy with her own structured nurturing. She insists on “proper nutrition” and occasionally sends Tim home with meal prep containers filled with organic, eco-friendly food labeled things like “Stress-Busting Smoothie” or “Brain-Boosting Soup.” If Bruce raises an eyebrow at it, Ivy simply reminds him that “The human body can only fight crime properly with the right fuel, Bats.”

One time, she cornered Bruce in the greenhouse, pointing an accusatory finger. “If you send Tim out on patrol without a proper meal or at least six hours of sleep, I swear, Bruce, your rose garden is compost.”

And while Harley is the queen of hugs and chaos, Ivy is the one who sits with Tim on the porch at night, talking softly about resilience and regrowth, using plant metaphors Tim pretends not to understand but secretly finds comforting. Once, after a particularly bad night, she gifted him a small cactus with a note: “Even when it feels like the world is trying to tear you apart, you’re stronger than you think. Also, low maintenance, like you.”

Bruce knows the family doesn’t fully understand. But as he watches Harley teaching Tim how to make lasagna one night, the two of them laughing as the kitchen turns into a war zone of flour and tomato sauce, he doesn’t regret it.

Sometimes family doesn’t look like you think it will. Sometimes it’s stitched together from the most unexpected pieces.

And sometimes, it’s an ex-rogue, a traumatized teen, and a brooding billionaire all trying to figure out how to keep the lasagna from burning.

Welcome to Gotham.

[gurugirl]

Truth or Dare | slumber party!h

Summary: Y/n's coworker, Harry, has never been to a slumber party so she decides to remedy that and give him a sleepover he'll never forget.

A/N: Based off this request. Thanks anon! I hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 6,752

Warning: smut

. . .

By her third glass of chardonnay, her stomach was feeling the acid from the wine but she was having such a good time talking to Harry from the operations department that she didn’t care. She’d have another before calling it a night. Just one more glass so she could sit with him a little longer and listen to him talk and watch as he ran his finger along the edge of his pint glass.

He was probably looking at her like he was because he was also three pints of lager in and he was kind so he was holding eye contact to be polite. Certainly, it wasn’t because he found her attractive (though she’d have welcomed that).

The company’s management meeting was long over and everyone else had gone home but Harry and Y/n stayed for another round. They rarely ever got to talk at the office. She’d always wanted to pick his brain about why he decided to move to the US and how, of all companies, he chose to work at Dunn Services.

Y/n laughed on cue as he mentioned something from his childhood with his sister having her friends over to stay the night. He grinned, a healthy row of teeth aimed at her before he looked down and laughed at himself, “In truth? I never did have a sleepover or anything like that.”

“Really? Surely you had friends…”

Harry nodded, “Oh yeah I had a lot of friends. But I never stayed over at anyone’s and they never came over to mine either. Just… I don’t know. Never happened.”

Placing her nearly empty glass down she turned and waved with a smile as the waitress walked by, “Can we get another round, please?”

“How are you getting home?” Harry asked when she faced him, crossing her leg over her knee toward him.

“Taxi. You?”

“Might walk. I’m not far from here.”

Nodding she placed her elbows on the table, “So, I think that you’ve missed out on an integral right of passage, having never had a slumber party. You should definitely remedy that at some point. I highly recommend a fun sleepover. In fact, if you need pointers on what to do during a sleepover, I’m your gal.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your go-to during a slumber party?” Harry teased before taking another sip of his beer.

“Well, I think there are like two main components. The first is entertainment and I’m always keen on a good movie, or a dumb one, either way… a movie for sure if I’m picking. Some people like to play board games or whatever, but I like to stuff myself into a pile of blankets and pillows and just lie, or drape,” she spoke using her arms to demonstrate herself draping into pillows. “Occasionally, if the mood is right, I’ll enjoy a little truth or dare.”

“Got it. A movie and maybe if the mood is right, truth or dare. And what’s the second component.”

Y/n crossed her fingers together and raised her brows as if she were about to say something very important, “Snacks. Beverages. Good ones. Usually just small bites but here’s my list…” She cleared her throat, “Buttered popcorn, and possibly potato chips. Definitely something chocolatey, and maybe something like a cookie or a snack cake. If not potato chips then tortilla chips and if it’s tortilla chips, salsa should also definitely be on the menu.”

Harry held back the laugh in his throat as he nodded, “Wow. Okay. What about like a burger or Chinese food? Would that be allowed?”

Y/n shrugged, “It’s your party. You can do what you want. I’m just telling you what I’d do and what would be a hit with your sleepover buddy.”

Harry breathed out a laugh. Y/n could tell he was getting bashful. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was. She watched him for a few seconds before the waitress returned with their drinks.

A quick gulp of wine and she nudged at his shin with her shoe, “You wanna have a slumber party with me?”

Harry blinked and tilted his head, “What? You mean… Seriously?”

She shrugged, “Why not? Then next time someone asks if you’ve ever had a proper slumber party you can say that you have.”

He laughed loudly, his husky voice was like music to her ears. Pointing at her with his finger he grinned, “Now how I can argue with that? I mean,” he shook his head, a glint in his eye, “Every time someone asks me if I’ve been to a slumber party and I tell them I haven’t, it’s such a disappointment! The look on their faces when they realize my whole childhood was a sham…”

They both laughed, leaning in toward one another, tittering toward the edges of their stools.

Harry tilted his head, “Actually I think it sounds fun. You just name the day and I’ll be there.”

Y/n smiled at him. She knew it was crazy. Having a grown man at her place for a slumber party. Typically adults didn’t have those kinds of sleepovers – it was usually with the intent of something far more salacious. But she’d show him a good time, she thought, raising her glass toward his, “Deal.”

.                 .                 .

Y/n had her sofa bed pulled out and piled high with extra blankets and pillows. She had all her favorite snacks plus she ordered cheeseburgers and fries for the guest of the night. It was silly. Truly she hadn’t had a real slumber party in ages, but she couldn’t help but feel a little bit of excitement that she’d be hanging out with Harry all night. It was possible that her small crush on him was making her feel all giddy but she’d push down that feeling until he gave her any extenuating signals.

Because the truth was that they were both single, young adults and this was such an unlikely scenario. No one would look at this and say Oh how cute of these two grown adults hanging out in bed together for a sleepover. So innocent! No, she knew better. While maybe nothing would actually happen it certainly wouldn’t look innocent.

And of course, she did pick out the perfect pijama set. Something a little more flattering on her body but not too hey I really need to get laid tonight. It was a happy compromise. Cotton shorts and a button-up, matching short-sleeved top. This was just supposed to be a slumber party after all.

Right?

Besides, the little paper invitation she gave him on Monday morning told him to arrive in his sleepwear so she had to look the part. And not to toot her own horn but she made a very cute invitation just for him tucked into a pink envelope with a separate little response card that had space at the bottom for him to mark yes or no if he could come. It was a yes. Obviously.

When Harry finally arrived he was wearing a pair of grey sweats and a white t-shirt. And for some fucking bizarre reason he looked so much hotter than he did when he wore his well-fitted suits at work.

Because goddamn did his shirt somehow just hug his torso in all the right spots and it allowed her to take a good look at all tattoos on his arms that were normally hidden under brushed wool jackets or long-sleeved button-up shirts. She knew he had tattoos. She’d seen him roll up his sleeves a couple of times but she never wanted to be rude and stare for long.

And then the sweatpants, while loose in the legs, fit his waist and hips and…

“You okay?” Harry was still standing in the doorway with his backpack draped over his arm waiting to be invited in.

“Yeah, sorry. Not used to seeing you dressed down like this. Almost unrecognizable.”

Harry let out a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling as Y/n stepped aside to let him in, “Would you like to see my ID? Swear I’m the Harry Styles, the guy you invited over for chips, popcorn, and truth or dare. I’ve even got your invite somewhere in my bag…”

She breathed a laugh through her nose and watched him enter into her space, “Movies too. Oh, and I also ordered cheeseburgers. Remembered that you mentioned that.”

He seemed quite pleased with the burgers as she handed him the bag. She got those small ones, five to an order, “Thanks. Fries too, huh?” He reached into the bag and pulled out three crinkle-cut french fries then stuffed them into his mouth.

“So should we settle in and pick out a movie?” She gestured toward her couch.

Harry had seen the pull-out couch with heaps of pillows and blankets when he walked in. He knew that that would be where they’d be spending most of the evening. It was the glaring thing about the whole slumber party slash sleepover. That they’d be probably sleeping next to one another. As two young, healthy, attractive adults.

“Sure,” he nodded and waited for her to pick which side she was going to take before climbing in next to her, the thin mattress and metal frame giving way gently under his weight before he leaned back against a mountain of pillows, bag of burgers safe in his hands.

Y/n had a few video streaming services at the ready and they settled on a cheesy comedy from the late 90s before Y/n reached over to her coffee table and then lined up all the snacks between them.

They chatted a little, having both seen the movie already. Topics were anything from what their plans were for the rest of the weekend to what they’d eaten for lunch at work. And it was only a little awkward when they both reached into the bowl of M&M’s at the same time, fingers brushing together.

Harry moved his hand away, “Sorry. You go…”

Y/n grinned at him, scooping a handful of candy into her palm, and then sat up, adjusting her seating as she crossed her legs together, “Wanna do truth or dare? Pretend like we’re 15 again having a sleepover. Really get into the whole slumber party vibe, ya know?”

Harry dug out a few M&M’s and let out a chesty laugh, “If I’m 15 again we’re in big trouble.”

Y/n snorted a laugh, “Why? What do you mean?”

He shook his head, a wide grin on his face with deep set dimples carved into each cheek as he turned his head to look at her, “If this were happening when I was 15 I’d already be in the bathroom hyperventilating and probably trying to will away a boner after our hands touched in the M&M’s bowl.”

Y/n guffawed and threw her head back, nearly choking on her bite of chocolatey candies as Harry laughed with her. Honestly, it was the best icebreaker she could have asked for. Things had been kind of clunky between them up until that moment as they were still trying to navigate how to act around one another. And she knew he was teasing but the good belly laugh that she got from Harry’s story was exactly what they needed.

“Okay fine. We’ll just keep going about it as adults then. No fifteen-year-olds here tonight,” Y/n chuckled as she shoveled a few kernels of popcorn into her mouth.

Y/n kept her eyes on him as she chewed her mouthful, “So truth or dare?”

Harry cocked his head at her, “So the mood is right then? For truth or dare?”

Y/n’s brows furrowed, “The mood?”

“Yeah. You said it over drinks. Remember when you were telling me what the most important components are to a sleepover and you said you liked truth or dare if the mood was right.”

Nodding slowly, she thought back to what she’d said, “Yeah. I guess I did say that. And I mean… I think the mood’s right for a little truth or dare. Movie’s almost over and you just pretty much kicked us off with that truth.” A breathy laugh was pushed from her mouth.

She could tell Harry was mulling on another question as he bit the inside of his cheek, head tilting in agreement, “So that means it’s your turn. Truth or dare?”

Biting her lip as she pondered, she pressed her back into the soft pillows behind her, “Truth.”

Harry shifted to his side, long legs stretching the length of the mattress as he propped his head up in his hand, a pillow under his arm, “Have you ever kissed a co-worker before?”

Scoffing Y/n moved to her side, mimicking Harry’s position on her side, “No,” she grinned. It was true. She’d never once done anything with any of her coworkers. Having Harry over at her house was the closest she’d ever gotten to doing anything like that. “Now you. Truth or dare?”

His green eyes slid over her features, “Truth.”

She laughed to herself, trying to think of something funny, “How many stuffed animals do you own?”

Licking his lips he nodded, “Think maybe two? Gifts from my niece… Truth or dare?”

“Mmm… dare,” she giggled.

Harry lifted a brow, “Ahhh… feeling bold yeah? Okay… hmm…” He pursed his lips to the side as he considered the dare. “Read to me the last text you sent to anyone. And you have to show me to prove it was the last one. And it can’t be any texts you and me, cause that’s not fair.”

Y/n blinked. She wasn’t exactly sure what her last text was besides Harry. But she was slightly worried because if it was what she was thinking… lifting up her message app she scrolled down to the text thread below Harry’s and it was a text with her sister. Which was what she had been worried about. She gulped, hoping that the things she said about her “coworker” who was coming to stay with her weren’t the last things she and her sister texted about.

Puffing out a breath she covered up all the previous texts to show Harry the last text from her sister – God knows you need it. Sending you good vibes, sis ;)

Harry squinted as he looked at the message and pointed, “That’s to you. The dare was to show me the last text you sent to someone. Let’s see it…”

Feeling her neck heat up she angled the phone away from him and read what she’d sent her sister. And there was no mention of Harry but if he were even halfway decent at picking up clues he might be able to figure out what was being discussed prior.

She shook her head and looked up at him. She couldn’t believe she was about to show him what was on her screen. But a dare was a dare. What was the worst that could happen?

lol I doubt anything will happen but I wouldn’t turn him down. Got condoms just in case 😜 send all your good vibes my way

Harry’s brows squished together as he looked at the text and back to Y/n and then down again at the words on her screen. She saw his throat bob and she knew the look on his face. He fucking knew what that was. He had to know.

She had to look away. She pulled the phone down and killed the screen. The awkwardness between them thick and uncomfortable as she peeked back at him. The edge of his mouth was pulled upward in a smirk, “That’s to your sister?”

Nodding she blew out an exasperated breath, “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

Harry grinned as he positioned his knee closer to Y/n, his eyes still on hers, “Dare.”

Swallowing her embarrassment down the best she could she decided to ask him the same, “Now show me the last text you sent anyone besides me.”

Harry’s smartass grin told her all she needed to know. That his last text probably wasn’t nearly as risqué as hers.

And it wasn’t. Not even close.

You can have two pounds for free. I’ve got so many growing I can’t keep up. As long as you come to pick them up on Monday they’re yours.

“I have a bunch of zucchini growing in my garden,” Harry pulled the phone away and laid it down next to his hip. “Got a neighbor who wants some.”

Of course, his last text to anyone was about zucchini. Jesus, she was so far out of her depth.

He was still wearing that shit-eating grin as he said, “Truth or dare, Y/n?”

And the way he said her name, all slow and sexy-like had her insides heating up. Well, maybe she made up the sexy part but he was definitely teasing her. She could just feel it.

“Truth.”

She was sure she’d regret that. Truth or dare. It didn’t matter. She was still reeling from showing him her texts.

“Was that text about me?” Shit-eating grin in place as he asked. Fucker.

Y/n’s eyes grew wide dropping her mouth open in surprise. Of course, he was going to ask that. Of course!

“Oh come on, Harry…” she pleaded.

He lifted his brows and awarded her a larger grin with those cute indents scoring into his cheeks, “Them’s the rules, baby. You chose truth and now you have to be honest.”

Clearing her throat she sat up to her bottom and leaned forward so she didn’t have to look at him as she put her head in her hands and laughed in disbelief, “Jesus. Seriously?”

“Yep. Spill. Let’s hear it.”

“Okay. Fine. Yes. It was about you.”

Keeping her eyes on her lap she waited for a smug remark. Some kind of teasing reply but it was quiet. Slowly she turned to look back at him and he was still lying on his side, head in his palm as he watched her, his eyes fixed to hers.

She shrugged, “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

Harry flattened his lips and squinted at her before cocking his head, “Hold on… Really? That was about me?”

Sighing she rolled her eyes, “Yes. Sorry. I was… it was just funny… it was me joking around with my sister is all.”

He blinked and looked down at the space between them as he nodded, “Okay. I see. So you didn’t actually mean it?”

“Well… I guess… We were joking. Obviously, nothing has to happen. I would never expect that. I…” she breathed out exasperated.

“Obviously nothing has to happen. Did you want it to happen?” His pupils were pinned to hers again.

Opening her mouth she stopped herself for a moment. She knew her answer was yes but she didn’t want to come off like a creep. She hadn’t expected it and assumed it wouldn’t. But the truth remained; she hoped it would happen.

Deflating her posture she laid back to her side to face Harry, tucking a pillow into her chest, “The truth is that I think you’re attractive and I haven’t been with anyone in kind of a long time and… she knows that, my sister. So we were just… it was lighthearted but yeah I mean… without any expectations, cause I would never… I hope you know that. But I did think it would be nice.”

“Nice. Yeah. I agree. It would be nice. And just so you know,” he swung his head to look over his shoulder before looking back at her, “I brought condoms as well. You know… just in case.”

She was a bit stunned at that. Was he…

“Dare me to kiss you,” he grinned, irises dropping to her lips for a second before looking back into her eyes.

She laughed, “That’s not how the game works. The rules are you can’t–”

“Fuck the rules. Dare me to kiss you.”

Shaking her head with a wide smile stretched across her face she felt like her skin was pricking as her heartbeat picked up. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

Looking back into his eyes she inhaled deeply, “Fine. I dare you to kiss me.”

Harry’s smirk was unreal. The way he dragged his gaze over her face and down to her mouth was almost lewd, “Didn’t need to play truth or dare to get me to kiss you, Y/n,” he scooted in, grabbing the pillow she had tucked into her chest and tossing it away before he drew a hand up to her face, “You just needed to ask.”

She held her breath as he closed in slowly until it was as if all the tension in the room had popped and fizzled when his lips met hers.

He was so soft and gentle. Lips winding easily, carefully at first. And then she parted her lips more, kissing him back and letting her mouth press into his bottom lip before their tongues were meshed.

She moved her knee out to stabilize herself and knocked over the bowl of popcorn between them. Laughing into his mouth she gasped as she parted from him but he only reached for her again, placing his palm at the back of her head to pull her mouth back against his with a grunt from his chest as he pushed the bowl away and drove his arm underneath her side to keep her from getting too far.

Harry was softly moaning as his tongue worked its way into her mouth gently. It was clear he’d wanted to kiss her. That he liked it. And that notion made her head spin combined with the feel of his thumb traveling over her jaw. There was not going to be any stopping the momentum that had begun.

Well, except for when the bowl of M&M’s poured out against her leg. She had to push at him. As much as she would have loved to have kept making out, she would not have been able to enjoy melted chocolate on her legs or the bedsheets tucked around the mattress (think of the scrubbing she’d need to do!).

“Sorry,” she panted and looked down at the smashed pieces of popcorn and the chocolate candies strewn between them, “I’ve gotta pick this up. Our body heat will melt all these and it’s gonna be a big mess.”

Harry grinned, “Why don’t we just move this party to your bed for a little bit? Clean up later? The M&M’s won’t melt if we’re not laying on them.”

She laughed, already feeling overwhelmed and overheated from the kiss and now he was suggesting taking it to her bed? This was really happening, wasn’t it? She nodded and they both moved off the sofa sleeper to their feet, Harry following behind Y/n as she led him to her bedroom.

She already had her bedside lamp on. Bed made perfectly, everything tucked in and neat.

She turned to look at him and he stepped against her, palm splaying at her low back, “I dare you to get onto your bed and take your clothes off.”

A small laugh burst from her chest, “Oh, so now we’re just doing dares?”

He nodded, “Making up our own rules for this game. S’more fun this way.”

Letting go of her he watched as she stepped backward toward her bed and began to unbutton her nightshirt until it was shed from her body before she pushed her shorts down her legs. She was left in a pretty white bralette (something soft for bedtime) that stretched around her breasts and a pair of thin cotton panties that matched. She kneed up onto her bed and let her feet dangle off the edge and pointed, “Now I dare you to take off your clothes.”

He peeled his white t-shirt off, his hair mussing in the process. She watched with her lips parted at the gorgeous man stripping before her. Not only was he built exactly like what she dreamed of (tattoos, beefy, muscular, a touch soft, very masculine) but the boner tenting his sweats was hard not to home in on.

Harry stuck his fingers into the waistband and looked up at her, “M’not wearing any underwear, so be warned…”

She swallowed as the material lowered, belly button, happy trail, a bit of dark hair and then he pulled the stretchy waistband away from his body so his cock could push free and she was already clenching at just the sight as he removed his sweatpants, cock full and heavy between his strong thighs.

Jesus Christ.

Harry stepped forward, nudging himself between her knees and she leaned back to look up at him, “I dare you to take off the rest of this. Since I’m completely naked feels only fair.”

She bit her lip and looked down at his girthy dick. He was clearly not shy of his body, standing there like that, cock right in front of her. But why should he be shy when he looked like that?

Scooting back further into the bed she got up to her knees and pulled the bralette off first, feeling the heat of his gaze on her tits as she then slid her panties down her thighs. She wasn’t nearly as confident as Harry was as she quickly pulled at her top blanket and covered herself with a small laugh.

Harry stepped forward, one knee on the mattress before climbing in next to her, nosing at her cheek softly before his lips were connected to hers again. And she melted into him just like before. His mouth was magic or something because before she realized it, he’d pulled the blankets off her body and he had a big palm sliding up her thigh and over her hip, “Don’t cover up. So pretty. Knew you would be.”

She pushed her fingers into his thick wavey hair and felt her side hit the mattress as Harry pulled at her again, mouth still smeared against hers. He grabbed at her thigh, hitching it over his hip as he tucked in closer and it was warm and she could feel it. Feel him against her hip.

His giant hand smoothed against her bottom and up her spine until he was wrapping his long fingers around the back of her neck. Y/n nudged in closer, driving her hips forward until she was practically straddling him. So Harry took that as his cue to move to his back, taking her hips in his hands so she’d follow with him.

It had caught her off guard, the sudden change in position but her lips never stopped moving with his. Their kisses were wet and she could smell their saliva, and a touch of onion even from the burgers he’d eaten.

He guided her hips down, his thick cock hot under her thigh until she felt her pussy drag against warm skin at the base of his dick. A small gasp escaped her mouth as he pulled her up, letting her pussy glide up his length, “So wet already, Y/n…”

She was. It was embarrassing. Every inch of his shaft her pussy dragged against, coated him, wetted his skin. He kept pushing and pulling at her hips, using her slippery pussy like a soft wet toy he could run up and down his length.

Then she felt his fingers move around to her backside, digits sliding against her pussy as he licked into her mouth.

Gently she rolled against him and when she moved herself further down he pushed a fingertip inside, “Go on. Fuck yourself on my finger a little bit,” he whispered against her mouth.

He was filthy. She had no idea. He’d always been so sweet at work. So polite and respectful. But here he was reaching around her ass to get a finger inside of her cunt as she rubbed her pussy over his cock.

She panted into his mouth as she slid down around his finger, her clit smushed into his dick, slippery as she rolled up and down. But then he began to assist as he added another finger and began to fuck into her pussy, letting his digits curve into her the best he could from his angle. Slushy wet, she stopped moving her hips and parted from the kiss as she looked down at him. She could tell she was gushing all over his palm and probably his dick as she moaned.

“S’that feel good. You’re gettin’ my fingers all wet like it feels good.”

Nodding she gasped, “Yeah. Feels so good…”

Harry rutted up against her, his cock still pressed into her clit, and she panted, eyes still searing into his. She didn’t want to look away. She almost couldn’t believe he was in her bed fingering her like that.

“Your turn to dare me to do something. What do you want, Y/n?”

She moaned and closed her eyes. She was certain of what she wanted as she listened to the way his fingers gushed with each plunge into her.

“Fuck… dare you to… put on a condom.”

She popped her eyes open to peer down at him as he slid his fingers out of her, wiping her arousal on her ass, “They right here?” He moved his hand toward her bedside table, a knuckle tapping at the wood.

Climbing off of him she opened the drawer, “Yeah, a whole box. Hold on…”

Reaching over to pull out the condoms she felt Harry’s hands on her hips as he moved to sit up, then his lips were on her back, dotting warm kisses to her shoulder blades as she finally plucked a condom from the fresh box.

She watched him put the condom on and as expected, it didn’t cover his entire length. He was kind of a big guy. Well, maybe there was no kind of about it. Before today she had no idea he was packing like that. Though he always did come off as very confident and sure of himself.

She bit her lip as she watched him toss the wrapper away and then he kneed up to her, arm sliding to her back and carefully lowering her to the bed before spreading her legs apart as he fit himself there, sturdy thighs pushing against her soft ones.

“Gonna tell your sister her good vibes worked?” He smirked down at her, hands scouring her hips and tummy and then kneading softly at her tits.

Y/n laughed and reached a hand down to his knee before he pulled at her, making her thighs drape over his as he inched in closer.

“Hmm?” He was awfully teasing, she thought, grinning at her waiting for an answer.

“Probably,” she spit out in a laugh.  

Harry gripped at her thighs, lifting her a bit more to fit her bum over his bent knees and she wanted to scream in embarrassment when she realized he was inspecting her sodden vulva. She’d gotten herself all tidied up for him, should anything like this happen, so at least she had that going for her.

He smoothed his thumb through her pussylips, spreading them apart, and softly blew out a breath, “That is very pretty. Think we get him in there?”

She rolled her eyes as she watched him wrap his palm around his base and lay his fat cock over her mons, the condomed-tip reaching to her belly button, maybe further past, “Well, it’s made for it, so I’m pretty sure–”

“What… your pussy’s made to fit around my cock?” A cocky dimpled smirk gave way to a laugh.

“You know what I meant. It’s meant to… like…” she breathed out a laugh.

“Oh, I know… just fucking with you, Y/n.”

He gazed at her as he reared back, painting his cockhead through her labia, up and down, a soft bump into her clit before he repeated, spreading her soft lips apart as he watched the way his crown smeared her arousal between her creases.

When she moaned and wiggled her hips he pointed himself right at her little muscle, nudging softly forward, opening it up for himself. And she felt that first push, the way his tip fit into her, spreading apart and then stretching to accommodate his circumference.

“Oh god…” she breathed as he slipped in halfway and then pulled back.

“Almost there,” he panted as he kept his eyes on where they were connected, pushing and pulling back until she was swallowing him whole, his cock enveloped in her soft, warm pussy.

When he’d buried in whole, he moaned and watched her face twist up in ecstasy. Her lips were dropped open and her neck stretched long as she grasped onto the forearm of the hand he had gripping her waist.

Slowly he began to thrust, viscous liquid seeping from her pussy and sticking to his shaft. It was filthy. She was so wet that every time he bottomed out there was a splat and a plap sounding between them.

She let out a deep moan and her lips curled up, humid breath escaping her mouth as she felt him driving into her guts. He was taking it easy. Languidly fucking into her with wet claps every time he plunged in.

When her cunt was taking him easier and she was dripping down to her ass he moved in a little harder, faster. Angling himself over her, a palm down on the mattress so he could work into her with more gusto.

“Ah! Harry…” she squeaked at the stronger thrusts and clung onto his lats. He was panting, lips parted and pink, a curl falling over his forehead as he plowed into her splooshing pussy.

“Fuck you’re wet. Pussy is gushing, Y/n…”

Her brows pushed together as she gasped, her body knocked upward every time his hips met hers making her tits bounce. Harry didn’t know where to keep his focus. He loved watching his cock disappear into her hole but he kind of liked being right over her so he could see her face crinkle up every time he bottomed out and then her pretty breasts sway up and down. Or maybe he’d like to fuck her from behind, watch her ass jiggle as he pounded into her.

“Mmm… fuck that’s big!”

Harry groaned, “Yeah? Sure know how to sweet talk a man don’t you, pretty? S’hurt?”

She watched his face, a lusty grin, droopy eyelids as he continued muscling his way in deep.

She hissed when he bucked in, as if he was showing off just how deep he could push in and she coughed out, “Mmm… a little!”

Harry was going to lose his mind with her if she kept squeaking out moans and splatting around his cock like she was but he would be a gentleman and pull back a touch. Slowing down a little he sat up and moved his hand between them, smushing his thumb into her clit, which was so sticky wet even that swished and slid under the pad of his digit.

“Yessss…” she breathed out before murmuring on about how good it felt. “Oh fuck, that’s it. Oh god… please don’t stop… Harry, fuck, yes…”

The clit. The magical little nob that worked wonders as long as the man knew where to find it. Clearly, Harry knew right where it was. Knew how to circle over it, pressing against it just right. Knew how to fuck into her as well. Sliding his length through her vaginal walls, spreading her open, and grazing against her gummy little spot on the inside that had her buzzing and liquifying for him.

He watched her whine and squirm under him, loving how she was so into it. God that was an ego boost, “Like that, Y/n? Gonna come for me? Yeah?”

Her ears were already ringing when she lost herself, gripping around him and crying out as her orgasm washed through her tummy. Harry’s cock made her feel so full, so incredibly stuffed to the brim that it weighed her down and she could hardly move as he bulldozed into her, the pad of his thick thumb smushing fast circles over her throbbing nub.

Fucking her through it he gasped at how she spasmed and milked around him, her pussy trying to siphon his come right through his condom. But Harry wouldn’t come just yet. He had something to prove. Wanted to make a show of his prowess and give her something to tell her sister about.

So when she was finally calmed and her pussy wasn’t clamping around him like a vice grip he slid his hand under her head and kissed her gently, speaking low and soft against her lips, “Gonna have you flip over, okay? Just need a little more yeah?”

When he parted from the kiss she blinked up at him, fluttering lashes and out of breath, “You didn’t come?”

He shook his head, pulling himself out, gently before he placed his hands on her hips, “Not yet. I will soon, though. M’right on the edge. Won’t take me long.”

She rolled to her side as he lifted her hips and helped her get to her tummy. She felt his hands on her ass, squeezing and rubbing each meaty globe in his big palms. Then he was straddling her thighs as he spread her gently and she felt him push his thick tip back into her pussy, sharp and hot. It was tighter, felt a lot fuller like that as he began driving in deep and then pulling out to his tip, before plowing back into the hilt.

His moans grew louder and, even he could admit, sounded quite whiny, pathetic. He was shaking as he watched his dick spread her in half, her soft ass jiggling as he smacked into her, skin patting, his cock leaking precum steadily into his condom.

He hissed when it felt too good. His balls squeezing and his fat dick throbbing inside of her. He thrusted forward, landing a palm down next to her shoulder, his chest pressed into her back as he rutted himself in, tucking his cock through her insides and puffed out a hot groan into her ear, “Fuck you feel good. Gonna make me come, baby…”

She moaned and nodded, “Come for me, Harry…”

He might have held out for another thirty seconds, possibly a minute longer but her breathy words, all sultry and pleading had him pumping into his condom in an instant. He gargled on a moan and squeezed his eyes closed as he buried in and stilled his hips, ass flexing so he could push in further if it were possible.

Y/n felt him crushing her back as he collapsed over her, panted breaths in her ear, cock still throbbing in the aftermath of his orgasm.

She didn’t mind it. Liked his weight on her like that. Enjoyed the way he seemed just as fucked out as she was. She could even feel his heart pounding in his chest against her back.

With a moan, she turned her head and nuzzled her face into her blanket with her eyes closed. She’d fall asleep that way if he couldn’t get up. It was quite warm and comforting. Like a weighted blanket draped over her body. And maybe she did doze off for a bit because when she opened her eyes she felt him moving off of her before he crashed down next to her, the springs in her mattress bouncing under him.

Pushing herself to lie on her side she ran a hand over his chest and he turned to look at her, a dopey smile on his flushed face, “So this is what happens at slumber parties, huh? I’ve really missed out all these years.”

She giggled and nodded into her pillow, “Yep. They’re just like big orgies really. Normally there are more than just two people. It’s how I lost my virginity.”

Harry sputtered a laugh, “Really?”

Y/n couldn’t help but to cackle loudly and roll to her back, the biggest grin on her face, “No, silly. I was teasing.”

He slid a hand over her tummy, “So this isn’t what happens at slumber parties, then?” She could hear the cheeky smile in his voice.

She turned her head to look at him, “Well, not usually. But I think we made our own rules for this one today.”

“Yeah? Well, I have to give it to you. You throw a hell of a party. I’m certain this is gonna go down as the best sleepover in history.”

. . .

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[stylesispunk]

"Blind Faith" | part i

Priest!Joel Miller x nightclub dancer!reader

masterlist | next chapter

summary: Running away from your home, you found a small town to stay. Once there, you met people and the priest, Joel.

wc: 5,2 k

warnings: age gap (Joel is in his late 40s, reader in her late 20s), religious conflict, a crisis of faith, temptation, forbidden attraction, forbidden romance, eventual smut, social expectations, nightlife themes, the contrast between joel's and your world, protests, mentions of exile, mention of politics. For clarification, reader is Latina on this one.

a/n: Hello. I wanted this story to be something beyond a forbidden romance between two people, after reading books and watching things I wanted to recall that reader's background comes from her being an activist. I want to approach all the topics with all due respect and I hope you do too, nevertheless, those are not going to be the main center of the story.

Happy reading and please tell me what are your thoughts about this one.

You had built a life most people only dreamed of. A life filled with passion, purpose, and the kind of joy that comes from doing what you love. You were surrounded by friends who understood you, a family you cherished with every fiber of your being, and a career that made waking up every morning feel like stepping into a dream.

You had studied dance at university, dedicating years to perfecting your craft until movement became your language, your art, your very identity. But you didn’t see yourself just as an artist, you were educated. You had spent your life asking questions, seeking answers, and standing for what was right. Politics fascinated you, not as a distant game played by men in suits, but as something alive, something that shaped the world around you. You were drawn to justice, to fairness, to the fight for those whose voices were drowned out by oppression.

Protests became as much a part of your life as well as performances. You had stood in the streets, chanting until your voice was hoarse, raising signs, raising awareness, raising hell when it was necessary. You believed in change, in the power of people united. But belief alone was never enough to stop what came next.

The illusion of safety shattered the moment power fell into the wrong hands. The men who took control of your country did not tolerate opposition. They did not welcome free thought or voices that questioned their authority. People like you, the educated, the artists, the teachers, all who had seek justice, were dangerous but because you couldn’t be controlled. Because you saw through their lies.

You remember the night your world collapsed. The hurried whispers in the dark. The fear in your mother’s eyes. The way your brother’s hands shook as he cut your hair, disguising you in a desperate attempt to buy you time.  

He drove you to the airport as your heart pounded, then, you boarded that plane, leaving behind everything you had ever known. Your home. Your family. The life you had built.

And that is why you ended up here, in a bus driving to a foreign city located in California. The bus rattled as it rolled into town, the low hum of the engine filling the silence of the nearly empty cabin. You sat near the window, watching the Californian sun stretch across the dry fields, golden and endless, nothing like the dense, humid air of home.

 Home.

The word sat heavy in your chest, a place you could no longer name without feeling the weight of exile pressing against your ribs.

This town was small, quieter than you expected, but that was good. You needed a quiet, a place to disappear, to become no one, to not be recognized. You stepped off the bus with only a battered leather suitcase and a name written on a slip of paper.

The paradise, a nightclub where a friend of a friend had said you might find work.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, though the air was warm. You must have learned to move carefully, to keep your eyes down, to not be recognized. But you couldn't help glancing up at the church as you stepped off the bus.  

That’s when you saw him.

He was standing on the steps, speaking to a woman holding a little baby in her arms. There was, a priest, dressed in black, with tired eyes and a kindness in the way he bent his head to listen. He looked up, meeting your gaze for the first, just for a fleeting second. Then, his gaze left your eyes, leaving you with a weird feeling, warmth rising up to your cheeks.

You pulled the slip of paper from your pocket, staring at the name scrawled in fading ink staring at the name scrawled in fading ink. The paradise.  

When you lifted your gaze again, the priest wasn't there anymore.

You sighed and adjusted the trap of your suitcase over your shoulder, feeling anxious creeping upon your skin as you try to picture your life in a foreign place.

You looked towards the church in the front of the street, where the priest had stood minutes before, perhaps trying to look and answer to your questions. You weren't a religious person, but you did believe in calls, and you felt the pulling thread forcing you to walk towards the church, as if something were calling you, perhaps someone.

Your feet found their way to the old church at the edge of town, its stone walls worn and cracked from years of standing against the wind. It loomed tall and hollow, the kind of place that had seen more sorrow than joy. You hesitated at the entrance, your heart beating faster than you liked.

Why am I even here? you thought. But the pull wouldn’t let you turn away.

You stepped inside.

The stained glass cast soft, fractured colors onto the worn wooden pews, painting the empty space in hues of crimson, gold, and deep blue. The scent of burning wax and old books filled your senses, grounding you in a place that felt both foreign and strangely familiar.

Your footsteps echoed as you moved deeper inside, the vast silence of the church swallowing every sound. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, an answer, a sign, something to tell you that coming here wasn’t a mistake.

The priest where nowhere to be found, so you took seat in one of the wooden benches, perhaps waiting, perhaps resting.

You got yourself comfortable, the sleep catching upon you. Your body felt heavy, exhaustion creeping into your bones the moment you allowed yourself to rest. The weight of the suitcase by your side, the long journey that had brought you here, it all pressed down on you at once. The church, with its quiet stillness, felt like the safest place you’d been in weeks.

That was where Joel Miller found you.

On a quiet evening when the chapel was empty, save for the flickering candlelight and the faint scent of incense clinging to the air. You were curled up on one of the wooden pews, arms folded beneath your head, chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

He cleared his throat, but you didn’t stir. He hesitated before reaching out, tapping your shoulder. “Miss?” His voice came softer than he expected. “You can’t sleep here.”

"Father, do you always wake up strangers like this?"

Your voice was thick with sleep, eyes blinking against the dim glow of the chapel’s candlelight. The air smelled of old wood, wax, and something faintly metallic, like rain on stone. You looked young like this, your face soft, but Joel knew better. You shouldn't be older than thirty.

"You can’t sleep here," he repeated.

You smirked, rubbing your eyes. "Didn’t know God kicked people out."

Joel exhaled sharply. The world outside was changing, rock ‘n’ roll, free love, protests, women in miniskirts. But in this town, in this chapel, things were supposed to stay the same.

This town hadn’t met those changes.

Joel stood over you, stiff-backed, his fingers still hovering near your shoulder from where he’d tapped you awake. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your legs stretched across the pew, the way your blouse, too low-cut for a place like this, shifted as you moved, leaving no place to imagination.

Joel exhaled sharply. Lord, give me patience.

"This isn’t a shelter," he said. "If you need a place—"

"I'm not homeless" Your tone was firm and final, as if you were done, but there was something else in your voice too, something he couldn’t quite place, but it hinted sadness. "I just got into town," you admitted after a beat, glancing toward the stained-glass windows, dark now with the night. "Didn’t know where else to go. At least not tonight."

Joel studied you, his chest tightening."Are you in trouble?"

A small, humorless laugh left you. "Depends on what you call trouble."

Silence filled the chapel, thick and unmoving. The rain had stopped, leaving only the distant hum of the highway beyond the hills.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said finally. But his voice had lost its authority, had softened just enough that he felt the weight of it settle in his own bones.

“Why?” You asked

Joel exhaled slowly, shifting on his feet. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way his jaw tensed, something he was holding back.

"You can’t stay here," he said again, voice firm but not unkind.

You sat up properly this time, stretching your legs out in front of you, your boots scraping against the floor. His eyes flicked to them, brief, barely noticeable, you caught it, but you chose not to say anything.

"Didn’t mean to cause a problem," you said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"You’re not a problem," he said, then hesitated. "But this isn’t a place for…"

You arched a brow. “For what? For a woman like me?”

For someone wearing boots and a blouse that clung a little too tight, a skirt that rode too high when you stretched out.

He didn’t utter that the sentence. Instead, he sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

"Where you planning on staying tonight?" he asked.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Haven’t figured that part out yet."

Joel frowned. "You got family here?"

"No father, I don’t."

"Friends?"

"No."

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. So, you’re alone.

You weren’t sure if that unsettled him or if it was something else.

He shifted again, exhaling through his nose like he was about to say something he’d regret.

"There’s a place near the church," he finally said. "A small guesthouse. Church used to use it for traveling pastors, but it’s empty now. You can stay there tonight."

You studied him. "Why?"

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean, why?"

"I mean, why help me? You don’t know me."

Joel was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "That doesn’t mean I should turn you away."

You held his gaze, searching for something in it—hesitation, reluctance. But there was only conviction.

And yet you could feel something else there, buried beneath all that righteousness behind his clothes.

Something you hadn’t named yet.

"Alright, Father," you said finally, standing up. "Lead the way."

He hesitated, just for a second. Then, he turned, stepping toward the chapel doors, and you followed.

Back at his house behind the church, Joel lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The wooden beams above cast long shadows in the dim glow of the lamp beside his bed. He should’ve been sleeping, his body was tired enough for I, but his mind refused to settle. It was noisier than ever.

His thoughts kept drifting back to something else, to you. To the way you’d looked at him when you stood up from that pew, like you already knew he wasn’t as correct as he pretended to be.

To your voice, husky with sleep, the way you stretched without a care in the world. To your legs.

Joel shut his eyes. Lord, give me strength.

It had been a passing glance, barely a flicker of a thought, but now it gnawed at him.

He had seen a lot of things in his years as a priest. A lot of people in need, a lot of wandering souls. But he wasn’t blind. He could recognize beauty when it was right in front of him. And tonight, for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t just his faith speaking.

It was something else. It felt dangerous.

He turned onto his side, sighing through his nose. This was just another test. He’d seen men struggle with temptation, had guided them through it. This was no different.

You were just a woman in need. That’s all. That’s all.

And yet, sleep never came easy that night.

The early sun cast long golden beams through the chapel windows as Joel made his way to the guesthouse. He carried a small plate of toast and eggs, as a gesture of hospitality. He thought about last night, on how he hadn’t offered food or a cup of tea.

He wanted to show kindness, but the second he stepped inside, he knew.

The bed was made, the blanket neatly folded. No sign of anyone.

And on the small wooden table by the window, a note.

Joel set the plate down and picked it up, his fingers tightening around the paper.

"Thank you for your help, Father."

That was it. No name, no explanation. Just a quiet departure, as if you’d never been there at all.

Joel exhaled slowly, staring at the empty room.

Something settled deep in his chest, something that felt too much like disappointment.

He was afraid of the fleeting feelings coming to him. Because last night, he’d told himself you were just passing through. But now, standing here, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

You were strong and brave enough this day. When you found yourself in the front of the paradise, the neon light flickered weakly in the daylight, music pulsed behind the doors, muffled but steady, a heartbeat beneath the night.

You inhale deeply, pushing the door behind.

The club smelled of sweat, perfume, and cigarette smoke. It wasn’t alive as you expected to be during the day, but there were men in tight pants, women in flowing skirts, people who existed somewhere in between, all shining under the low, colored lights of the place.

This wasn’t the kind of stage you were used to. But it was something.

Behind the bar, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard was pouring whiskey into a glass, his gold rings catching the light. He spotted you instantly, eyes narrowing slightly before softening.

“You must be the new girl,” he said, voice thick with an accent she couldn’t place.

You hesitated for a moment, but then you nodded.

The man wiped his hands on a towel, then leaned over the counter, studying you.

“You dance?” He asked.

You lifted your chin. “Yes.”

He smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

A warm hand touched your back.

Your turned to find a woman at your side, tall, dark-skinned, with a shimmering dress that clung to her curves. Her lipstick was deep red, her eyes lined in black.

“Come on, cariño,” the woman purred. “Let’s get you ready.”

You swallowed, but you followed her backstage.

Backstage was a blur of colors, perfume, and laughter. The other dancers moved around you effortlessly, adjusting their costumes, fixing their makeup, teasing each other in rapid-fire whispers. You stood still, taking it all in. People here were wild, free and beautiful, and you smiled at that.

The woman who had led you back, Carmen, handed you a black slip dress. It was simple, barely more than a tiny thing of fabric, with thin straps that draped off your shoulders.

“You need shoes?” Carmen asked, watching as you slipped it over your head.

You shook your head “I’ll dance barefoot.”

Carmen raised a perfectly sculpted brow but didn’t argue. “Suit yourself.”

The music outside shifted, growing louder. Your stomach tightened.

You had danced for crowds a thousand times before, but never like this. This wasn’t a stage with velvet curtains, with polished floors and orchestrated movements. This was something raw and new for you, something meant to be felt rather than admired.

You exhaled slowly.

You’ve already lost everything. What’s left to be afraid of?

A hand touched your shoulder. She turned to find Carmen smiling. “You’re up next, estrella.”

The lights were dim when you stepped onto the small, elevated platform.

The club wasn’t packed, but there were enough people to make the air thick with murmurs and expectation. A few heads turned, eyes gliding over you as you took your place.

You closed your eyes.

The music started, a slow, sultry rhythm, deep bass vibrating through your bones.

And then you moved. At first, it was instinct. The slow bend of your knees, the gentle sway of your hips. You let the music guide you, feeling it the way you once had in the studio, back when you were still the dancer, before you became the fugitive.

Your arms lifted, fluid and controlled, your body following in careful, deliberate motions.

And then you forgot to be careful. You turned, arching into a spin, the hem of your dress fluttering around your thighs. You let your feet move the way they had been trained to—pointed toes, precise steps, every motion a whisper of the ballerina you once were.

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

Someone murmured, “Mierda… she can dance.”

You barely heard them. For the first time in months, you felt like yourself again. Not a girl running, not a girl hiding, but a girl who had been born to dance.

You let yourself go. By the time the music ended, a hush had fallen over the club.

And then—applause. You stood there, breathing hard, your skin glowing under the soft red lights.

When you stepped down from the platform, Carmen was waiting, grinning.

“Dios mío,” she said, shaking her head. “Where the hell did you come from?”

You just smiled. You didn’t have an answer for that. But for the first time since you had arrived, you felt like you had found a piece of home to stay in.

The night air was warmer as you made your way back to the church, the scent of warm pastries wrapped in cloth filling your hands. The applause from the club still echoed in your ears, the feeling of movement still lingering in your limbs. You felt light. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt less lonely.

You paused at the entrance, looking up at the towering stone structure, its stained glass barely illuminated by the sunlight. The contrast was almost laughable.

The dancer and the priest. A contradiction in itself.

With a breath, you stepped inside.

He was there, seated at one of the pews, his back turned to you. His posture was stiff, as if he’d been deep in thought, or perhaps in prayer.

“Father.”

He turned sharply at your voice, his dark eyes immediately landing on you. For a moment, he said nothing, just studying you as if trying to figure out why you had come back.

You held up the bundle in your hands. “I brought you something.”

His gaze flickered to the wrapped pastries before settling back on your face. Slowly, he stood, walking toward you with careful, deliberate steps. When he got close, the faint scent of smoke and candle wax clung to him.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered, but he still took them from you. His fingers brushed yours briefly, warm, rough, calloused. The hands of a man who had worked long before he had ever been a priest.

You shrugged. “It’s a thank-you. For helping me yesterday.”

He watched you for a beat before nodding. “Did you find a place to stay?”

“I did.”

He didn’t ask where. He just looked at you, waiting. Maybe he wanted to know. Maybe he already had an idea.

You weren’t going to tell him either.  Instead, you smiled. “Don’t eat them all at once, Father.”

Joel’s eyes flickered down, lingering for a second longer than they should have. You noticed.

It was brief, so brief you might have convinced yourself you imagined it. But you didn’t. His gaze had traced over the curve of your waist, the way the fabric of your blouse rested against your skin, the gentle swell of your collarbones. The flicker of something unreadable in his expression disappeared just as quickly as it had come.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Do you—” He hesitated. “Would you like to talk?”

You raised a brow. “Talk?”

He nodded, tilting his head toward one of the wooden pews. “If you want.”

A small part of you wanted to tease him, ask if priests usually invited strange women to talk in dimly lit churches. But you swallowed the thought.

Instead, you sighed, walking past him and settling onto the worn wooden bench. You crossed one leg over the other, tapping your fingers idly on the surface. Joel sat beside you, close, but not too close.

The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“Is this the part where I have to confess my sins?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

Joel exhaled through his nose, almost like a quiet laugh. “Only if you want to.”

You studied him for a moment. The way his hands rested on his lap; fingers curled slightly as if he wasn’t quite at ease. The tension in his shoulders, the quiet restraint in his posture.

You tilted your head. “What about you, Father?”

His gaze lifted to meet yours.

“What do you believe in?” you asked.

Joel didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, something shifting in his expression. He looked away, staring at the rows of empty pews, at the altar beyond. Instead, he let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming idly against his knee. Then, without looking at you, he asked, “Why’d you come here?”

You blinked at him. “Here? To the church?”

He nodded. “Last night”

You considered lying. It would be easier. But something about the way he was looking at the altar, like it held answers he wasn’t sure he wanted, made you tell the truth.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just… felt like I had to. Like, something just called me, you know?”

His gaze flicked to you then, studying, searching. “You’re not religious.” It wasn’t a question.

You smirked. “Is it that obvious?”

Joel didn’t return the smile. He just kept watching you, unreadable. “Then what are you looking for?”

That was a harder question. Peace? A sense of belonging? A place to rest? You weren’t sure.

You hesitated, then shrugged. “Something different. A fresh start.”

Joel hummed, thoughtful. He leaned back slightly, stretching his legs out in front of him. “And you think you’ll find that here?”

You sighed, tilting your head toward him. “What’s with the interrogation, Father? Trying to save my soul?”

This time, he did smile. Barely. Just a flicker of amusement in his expression. “I think your soul is doing just fine on its own.”

That shouldn’t have made your heart stutter the way it did.

Joel shifted, bracing his elbows on his knees. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “You got people looking for you?”

Your breath caught. There it was. The question you’d been dreading.

You glanced away, suddenly very interested in the cracks in the wooden pew beneath you. “No,” you said eventually. “No one’s looking.”

Joel didn’t press. He just nodded slowly, like he had believed you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The church was silent except for the occasional creak of wood settling, the distant sound of footsteps from somewhere outside.

Then Joel inhaled, shifting beside you. “You should be careful.”

You turned to him, frowning. “Why?”

His jaw tightened. He hesitated, then sighed. “This town—it’s small. People notice things.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “And what have they noticed about me?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to your hands resting in your lap, then back up to your face.

“Nothing,” he said finally. “Yet.”

The word lingered between you, heavier than the silence that followed.

“What about?” you asked, “What do you notice about me?”

Joel didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you, eyes unreadable, something working behind them, something you couldn’t quite place.

You held his gaze, waiting, heartbeat steady but slow.

Then, he exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “I noticed you don’t like talking about yourself.”

Your lips quirked. “Maybe I just don’t like talking to priests.”

That got the barest huff of amusement from him. “Could be.” His fingers tapped lightly against his knee before he added, “But I think it’s more than that.”

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

Joel nodded, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “I think you’ve been running from something”

That made your stomach tighten.

Your first instinct was to deny it, to smirk, roll your eyes, brush it off like he was just another man who thought he had you figured out. But Joel wasn’t just another man. And the way he was looking at you, like he could see past whatever mask you were wearing, made it harder to lie.

Your fingers curled slightly against your lap. “And what makes you think that?”

Joel leaned back slightly, stretching one arm along the pew. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “The way you don’t settle,” he said simply. “Not even when you’re sitting still.”

The words sent something sharp through your chest.

You swallowed, looking away, suddenly feeling too seen, too exposed. “Maybe I just don’t like these wooden benches.”

Joel hummed, like he wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t push, instead he smiled at you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The dim glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows across the empty church.

Then, finally, Joel shifted beside you. “Did you eat?”

The abrupt change caught you off guard. You blinked, glancing at him. “What?”

His expression was unreadable again, but his voice was casual when he repeated, “Did you eat?”

You frowned. “Why?”

Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Because if you haven’t, I got food in the back.”

You tilted your head, a small smirk playing at your lips. “Are you asking me if I want to eat these pastries with you, Father?”

Joel huffed, shaking his head as he glanced down at the bag of pastries still resting between you. “You brought them” he said gruffly. “Seems only fair.”

You pretended to consider it, tapping a finger against your knee. “Well, I supposed I must take you for a man who shares.”

He shot you a look, one that might’ve been stern if not for the flicker of something else in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or something deeper, something you weren’t ready to name.

“Don’t make me take it back,” he muttered.

You bit back a grin, shrugging as you reached for the bag. “Well, if you insist.”

Joel stood, nodding his head toward the back of the church. “Come on. I’m not going sit out here and eat in the dark like some kind of—” he gestured vaguely before shaking his head. “Just come on.”

You followed, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the stone floors. The air was warmer in the back rooms, less hollow than the empty church.

Joel pulled out a chair for you at a small wooden table, and you sat, watching as he grabbed a couple of plates and a knife.

“Tea?” he asked.

You arched a brow. “Didn’t take you for a tea drinker.”

Joel shot you another look. “Or coffee. Pick one.”

You hummed, pretending to consider. “Tea.”

He nodded, setting a teapot on the stove before sitting across from you. The candlelight flickered between you, soft and warm.

You broke off a piece of pastry, popping it into your mouth. “Not bad,” you admitted.

Joel took a bite himself, chewing slowly. Then, he glanced at you,

You weren’t looking at him, too focused on the pastry in your hands, the way the flaky crust crumbled against your fingers. But he was looking at you.

He hadn’t meant to, not like this, not for this long. But there was something about the way you sat there, elbows on the table, the candlelight casting soft golden hues over your skin. Something about the curve of your lips as you chewed thoughtfully, the way your lashes lowered when you focused.

You were different. A fresh breath in a town that had long gone stale, where faces blurred together, where days passed without change. But you—

You weren’t part of this place. Not yet. And maybe that was what drew him in.

His gaze flickered lower, just for a second. The delicate slope of your collarbones, the soft neckline of your blouse that dipped just enough to hint at what lay beneath. He swallowed, jaw tensing, and forced himself to look away, to focus on something else, the flickering candle, the steam rising from the kettle.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured, your voice pulling him back.

Joel cleared his throat. “Just thinking.”

You tilted your head, studying him now, those sharp eyes of yours peeling away layers he hadn’t realized were there. “About what?”

He could’ve lied. Could’ve told you something simple, something easy.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nothing important.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t push, just took another bite of pastry.

And Joel? Joel tried not to look at your lips when you did.

The teapot whistled, breaking the silence. Joel pushed back his chair, a little too fast, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. He muttered something under his breath, maybe a curse, maybe just an exhale—as he stood and turned toward the stove.

You watched him, chin resting in your hand, fingers tapping absently against your cheek.

He moved with quiet fast, pouring the hot water into two mismatched mugs, the steam curling up between you like an unspoken thought.

“Sugar?” he asked.

You hummed, pretending to think. “Do you have honey?”

Joel shot you a dry look but opened a small cupboard, rummaging until he found a half-used jar. He set it down in front of you, his fingers brushing the edge of your mug as he did.

You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, taking a slow sip.

Joel sat back down, quieter this time, his elbows resting on the worn wooden table.

You tilted your head. “So, do priests always offer tea and pastries to strangers passing by?”

A corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “No.”

You raised a brow. “Just me, then?”

Joel held your gaze, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his brown eyes. Then he looked away, took a slow sip of his own tea.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just you.”

You set your cup down gently, the porcelain clinking softly against the table. "Thanks for being so kind to me." you said, your voice low, more than just for the tea and pastries. It was for the quiet, for the refuge, for something you couldn't quite explain.

Joel didn’t respond right away, but you saw the faintest shift in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders easing just a little. His eyes flickered back to yours, and there was something different about the way he looked at you now, less guarded, almost as if he’d let a small part of himself slip into the space between you.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, then reached for the teapot, his fingers brushing the warm ceramic. "You don't have to thank me," he said quietly. "It's... it’s nothing."

But you both knew it wasn’t nothing. It never was.

Behind his intentions there was always kindness, but now something new flickered.

A temptation threatening his faith, like the world had set on fire the moment you glances met for the first time and he wanted the flames to catch him to be saved by you.

tags: if you want to be removed, you're free to tell me.

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[webbluvrsugar]

winters as Rafe’s trophy wife.

This time of the year is the toughest, Rafe is home late almost everyday for business, sometimes even stays at his office for longer than he should and even when he works from home, you rarely get to see him. Still, you keep yourself busy with his words ringing in your head — “‘s nothing personal baby, you know I still love you, we’ll go out when I can.” — so you wait for it, that day doesn’t really come soon and you both know that you’ve been moodier ever since. You blame it on the season, Rafe can see through that, he knows you just need a few nights to settle down and you’ll be fine.

So, when you’re hugging a pillow, tea cold and forgotten on the nightstand along with medicine you’ve taken, Rafe knocks on the door a few times, it’s weird, he hasn’t really done this in a while, it even feels foreign, normally he’ll just barge in and deal with whatever reaction you throw at him, now, it feels too crude for him to do so.

“Yes?” You ask, eyes peering up to look at him as you sniff and wipe away a tear.

“Can I — uh…” Rafe’s never been good at this kind of stuff. “Stay with you a bit?”

You nod, he finally steps in the room, notices the pills randomly falling flat across the room, the way you’re wearing some extra warm pyjamas. He slides in with you, sits up, it’s mainly awkward.

“So.. you’ve been sick, huh?” He takes a hold of your face with a hand, gently caresses your chin. “I’m sorry I haven’t noticed before, would’ve taken you to a doc’ or sum’”

You roll your eyes, let out a grumpy huff and try to turn your head away, it’s only when he forces it back to him that you melt.

“It’s fine…” you pout, make a whole scene, anything to keep him while he has a bit of free time.

He chuckles, presses his lips into a thin line before he answers you. “Real funny,” he jokes. “what do you want?”

You don’t answer, at least not bluntly, all you do is huff one more time before he raises a brow. “Oh? Alright, I know what you want — come on, bend over and get that ass up.”

So you do because suddenly, your shitty mood has been fixed with the promise of getting some dick, he watches in disbelief as you quickly get into position, accepting whatever he gives you.

“Funny how your mood depends on that pussy.”

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡Instant Family｡⋆.

Bucky Barnes x plus size reader

+ platonic Peter Parker 

Somehow, you and Bucky have found yourselves parents to a rowdy teenager without you ever having been pregnant

Warnings: reader and Bucky are pretty much Peter’s parents, little bit of horny at the beginning, fluff, domesticity, talks of family planning, adoption WC: 1.2k A/N: The Hotch x reader x Joel fic is being worked on but it’s taking longer than I thought so hopefully this will hold you over till then 💚 Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Soft lips pressed against your neck as two strong arms wound around your plump waist, pulling you back from the stove and into the hard body behind you. Your lead lolled to the side, unable to resist the tender loving of your boyfriend.

“James.” You protested as his hand began to wander.

“Doll.” He responded against your skin, pushing his hips into your ass, letting you feel exactly what he wanted.

“I’m cooking dinner.” 

“Yeah and I’m looking to have a little snack.” His cold metal hand skirted up your plush belly to cup one of your tits over the thin fabric of your bralette. His teeth sank into your pulse, quickly presenting a very compelling argument as to why you should abandon the stew you had already spent hours on and join him in the bedroom.

“You’ll spoil your appetite.” You rocked back, making Bucky hiss through his teeth as you pressed against the hardness between his legs. His grip on you tightened and just as you were about to cave, with his fingers skillfully strumming at your pert nipple, the sound of the front door slamming open tore you apart.

“You will not believe the day I had!” A series of several heavy thumps had Bucky groaning in frustration.

“How many times have I told that kid to take off his shoes when he comes in?” He grumbled as he readjusted himself and leaned against the counter across from you.

“Obviously not nearly enough times.” 

“Did you hear me? Crazy day!” Peter’s overgrown curls were the first thing you saw as he bounced into the living room, dropping his backpack onto the couch, despite the hook by the front door that was designated for him. Bucky raised an eyebrow at you but you just smiled and walked to the fridge. 

“What kind of crazy are we talking about here, bugs?” You handed the teenager a cold bottle of water which he immediately chugged, just like you knew he would.

“Thanks.” He gasped after he was done. “Every one of my classes had a pop quiz, which I aced by the way, and then there was a burglary at the sandwich shop and MJ actually smiled at me today! Not like a ‘I’m grinning at you so you leave me alone’ smile but a real, genuine ‘I think you’re funny and/or cute’ one!” 

“I’m happy for you, kid.” Bucky’s hand clapped his shoulder, giving it a paternal squeeze and making Peter’s smile grow even wider.

“What’s for dinner?” He rose to his tiptoes to try and get a look at the pot from his place on the far end of the counter. Even a month ago, he would’ve tentatively asked if he could stay for dinner with the largest puppy eyes you had ever seen to support his case, but now, he knew you could never say no to him.

“Beef stew and mashed potatoes, Bucky’s favourite.” You answered, uncovering the second pot on the stove that currently housed the un-mashed potatoes. Peter’s nose scrunched just for a second, but Bucky still caught it.

“And what’s wrong with beef stew, young man?” 

“Nothing! Nothing! It’s just friday and we usually do pizza on fridays.” You would have laughed at the petrified expression on his face but thought better not to.

“You’re going to be with Tony all weekend, we need to get some actual food in you before he supplies you with too much caffeine and all the pizza you could ever want. Plus, Bucky is going on a mission tomorrow morning. I always cook your favourite before you go on yours.” You pointed out, replacing the lid in favour of cracking the oven door and letting the smell of baking brownies fill the small kitchen. “But it is your favourite dessert.”

“Thank-“ You quickly raised a hand, stopping him before he could start his excited tirade.

“But you have to get your homework done now and then after dinner, you can spar with Bucky.” That made the teen light up even more.

“Sweet! I’ll go do that now. Can I use your office?” He called over his shoulder, already gunning for the small room at the end of the hall where you worked, yanking his bag from the couch as he passed.

“I’ll be double checking your English homework tonight!” You called after him, getting a distant ‘okay!’ in return. You shook your head and made to turn back to the stove but you were stopped by Bucky’s arms wrapping around you again. You half-expected his lips to return to your neck or even fit against your own, but instead he gently kissed the top of your head.

“You’re so good with him.” He muttered, sighing happily as you snuggled into his arms. You pecked his throat, your palms spreading over his lower back.

“He makes it easy, he’s a great kid.” You stood there for a few moments, soaking in the warmth of your shared home as Peter’s music floated from the office. You would’ve never thought that this was your life, dating your soulmate, who happened to be an Avenger and caring for another one who had somehow become your sort-of kid after his aunt had to pick up a job that kept her away from home for long periods of time.

“How the hell did we end up with a teenager?” Bucky groaned into your hair as he finally let you go.

“You’re the one that offered to tutor him with history in the first place.” You reminded him. 

He scoffed and opened the fridge. “And you were the one that fed him.” His brows furrowed, blue eyes scanning over the contents of the shelves in front of him “We’ll need to pick up some more of those snack packs he likes, we’re running low.”

You popped your hip out and raised a brow at him. “Oh shut up, I’m keeping us stocked up for your sake, you know how whiny he gets when he’s hungry.” 

“I’ll take him shopping when I pick him up from school on Monday so he can pick up some stuff he likes.” Bucky fished a beer and a soda from the fridge before firmly shutting it while you stirred the stew, making sure the bottom didn’t burn. 

He popped the cap off the glass bottle, taking a small sip. “Have you thought about having some kids of our own?” 

“Yeah, I have.” You felt his eyes glue themselves to you. “I think you’d be a great dad James, you already are. Peter adores you, I adore you.”

You finally looked up to him. “Whenever you’re ready for them, then so am I.” A weight lifted from his broad shoulders, making him stand taller. You beamed at him before he kissed you gently.

“We do have that empty room upstairs next to Peter’s that’s waiting to be used.” 

You rolled your eyes and gave him a little shove towards the office. “Go help your boy with his homework and then we can talk, daddy.” He smirked and shot you a wink before strutting off to most-lilkely distract Peter with yet another story about Steve doing something stupid before they would inevitably find the adoption forms you had left out on your desk. 

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[fallenbratfiction]

his assistant ~ harry castillo x f! reader

A/N: I had this idea about him and it completely stopped all my uni reading so I put away the pdfs and got to writing this beauty. I was kicking at my feet giggling and screeching aaaaaaaaa

warnings: age gap (early twenties reader, mid forties older boss harry), workplace relationship / power dynamics (boss × assistant), alcohol, smut, fingering, oral sex (f! receiver), unprotected sex. Let me know if I've forgotten any warnings so I can add them.

minors dni ~ minors do not interact with this fic or my blog. I am not responsible for your consumption.

do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own.

Your day consisted of running after Harry. He was a busy man—and by extension, you were a busy assistant.

You’d landed this job thanks to a mentor’s referral letter, and you were forever grateful. It had changed your life: no more night shifts while trying to finish your bachelor's degree.

Harry was a reserved man, at first he didn’t talk much, but he had a sharp sense of humor. Over time, you’d learned how to read him, and together, you'd become a solid team.

He thought your work was exceptional. You were dedicated—sometimes too dedicated. If he stayed at the office all night, you stayed too, just in case he needed something. He told you more than once to go home, but you rarely listened.

Lately, he'd started dating again. That meant working out a lot. Sometimes you'd catch him right after a run, sweatshirt soaked through. It was hard to focus on your notes when he looked like that.

He didn’t need to work out. He was already unfairly attractive—but of course, you didn’t say that. Not your place.

You tossed a towel at him, which he caught midair. He peeled off the drenched sweatshirt, revealing the results of his dedication. Either he was too comfortable with you now, or he'd forgotten you were still in the room.

“Fucking hell.”

He turned toward you, raising an eyebrow.

You quickly held up your phone. “This thing just froze. Fucking hell.”

He nodded, and you prayed the earth would swallow you whole.

But he knew what you meant.

__________________________

It was late at the office. The only two people left were you and Harry. He sat at his large desk, fingers flying across the keyboard, though he kept glancing your way.

You were focused on your phone, scheduling appointments, replying to emails. He liked watching you when you were focused—your scrunched nose, the way you bit your lip when you made a mistake. How you always tucked your hair behind your ear like it helped you concentrate. To him, it just gave him a perfect view of your neck—like a subtle invitation to that sweet spot close to your ear.

“Have you eaten anything?” he asked.

You looked up, caught off guard. “Uhm... no? I had an oatmeal bar a few hours ago.”

He frowned. He hated how often you skipped meals because of work—because of him.

“Don’t worry,” you added. “Go home. I’ll grab a salad or something later.”

“I was thinking,” he interrupted, “we could get dinner. Together.”

You blinked. “You want to have dinner... with me?”

“We spend the whole day together. Don’t see the issue with having dinner, too.”

You hesitated. “Wouldn’t that get me into trouble? I mean... HR?”

“I’m the boss,” he said. “You won’t get into any trouble. It’s a friendly invitation.”

You considered it. Honestly, you were starving—and if you waited any longer, your stomach would probably start growling audibly.

“Sure. Why not,” you shrugged, grabbing your jacket and slinging your purse over your shoulder.

You followed him into a fancy restaurant. The kind with low lights, gold accents, and a wine list thicker than a Bible. You resisted the urge to take out your phone for a picture.

A waitress led you to your table before disappearing. Harry pulled out your chair for you. You murmured a shy thank-you to which he hummed. 

He sat across from you and you observed how he got comfortable taking off his jacket. 

Harry handed you the menu, but you were too aware of everything—the ambient jazz, the soft clinking of cutlery, still trying to process this entire situation—being out with him, in public, like this. It’s not like you hadn’t been in public with him before, you were constantly in public but the dynamic was different. you weren’t there holding his jacket while he had dinner with someone else, or sitting at the bar or a different table to keep an eye if needed. No, you were sitting with him at the fancy restaurant. 

Moments later, a tall brunette waitress appeared. Thin smile. Sharp eyes.

"Can I get you something to drink while you decide?" she asked, not once looking in your direction. She flipped her hair as she awaited his response.

Your brows lifted slightly. Harry noticed.

He didn’t blink. “We’ll take the house Cabernet. Two glasses.”

That’s when she looked at you—finally. One long, assessing glance. Then a bright smile aimed only at him.

“Oh,” she said innocently. “Is she even of legal drinking age?”

You stiffened. Your hand tightened around the edge of the table.

You were ready to correct her. “Actually, I’m his—”

But Harry’s tone cut through first. Calm. Controlled. No smile.

“She’s my partner, actually.”

The waitress blinked. Her face held a flicker of something before she masked it with another sweet smile.

“Right,” she said slowly, lingering a second too long. “I just—thought she was your daughter at first. That’s all.” She gave him a wink like it was a private joke.

You opened your mouth, fully ready to set her on fire with words— Are you always this unprofessional, or am I just lucky tonight?

But Harry reached across the table, fingers brushing your hand lightly. Just enough to anchor you.

“She’ll have the same wine as me,” he added firmly, not breaking eye contact with the waitress. “Thank you.”

The message was clear: You can go now.

She hesitated—then turned, heels clicking sharply as she walked away.

You looked at him. “Partner?” you whispered, incredulous. “Castillo, what the fuck was that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry—would you rather I let her mock you as my child or my assistant?”

“But I am your assistant.”

“And I wasn’t about to let her reduce you to that. Not when you’re sitting here with me.”

You opened your mouth again—then closed it. Your cheeks burned.

“Just say thank you,” he added, voice low. “Or gracias.”

“…Gracias,” you muttered, still glaring at the now-empty space where the waitress stood.

A few minutes passed in silence as you both read the menu. Then you snorted.

Harry looked up. “What?”

“Sorry, just—the idea of being your partner,” you said, covering your mouth to hide your grin. Good joke. Will never happen.

“Why is that funny? Am I that bad-looking?”

“No! It’s just... me? Being with you? Me?”

“Well, you’re not bad-looking either. I don’t see the humor.”

“Thanks... I guess.”

“I mean—you’re gorgeous. Anyone would be lucky to be with you. Hell, I’d be lucky, if I wasn’t older.”

You blinked. Thought you’d misheard. But before you could ask, he was waving the waitress back to take your order.

She returned a few minutes later, two wine glasses in hand and a bottle tucked expertly in the crook of her arm. This time, she had no choice but to acknowledge you.

She set Harry’s glass down smoothly. Then yours, with a forced politeness that made you want to laugh.

"Well," you said under your breath, watching her walk away stiffly. "She doesn’t seem like quite a fan of me."

Harry smirked. “You think?”

“She looked like she wanted to throw the wine in my face.”

“I wouldn’t let her waste the good stuff.”

The wine ritual followed, soft and flirtatious. He swirled his glass and held it near your face.

"Swirl first," he said softly. "Let it breathe. Then smell. But don’t shove your nose in like a rookie.”

You chuckled. “So you’re a sommelier now?”

“No, I just have taste.”

You mirrored him. Swirled. Smelled. Sipped.

“Any notes?” he asked, lips curled in amusement.

"Yeah. Grapes," you deadpanned.

He laughed, eyes crinkling—and for a second, it felt like there were no titles between you. No roles. Just two people. Sitting across from each other. Maybe on the verge of something stupid, or something real.

The wine helped. So did the food.

The waitress returned with two beautifully plated dishes and the thinnest layer of civility. She set Harry’s plate down with practiced ease, then yours with stiff politeness. Her jaw was tight. She didn’t say a word this time.

When she walked away, you finally exhaled.

Harry raised his glass slightly toward you. “To surviving the service industry.”

You clinked his glass with yours, managing a small laugh. But your mind wasn’t really on the food. Or the wine. Or the waitress.

It was still on him.

Specifically: “Hell, I’d be lucky… if I wasn’t older.”

He said it so casually. Like it wasn’t a confession. Like it wasn’t driving you quietly insane.

You watched him from across the table as he cut into his steak—calm, focused, unbothered. How was he always like this? Controlled. Grounded. Like nothing ever rattled him.

You bit your lip and stabbed at your salad.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a moment.

“I’m eating,” you replied, a little too fast.

He raised a brow. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

You shrugged, trying not to overthink it. “Just... still running through what she said, I guess.”

He studied you for a second. “Let it go. She’s not worth that much space in your head.”

“That’s not—” You paused. “It’s not about her.”

Harry leaned back slightly, his eyes still on you. “Then what is it?”

You hesitated. Then took a sip of your wine, buying time.

“If I wasn’t older…”

That’s what it was, that damn line.

You swallowed, not just the wine, but the way your heart seemed to lurch every time you replayed it.

“It’s stupid,” you said finally. “Forget it.”

“I won’t,” he replied. “You don’t usually get this flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” you lied.

He smirked, tilting his head. “Right.”

You poked at your food again. Then quietly you proceeded “So what did you mean?”

He looked at you, serious now. No smirk. No tease.

“I meant what I said.”

“About the age thing?”

He nodded. “I try not to think about it, but yeah. Sometimes I wonder if I’d cross a line just by wanting more than I should.”

Silence.

Then, softer: “And what happened on Monday didn’t help.”

You stared at him confused. “What happened on Monday?”

He held your gaze. “You tossed a towel at me. I took my shirt off. And you said, fucking hell.”

Your eyes widened. “I said it because—”

“I know why,” he said. Still calm. Still steady. “It’s fine. I didn’t mind.”

You stared at your plate, the flush spreading to your neck.

He added, voice barely above the hum of the restaurant

“I think about it too. You. More than I should.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t need to.

Because when he reached across the table—just for a moment, just to brush your hand with his fingers again—you didn’t pull away.

_____________________________

The air outside was cooler than you expected. Or maybe it was just the heat still clinging to your skin from the conversation.

Harry walked a few steps ahead, hands in his pockets, silent. He stopped at the edge of the sidewalk near the curb. The night stretched around you both—quiet, electric.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, not facing you. “If I made you uncomfortable back there.”

You blinked. “What?”

He turned, finally looking at you. “At the table. I shouldn’t have said that—about thinking about you. Or the age thing. It wasn’t appropriate.”

You stepped closer. “Harry—”

“If it put you in a weird position, I—”

You didn’t let him finish. You closed the distance, grabbed the lapel of his coat, and pressed a kiss to his lips. His mustache grazed your skin, warm and soft and just rough enough to make your breath catch.

He didn’t kiss back at first. He just froze, lips parted under yours, like his brain hadn’t caught up yet.

Then, slowly, his hand came up—fingertips grazing your waist as if to make sure you were real.

You started to pull away, panic bubbling in your chest.

Shit, shit! What did I just do?

But he caught you and kissed you back. Not rushed. Not messy. Just steady, grounded, certain. His mouth moved against yours like he’d been holding back for too long—and now, the dam had cracked.

When you finally broke apart, you stayed close, your breath still caught between you.

He looked at you like he was trying to piece together what just happened. And you looked right back. Not saying anything, just holding his gaze.

Yes.

That happened just now.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d crossed a line,” he murmured. His voice was low. Honest.

“I crossed it for you,” you said.

His lips twitched—barely. Like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite know how to yet. He stared at you like you were some puzzle he’d never expected to solve.

Then, without another word, he took a step back and held out his hand.

You didn’t hesitate.

_______________________

The silence in the car wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Full.

You sat there, lips still tingling, eyes on the window. The city blurred past in soft golds and blues. 

Neon signs flickered. A woman smoked on a balcony. A dog pulling its owner across a crosswalk. A man hailed a cab. Life was still happening—but all you could feel was him.

His presence beside you. His warmth in the space between the seats. The echo of his mouth on yours.

You tilted your head, eyes tracing the curve of the moon through the window. It followed you quietly, like it knew. Like it saw everything.

Every red light glowed too long. Every block felt like a held breath.

He gripped the wheel tighter than usual. Jaw tense. He checked his mirrors often, but it was clear he wasn’t really seeing anything. His jaw worked silently, eyes flicking between the road and the rearview, like any movement might pull him out of the moment.

You kept quiet. Let the silence stretch.

Finally, his voice broke through the quiet. Low. Controlled.

“I meant what I said.”

You turned your head slowly. “Which part?”

He glanced at you, just once.

“All of it.”

You held his gaze for a second longer than necessary. Then looked away, smiling just a little.

“Good.”

You finally made it to his building. He pulled into the underground garage, the soft hum of the engine echoing off the concrete walls.

He parked in his usual spot. You recognized it—you’d been here before. Dropped off folders, laptops, contracts he forgot in the office. Walked these exact halls with purpose, never pausing. Always professional. Always business.

But this time?

This time you didn’t have a file in your hands. You weren’t on a clock. You weren’t his assistant.

You were just you.

And that changed everything.

He turned off the engine, but neither of you moved for a second. You could feel the air shift. Not heavier—closer.

He got out of the car without another word, the door shutting quietly behind him. A few seconds later, your door opened—and there he was, standing beside you like it was nothing.

He looked at you. “You coming?”

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

You blinked.

You hadn’t moved.

You were still sitting there, fingers lightly pressed against your thigh, your body catching up to what your heart had already decided.

He didn’t rush you.

Just waited. One hand resting on the open door, the other in his coat pocket, his eyes on you like he could see the entire storm happening behind your stillness.

You exhaled slowly. Then you stood.

His gaze followed you as you stepped out of the car, close enough to feel the warmth of his body in the chill of the garage.

No words. Just the soft click of the door closing behind you.

You followed him to the elevator.

________________________

The elevator opened into the apartment directly.

You stepped in first. You’d been here before, of course—several times. Late-night contract drop-offs. Files he forgot in the office. You knew the layout by heart, knew the scent of the place, even the way the light curved in from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

But you’d never walked in like this.

Not without an agenda or a deadline.

Not as a guest.

And suddenly, the space felt different.

It wasn’t sterile or cold like you used to tell yourself. No sleek, lonely bachelor energy. No leather-and-glass cliché.

It was warm.

Low lighting. Art on the walls. A worn leather chair near the window, a record player spinning soft jazz in the corner. Shelves with actual books, not props. A thick wool throw draped over the couch. A scent like cedarwood and something expensive lingered in the air.

“Wow,” you breathed, almost instinctively.

Harry loosened his tie. “You’ve seen it before.”

You looked at him. “Yeah, but not like this.”

He held your gaze a second longer, then nodded. “Fair.”

He disappeared into the kitchen briefly, came back with a bottle of wine and two glasses. This bottle looked different—older, deeper colored.

“Private collection?” you teased.

“Something like that.” He poured carefully, then handed you a glass.

You swirled it. “Swirl, breathe, smell... sip?”

He smiled again, slower this time. “You remembered.”

You sipped. You could feel his gaze linger on your mouth.

“It’s really good,” you said, clearing your throat.

He stood in front of you, not close enough to touch—but enough that you felt it. The gravity of him. The silence stretching between you again.

He stayed standing across from you for a moment, sleeves rolled up, the top buttons of his shirt undone now. You watched him, your glass warm in your hand.

Neither of you said a word.

But everything was being said.

You stepped toward him at the same time he stepped toward you. The shared gravity was inevitable.

He reached out first, not to kiss you again, but to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your cheek, and it made your breath catch.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Are you?”

He smiled, something half-there. “Not sure.”

You were close enough now that you could feel the heat of his chest through the thin barrier of space left between you. His hand lingered at your waist. Yours found his wrist, thumb tracing the veins beneath his skin.

You weren’t sure who moved first this time. Maybe both.

The kiss was quieter now. Slower. Less urgent, more intentional. Like you were both realizing there was no clock ticking. No one to interrupt. No need to hold back.

When he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you kept your eyes closed. Let the silence wrap around you.

“I wasn’t planning this,” he murmured.

“I know,” you said. “Me neither.”

But neither of you moved away.

You barely noticed how close you’d gotten until your glass tilted slightly, the wine catching the rim. A splash landed on his shirt, dark red soaking into crisp white.

“Shit,” you whispered, pulling back. “I didn’t mean to—”

Harry glanced down. Then up at you, completely unfazed.

“It was coming off anyway,” he said simply, already working the buttons open with one hand.

You stood frozen for a beat too long, your wine forgotten.

He peeled off the shirt and tossed it onto the back of a nearby chair. His torso was lean, toned in a way that only comes from quiet consistency—not vanity, just discipline. His skin was warm under the golden lighting, a scattering of freckles across his shoulders.

You cleared your throat, trying to remember how to function.

He looked at you again, this time slower. “You okay?”

“I will be if you stop looking at me like that,” you murmured, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

“Like what?”

“Like you already know what’s going to happen.”

He stepped closer again. “I don’t,” he said softly. “That’s kind of the best part.”

He took your glass and set it aside—carefully—then turned back to you.

His eyes were darker now. Focused.

He wanted your full attention.

He gripped your waist and pulled you closer, his touch no longer tentative. Confident. Sure. With one movement, he shifted your weight, guiding you until your legs wrapped around him instinctively.

He walked—slow but deliberate—until your back met the wall.

The kiss broke for only a second, just long enough for you to catch your breath.

Then it came crashing back—furious now. Hungry. His mouth on yours like he’d been waiting all night to be this unrestrained.

Your hands tangled in his hair, fingers tugging just hard enough to make him groan against your lips. He pressed into you, anchoring you to the wall, one hand exploring the curve of your hip, the other trailing along your ribs, steady but searching.

He kissed like he knew you—like every inhale, every tilt of your head, was familiar already. Like he didn’t want to stop.

And neither did you.

He pulled back just long enough to catch your breath—his lips parted, his chest rising with yours in sync.

And then he moved.

He didn’t say a word, just adjusted his grip on your thighs and carried you across the room. You tightened your legs around his waist instinctively, fingers still tangled in his hair as he walked the two of you toward the bedroom.

You weren’t sure when your shirt came off. Somewhere between the hallway and the doorway, between kisses along your neck and soft, breathless gasps you couldn’t hold back.

He dropped it on the floor like it had never mattered, and by the time you reached the bed, all that was left between you and the sheets was skin and heat and a thousand quiet yeses.

He set you down gently. Like he knew this wasn’t just about desire—it was about something else. Something you both hadn’t dared name yet.

But right now?

You didn’t need a name.

You needed him.

He laid you down gently, like he didn’t want to rush—like he wanted to memorize every second of this.

And then he hovered above you, just for a breath. His eyes swept over you—bare skin, flushed cheeks, your mouth still parted from the last kiss.

You felt his fingertips brush the side of your neck, slow, reverent. His gaze followed the motion like he’d traced this path a hundred times in his head.

And then he leaned in.

His lips brushed just beneath your jaw first—soft, careful. Then lower. Warmer. His breath fanned over the curve where your neck met your shoulder, and your pulse jumped.

You felt it coming before it happened.

That spot.

That one spot—right behind your ear, the one he always glanced at when you’d shift your hair during long office days. The one that always felt too exposed when you wore it up.

He found it.

And kissed it.

Not quick. Not teasing.

Slow. Open-mouthed. Intentional.

Your fingers tightened against his back, your breath caught, your whole body arching slightly beneath him.

“Been wanting to do that,” he murmured against your skin.

You shivered. “Yeah?”

“Since the first time you tucked your hair back,” he whispered. “Drove me fucking crazy.”

You smiled. Then gasped—because he kissed it again, deeper this time, his hand sliding down to your hip, anchoring you to him like he couldn’t risk letting you drift too far.

And from there, he took his time.

Your moans were like music to his ears.

He’d imagined this—more times than he cared to admit. But he never let himself get too far. He’d always pulled himself back, always shut the door on the thought before it became too real, too dangerous.

But this wasn’t a dream.

This was real.

And he was here. With you.

No phones. No appointments. No schedule, no glass wall between you.

Just the two of you. Skin to skin. Breath to breath.

His mouth moved across your collarbone, your shoulder, your chest—slow, devoted, like he had all the time in the world. And for once, maybe he did.

You reached down between your bodies, fingers trailing over his torso with reverence, until you found his belt. You unbuckled it with practiced ease, metal clicking softly in the quiet room. You pushed his pants down, your breath hitching as he helped you.

“Fucking hell” you blurted as you caught the sight of his hard and heavy cock. 

He stroked himself slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched your reaction—your gaze locked onto his cock, pupils blown, breath hitching. A bead of precum formed at the head and you gulped. There was a fair chance that he could split you in half, not only because of his cock but his size as a whole. 

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and he crawled onto the bed, his face inches from yours. His hands slid to your sides, fingers warm and sure against your skin.

He mirrored your movements, trailing down your waist until he reached the waistband of your pencil skirt—the one he’d seen you wear so many times. The one he’d fantasized about taking off, but never dared to touch.

Until now.

He didn’t hesitate.

He slid it down slowly, eyes locked on yours the whole time. The tension between you stretched, thick and warm and crackling.

And when the skirt hit the floor along with your panties, and he saw you like that—laid out for him, flushed, eyes dark with want—he exhaled like he’d finally, finally let himself breathe.

Your hands cupped his face, guiding him back to your mouth, and he settled between your thighs like he belonged there. Like he always had. Harry removed your panties tossing them across the room. 

His fingers rubbed along your folds, feeling the wet pooling in your cunt before curling inside, his lips neared your clit, kissing it softly before licking across your entire cunt, He lapped on your clit, groaning onto it. The feeling of his tongue and his mustache caused an electric shock down your spine, driving right onto his face. 

“I need you so bad” His voice deep as he added another finger, his mouth still on your clit making his words vibrate against you. 

You struggled to respond, breath catching in your throat—but you managed, voice low and trembling with want.

“What’s holding you back? We’re already in this.”

He looked up at you, mouth still on you, hands gripping your thighs like he needed to anchor himself to something.

Your words hit him like a match. The final green light.

And just like that, restraint vanished. Neither of you cared how this would turn out—how messy, how complicated, how reckless. Consequences could come later. Right now? You just needed each other.

Desperately.

He gripped your thighs tighter, stretching your legs wider as he pulled you closer to him. Your breath hitched at the sudden movement. He aligned himself holding his heavy cock to your entrance and using the wetness to lube himself up before entering you. Your eyes locked as he pushed into you—slow, steady, deliberate.

His gaze didn’t leave yours, not even for a second, like he wanted to see all of it—your reaction, your unraveling, the way your mouth parted with a breathless moan.

Your face contorted with pleasure, head tipping back as the stretch overtook you. One hand flew to the sheets, clutching them tight as your body arched, trying to take more, feel everything.

He slid in fully, deep, until there was nothing left between you. Just heat and breath and that dizzying sense that everything had just shifted again—and this time, there was no going back. 

He finally moved—slow at first, steady, dragging his hips back just enough before pushing in again. Then he found his rhythm and hovered over you groaning against your neck, the sound low, guttural. Every thrust hit deep, every shift of his body pulled another breathless sound from your lips. Your hips rose to meet his, chasing every movement, matching his pace—desperate, shameless, hungry for more. You didn’t care how it looked or how it sounded. It was true. 

There were no sharp sounds, no declarations. Just soft gasps, broken moans, fingers digging into skin like you were afraid to let go. Afraid this was a dream. Afraid you’d wake up if you did.

“Harry… fuck,” you whined, digging your nails into his hair as you got closer to the height of pleasure, your walls spasming around himpulsing in tight, desperate waves that pulled a groan from deep in his chest. He wasn’t far behind.

 “Shit–“ he breathed, jaw clenched, his rhythm stuttering as your release crashed over you, coating him. 

Shudders wracked your body, hips arching into him as the pleasure overtook you. You felt it—wet, warm, everywhere—coating him, slick and overwhelming.

He tensed inside of you and followed with a rough, broken sound, thrusting deep one final time as he came undone inside you. Your cry was caught in his mouth, swallowed between kisses and the sound of skin against skin.

Your nails raked down his back, your legs tightening around him as the release wracked through you, relentless and blinding.

He groaned against your lips, his rhythm faltering as he gave in too—lost to you, to the feeling, to the way you came around him like your body had been waiting for this moment, and only this.

And when it was over—when the last shuddering breath passed between you, and his lips found that spot behind your ear again—you felt something settle in your chest.

Like this hadn’t just been inevitable. It had been waiting.

Everything about him felt real—the weight of his body, the warmth of his breath, the way he moved with you like he already knew you this way. Like maybe, he always had.

Every stroke, every kiss, every whispered breath between tangled limbs felt like a quiet confession neither of you had dared speak aloud. You were wrapped in him—in his scent, his voice, the slow, grounding pressure of his body against yours.

You shivered again—even in his warmth.

This wasn’t just crossing a line. This was burning it.

Then, without a word, he shifted beside you, wrapping his arm around your waist and gently turning you onto your side. His chest pressed to your back, steady and warm.

You felt his hand settle low at your stomach, fingers curling softly against your skin like he wasn’t ready to let you go. Like he wouldn’t.

His arm was heavy—comfortably so. It grounded you, pinned you in the best way. You couldn’t have moved even if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

Just his breath at your neck. The quiet hum of the city outside. And sleep, finally pulling you under.

__________________________________

Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, painting long golden stripes across the sheets. You stirred before he did, blinking against the light, the warmth of it settling over your bare skin. The sheets were soft. His bed smelled like clean linen and cedar, something calm and clean and unmistakably him.

Turning your head, you found him beside you—still asleep. Or maybe just pretending. Either way, you took the moment. Let your gaze linger on his face, softened in sleep, free from the tension he always wore like armor. He looked younger like this. Softer. Still Harry—but not the boss version. Just him.

You didn’t move. You didn’t want to.

But your phone buzzed somewhere from the living room, and it pulled you back into reality like a hook.

He opened one eye slowly. “Don’t answer it.”

You turned back toward him. “It might be important.”

“Then let it be important later.”

You laughed, burying your face into the pillow. “You’re not helping me keep my job.”

“I am your job.”

You groaned. “You would say that.”

He reached out, tucking your hair behind your ear again, fingers trailing lightly along your jaw before settling at your shoulder. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just looked at him, his eyes still soft with sleep but awake in a way that said he was fully here.

“Do you always wake up this smug?” you murmured, voice low and a little rough.

“Only when I’ve earned it,” he said, smiling faintly.

You shook your head, pressing your face into the pillow to hide your own grin, even as your leg brushed against his under the blanket. The air between you was warm but stretched—hovering in that space between comfort and the edge of a conversation neither of you had dared touch yet.

A quiet beat passed. 

“So… what happens now?”

He looked at you for a moment, the question lingering in the space between your bodies. Too big for right now. Too real.

He exhaled. “Let’s get coffee first.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You’re really gonna dodge the question with caffeine?”

“I’m not dodging. I’m delaying with style.” He sat up, stretching slightly. “Priorities. Coffee first, emotional unraveling later.”

You slipped out of bed a moment later, legs still a little unsteady, and padded toward the doorway, grabbing the first thing you saw—a folded Nirvana tee left on the edge of a chair. It smelled like him—clean, warm, something like cedar and sleep and skin. You tugged it on, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs as you walked barefoot into the kitchen.

Harry was already there, sleeves rolled up again, hair slightly messy, standing by the stove with a French press and two mugs on the counter. The smell of coffee wrapped around you like a second shirt.

“Hey,” he said, voice still rough with sleep. “I wasn’t sure how you take it, so... I went basic. Milk and sugar are there.”

You sat down on one of the stools at the kitchen island, tucking your legs up beneath you. 

He chuckled softly and slid a mug toward you. “Make yourself at home.”

You took a sip, eyes on him as he leaned back against the counter, his own mug held in both hands. It felt oddly natural—like you’d done this before, like waking up in his apartment and drinking coffee together was part of some soft, familiar routine you’d already built in your head.

Except it wasn’t. This was new. Dangerous. Beautiful.

You stared into your coffee, letting the warmth settle into your palms, your shoulders beginning to loosen in the stillness between you. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was gentle, even comforting. The scene felt like it belonged. Him. You. Coffee. Morning light stretching across the floor.

It fit too well. 

And then, like something small tugged loose, the comfort began to unravel. Your breath caught in your chest. Your thoughts sharpened at the edges. This wasn’t routine. This wasn’t safe. You’d slept with your boss. You’d crossed a line and blurred it so deeply there might not be a way back.

Your fingers tightened around the mug, your body going still again—not frozen, just quiet, the kind of quiet that comes when a thought hits too fast, too sharp. He noticed. His voice softened when he spoke, like he was already reading the shift in you. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just set his mug down and stepped closer, resting one hand on the back of your chair—not quite touching, but close enough to feel. “We don’t have to name it,” he said, calm and even. “But I meant everything I said. And everything I did.”

You held his gaze, heart thudding, your breath catching somewhere between your ribs and your throat. “I meant it too,” you said quietly. “All of it.”

It wasn’t a full spiral. Not regret. Just a flicker of panic—the kind that comes after something good, something real. The kind that makes you question if maybe you dreamed the whole thing. But he caught it. And he soothed it. Not by promising anything, not by fixing it, but just by being steady. Present.

Because it wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t a mistake. And he knew that.

He nodded once. “Then we don’t panic.” His voice was calm, certain, like a soft line being drawn in the quiet. “We go to work,” he said simply. “We don’t pretend it didn’t happen. But we don’t have to define it right now either. We just—go slow. If that’s okay with you.”

You nodded. He reached out, his hand brushing lightly along your arm before resting there—warm, grounding. Not pulling you closer. Just there.

Neither of you moved after that. You sat quietly, shoulders barely touching, hands around your mugs, the sun crawling across the floor like it had all the time in the world. The coffee cooled slowly.

No pressure. No rush. Just a shared breath in the soft quiet of something beginning.

Hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing this!!

All support is welcomed 💕✨ REBLOGS, LIKES AND COMMENTS HELP THIS STORY GROW!

[semperama]

if you're still taking setting prompts - 46 💛

the back of a taxi stuck in traffic

"Where are you?" It's Buck's voice in Eddie's ear, crackly from poor signal and thready with...something like panic?

Eddie feels an answering anxiety stir in his stomach, because—Buck doesn't know, right? He can't know. Eddie shoots Christopher a look, and Christopher looks back at him, eyebrows raised. When he mouths Buck, Chris's eyes widen and he makes a cutting motion with his hand across his neck, like Eddie needs to be told not to blab.

"What do you mean, where am I?" Eddie asks. He cranes his neck to look out the front window of the Uber—a Prius, as luck would have it—but the traffic still stretches interminably ahead of them, cars inching forward at the customary crawl. Eddie almost picked the 5 am flight for exactly this reason—so they could avoid rush hour—but he's pretty sure waking a teenager up before dawn is against the Geneva Conventions, so. Here they are. Stuck in traffic. The anticipation of surprising Buck fizzing under his skin, making him jittery.

But now Buck has called him, is asking where he is. Does he know? How can he know?

"I'm, uh." Buck pauses, clears his throat. "I'm at your house," he says.

"I know that, Buck," Eddie says slowly.

"No, I mean. I'm at your house. In Texas. Right now." Each word drops like an ice cube into Eddie's stomach. "But you weren't answering the door, and—and I looked in the front window and there's no furniture here?"

That's—what? No. Eddie shoots a panicked look at Chris, who must be starting to put it all together too, because his expression is scrunched up with dismay. Their furniture isn't in Texas, because it's on a moving truck on the way back from El Paso as they speak. And if Buck had showed up at the house a few hours later, he'd have been tipped off by the For Sale sign the realtor promised she'd put up later today.

Did Buck drive all the way to El Paso? Or did their airplanes pass each other in the air?

"Buck," Eddie says, "Chris and I are in the back of an Uber on the 405. We're like three miles from home."

Silence on the other end of the line. Crackling static, like a puff of air. Then, "You're in LA?"

"We were going to surprise you." Eddie had it all planned. He tested the waters a couple weeks ago, told Buck that Chris hinted about maybe wanting to come back to LA eventually and asked him if it was okay if they all shared the house for a while. Of course Buck said that was fine, more than fine, they could stay as long as they wanted, It's really your house anyway, Eddie.

Eddie called the realtor the next day and got to work making little last-minute repairs so he could sell the house for enough of a profit to recoup his down payment. He'd had to cut back on FaceTiming Buck from the house so Buck didn't see the boxes, calling more between rides to make up for it. And he swore Bobby to secrecy when he called last week to ask for his job back.

Everything was going off without a hitch. Eddie should have known something would go wrong.

"Surprise me?" Buck repeats. "I was going to surprise you."

"Well, I—yeah, I'm pretty damn surprised, Buck," Eddie says. He shoots an apologetic look at Chris for the swearing, but Chris just rolls his eyes.

It's just...this kind of sucks. Eddie has been looking forward to this for weeks. Longer than that, actually. Even before he knew for sure he'd be coming home, he imagined it, the look on Buck's face, the way a smile would spread over his face like the sunrise, the way they'd fall into a hug, the scratch of Buck's stubble against his neck. Before Christopher moved back in with him, sometimes imagining that moment was the only thing that got Eddie through a day. And once it became a real possibility, once Chris said he wanted to go home, it became all Eddie could think about, the reunion playing in his head in technicolor all day long, in a hundred different ways,

"Shit," Buck says on the end of a sigh.

"Yeah," Eddie agrees. He scrubs a hand over his face. The traffic keeps inching, inching, but it doesn't matter as much anymore. They'll get there when they get there. "Please tell me you didn't drive."

"No, I flew," Buck says, and thank God for that. "I was only going to stay a couple days. I just thought—Chris said he was kind of missing LA, and—"

It's Eddie's turn to roll his eyes in Chris's direction. "And you thought if you showed up, you'd remind him of what he was missing even more, and he'd want to come home?"

"Something like that," Buck says, and Eddie can hear the sheepish grin in his voice. "Ugh, changing my return flight is gonna cost an arm and a leg."

"I can split it with you," Eddie offers automatically, but Buck scoffs.

"It was my stupid idea, not yours."

"Uh, we had the exact same stupid idea, Buck," Eddie says. This will be a funny story later, but for now, it stings a little. All this waiting around, and he doesn't even get to see Buck at the end of it.

"I wish I could laugh," Buck says, echoing Eddie's thoughts, "but—"

"Yeah," Eddie says softly. He glances at Christopher, then away, willing his blood to stay away from his face. "Look, Buck—"

"No, hey," Buck says in a rush, "don't—don't say anything, just. I'll get the soonest return flight I can, and I'll see you soon, okay?" And then Buck does laugh after all. Just a little chuckle, but it warms Eddie all the same. "The way LA traffic is, maybe I'll be on the plane before you even make it home."

It doesn't happen quite that fast. Eddie and Chris have time to make it home, to take showers, to order pizza. They have time to put a good dent in the stash of cookies Buck made with Jee the previous weekend, and then to clean up their crumbs. They have time to blow up an air mattress for Chris, because Buck left his room empty.

It's midnight, and Eddie is fast asleep, when a rush of cool air wakes him up. The blankets pulled back, then hiked up again, a warm body at his back. He turns, slow, and there's Buck, looking at him wide-eyed in the dark.

He puts his hand to Buck's face. Buck's fingers wrap around his wrist. This isn't the reunion Eddie pictured.

"You're in my bed," Buck says.

"Mhm." Eddie shifts forward, his knees slotting between Buck's. "That's what you get for leaving it empty."

"Are you—?" Buck whispers, stuttery. "Can I—?"

"Yeah," Eddie says. "Of course. Anything."

This isn't the reunion he pictured, but as Buck nudges their noses together, as they breathe the same air for long moments before their lips brush, Eddie finds he doesn't regret it at all.

[airosuiren]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔒𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔚𝔥𝔬 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔢𝔡 𝔗𝔬𝔬 𝔏𝔞𝔱𝔢

A/N: Okay, so… You ever walk into a room where you were once unwanted, and every head turns because suddenly you’re everything they’re not? Yeah. That’s this chapter. 😌 This one’s for the readers who’ve leveled up in silence. Who were counted out too early, who walked out of the fire looking dangerous instead of damaged. This is [Y/N] stepping back into the space that broke them—and not breaking this time. Let’s be clear: this isn’t a reunion. This is a revelation. Grab your tea. Let’s shake a few foundations.

Thank You @arislia for this Idea!

And I'm sorry for not making this longer because I had this planned (I plan my series in google docs after tumblr deleted my old drafts). These will be shorter BUT, the next series I promise to make it longer!

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 1, 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 3

You weren’t supposed to stand out. That’s the irony. You had trained yourself to be unseen, unheard, unfelt—because the moment you started to feel, you started to hurt.

But when the League summoned their families to a secure location, the world you built in the shadows was forced into the light.

You arrived alone.

Lois had offered to fly with you. Clark had said they’d wait at the entrance. But you declined. You wanted them to see you walk in under your own power. No crutches. No borrowed names. Just you.

When you stepped through those doors, the reaction was immediate.

The Queens lit up like someone had flipped a switch. Ollie pulled you in for a hug, Thea waved you over, and even Dinah looked proud. Clark’s face softened. Lois’s arm went straight around your shoulder like it belonged there.

And the Batfamily?

They stared.

Not with joy. Not even with confusion.

They stared like you were a ghost. Like they were seeing something they’d buried come back to life and demand retribution.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t greet them. You turned away from them the way they once turned away from you.

Because if they wanted to pretend you never mattered, then they didn’t get to matter now.

Still, their eyes followed you.

And then the meetings started.

The League began dissecting the threat. Hackers. Leakers. Global-scale blackmail. Someone had infiltrated systems that were supposed to be airtight. It wasn’t just about identities anymore. It was about dismantling everything.

You knew how the media would spin it. You knew how Gotham’s elite would react. And most of all, you knew how fear worked when it had the public in a chokehold.

So you spoke.

You laid out a counter-strategy like you’d done it a thousand times. Because you had. In Metropolis. In Star City. Behind the scenes of political campaigns and corporate power moves. You’d sharpened your teeth while the people who threw you away forgot you even had a bite.

The room listened.

Clark deferred to you. Lois backed you. Oliver vouched for you.

Bruce stayed silent.

But you caught the flicker in his expression when the others nodded along. When Diana praised your foresight. When J’onn said you understood humanity better than most.

The others? Dick tried to pretend he wasn’t surprised. Tim’s stare was surgical, dissecting you in real time. Damian looked like he’d bitten glass.

And the new girl? She finally looked at you.

With fear.

You weren’t the quiet reject anymore. You were something else. Something dangerous. Something they didn’t make—and couldn’t control.

Later, in private, Alfred brought you tea. You almost cried at the gesture.

Almost.

He said nothing about the past. Just, “You’ve grown.”

You wanted to scream, I had to.

But you just nodded.

The truth was, they needed you now. And you were going to help. Not because they deserved it.

Because the world did.

And even in the darkest parts of you, that mattered more than revenge.

But they would never forget this version of you.

Not the one they raised.

The one they abandoned.

The one who rose anyway.

𝕭𝖔𝖓𝖚𝖘! (𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚢 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙻𝚎𝚏𝚝)

(this is kind of a bonus I thought of while writing...)

It had been late. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that seeped into your bones. The kind of quiet that made your footsteps echo like they didn’t belong.

You were fourteen. Maybe fifteen. You don’t remember the exact age—only the feeling. Raw. Unseen. On the edge of breaking.

Your ribs ached. Your shoulder throbbed. You’d taken a hit meant for Damian—an instinct, not even a choice—and landed hard on a rooftop ledge. Rolled too close to the edge. Limped all the way back. No call of concern. No one on comms. No “Are you okay?” Just silence.

It should’ve earned you a lecture at worst.

Instead, it earned you her.

The new girl.

Barely two weeks in.

Bright. Perfect. Adored.

You limped into the Batcave, helmet tucked under your arm, dried blood crusted over your eyebrow. You expected quiet, maybe concern, maybe just the acknowledgment that you existed.

What you got?

Laughter.

She was in your seat. At the computer. Wearing your gear.

The armor you'd trained in. The one Alfred helped custom-fit after months of trials. The one you’d stitched, cried in, bled into.

And she wore it like it had never belonged to you at all.

Tim leaned over her shoulder, pointing something out on the screen. Damian hovered close behind. Dick was saying something about how “clean” she moved in the field.

And Bruce?

Didn’t even look up.

You stood there, waiting. Expecting. Begging, in that small, desperate way you told yourself you’d outgrown.

Then, finally—his eyes flicked toward you.

And his voice cut through the cave like a scalpel.

“You’re benched. Permanently.”

Just like that. Like a weather report. Like an afterthought. Like you were a dented weapon tossed in a drawer.

You opened your mouth—“But—”—

And then Alfred was there.

With a tray.

Tea and towels. The same ritual. The same script.

But this time, he didn’t meet your eyes.

Not once.

You watched him walk past you like a ghost.

And then—then—came the final blow.

The girl in your gear turned to Bruce, tilting her head with practiced innocence.

“Was I a mistake too?” she asked softly.

A test. You knew it was a test. A way to secure her place. But you didn’t expect the knife that followed.

Bruce didn’t even hesitate.

“No,” he said. “But she was.”

He didn’t mean for you to hear it.

But you did.

And the sound it made in your chest wasn’t a crack. It was a shatter.

You stood there for maybe another full minute.

No one turned. No one asked you to stay. No one noticed the way your fingers curled so tightly around your helmet that the edge dug into your palm and drew blood.

You went to your room. Packed your gear. One piece at a time.

You stood in the center of that tiny space—bland walls, no posters, a bed that had never felt like yours—and realized you’d been living in a house, not a home.

You left the suit on the bed.

Left the tracker on the desk.

Left your voice in the hallway.

And shut the door behind you.

You never opened it again.

A/N: Whew. They called the meeting to fix a crisis—and walked into their biggest one yet: the ghost they buried came back golden, angry, and smarter than all of them combined. And let’s talk about that power shift. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t lash out. She just existed loudly in the place that tried to erase her. And they couldn’t handle it. This wasn’t revenge. This was justice with restraint. Power without apology. Presence that didn’t ask for permission. Next chapter? Let’s make them earn the right to say your name again.

—Your eyes-still-wet, hands-still-shaking, soft-but-spiteful author 🖤💫

Taglist: @feral-childs-word, @trashlanternfish360, @astro-girly1, @suneaterscape, @thatcatladywrites, @arislia, @kittzu, @ottjhe, @tinybrie, @wpdarlingpan, @ryuushou, @simpingpandas, @lettucel0ver, @moonxmio, @kneelforloki, @sirenetheblogger, @xzmickeyzx

Let me know if I missed someone!

[okwonyo]

THE COCKROACH──── ୨୧ 성훈𓈒

✶ 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝑜𝑛𝑒⠀ㅤ𓈒⠀ 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖻𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾. 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾.

neighbor!sunghoon & fem!rea 1OOO potential future relationship ㅇㅅㅇ skinship ⎯⎯ recue𝒾l

嘉 ܃ this is so silly and this isn’t my best work but .. i like it 🎀

reblogs ♡ feedbacks please + daily

being overdramatic has never been one of your characteristics. despite what some of your friends say, you think that you are rather rational when it comes to your emotions as well as the way you manage them.

you know how to control your fear especially. you swear, you are not the kind to get scared of the smallest things. fear doesn’t take over you easily at all.

however, if there was something that you could admit, it would be your dislike for certain creatures and your blood’s tendency to go cold at the sight of them.

it isn’t your fault, whenever you see one of those barely noticeable insects with multiple legs and arms, you can’t restrain disgust to get to you. and yes, seeing one of them always makes you scream at the top of your lungs. today is no different.

that scream is loud enough to make your throat hurt a tad. it keeps on getting worse the longer you look at the cockroach in front of you. when it moves on your not-so-brand-new apartment’s floor, you run out of your own home.

perhaps, you aren’t thinking straight or perhaps, it’s just the way you are— but you find yourself jumping in the arms of the first person you encounter, without taking a look at their face first.

your entire weight landing onto them without any warning doesn’t make them stumble, therefore you assume they are muscular.

under your fingertips, you feel their muscles, their broad shoulders are comfortable enough for your arm wrapped around them. it must be a man, you can tell at that.

as well as by his deep voice when he asks, “what’s going on?”

it is as if you are at a higher altitude than you were when you stand on your couch earlier. he is well built and tall, which is impressive. but it is not your main concern.

“i’m sorry, it’s just that—” you start, a little out of breath. you want to continue, but you turn your head towards the man and your breath catches. half of your voice dies in your chest, “there is a cockroach in my apartment.”

the man who lives in the apartment in front of yours looks right back at you. you observed him often since you moved in a few weeks ago, but you never caught his name.

it’s the first time you see him out of his work suit, including the first time you see him without the black tank top he wears at the gym. his long hair is quite messy, he isn’t wearing his glasses. on top of everything, he doesn't look bothered by your position in the slightest.

“do you need any help?” the handsome man offers. funnily enough, you are confused about what he is talking about.

however, he is too beautiful for you to refuse, “uh, yeah.”

your neighbor manages to make you stand back on the floor without you noticing. you are too absorbed in staring at him to see anything else. your eyes follow him while he gets into your apartment.

from behind him, you can see how broad his shoulders actually are, bigger than you thought they were, wider than when you see them from afar while you work out. he is even taller than you thought, taller than when you watch him get into the elevator on his way home.

you follow him like it’s not where you live, standing behind him and peeking at the paper cup that you used as jail for the ugly insect.

his big figure protects you so you feel safe enough to say, “it’s in that paper cup.”

the said paper cup moves slightly and you gasp. at the sound you let out, the man’s arm raises slightly beside him in a protective gesture.

“stay behind me,” he tone is soft as he starts speaking again. “i’ll take care of it.”

you don’t know him at all. yet, seeing him walking towards the spray on the table next to the trapped cockroach makes you understand what a wife feels when she sees her husband leaving for war.

attractiveness lays in his moves, how he rolls up his sleeves, how he squats down almost nonchalantly, how he sprays the cockroach in the paper cup. everything he does makes your heartbeats go faster.

you spend most of your time admiring the beauty in front of you than anything else. your gaze lingers on his exposed forearms, on his side profile, on his fingers. your heart burst in your chest when his voice reaches you:

with a reassuring and victorious grin, “i think it’s dead.”

you stare at him in pure admiration. with more admiration than when you see him lift seventy bench at the gym. “thank you so much, uh—”

your knight in shining armor begins to come back to you with his grin still plastered on his face. “sunghoon.”

“a–ah, right!” you say in an awkward laugh. “how can i repay you?”

sunghoon stops in the middle of his way back to you to put the spray on the tabe again, “there is no need,” he chuckles, in most beautiful way you have heard. “i didn’t do much.”

you want to protest but he gets well too close for you to think straight.

“it’s going to take a while before it dies properly, though,” he continues. “and you shouldn’t stay there. because of the toxic product you know?”

you didn’t know that. still, you nod at his words.

“so..” the tall man looks like he is waiting for you to understand something, where he is going. but you don’t— maybe it’s because of the said toxic product or the otherworldly guy in front of you.

he bites his lower lip when he realizes that you are still confused. he finishes his sentence with a huge smile that showcases all his teeth, fangs included.

“do you want to come to my apartment and wait?” it must be written all over your face, how you didn’t expect this outcome in the slightest. because his smile gets wider, “we’ll come back later to see if the cockroach is really dead.”

your stomach flutters, your tongue gets tangled. being so smooth and straight forward wasn’t what you expected him to be.

it’s hard but you manage to choke out, “s–sure.”

taglist open + net— @sgz-net

[reiding-writing]

hiyaa, cold reader series is so so amazing i just read it all in one sitting again but i was wondering if you could do one where she's jealous of a woman who starts flirting with spencer on a case maybe? maybe she's pissed because it's "unprofessional" but really she's pissed because he's being flirted with

AS IT SEEMS — SPENCER REID!

a local detective seems to hang on spencer’s every word. the unprofessionalism of it all really frustrates you.

spencer x cold!reader | 3.3k | flangst | cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — is this… progression?

The flashing red-and-blue lights of the local PD’s vehicles paint shifting patterns across the asphalt as the BAU team steps onto the scene.

The air is thick with the scent of damp pavement and something acrid—gunpowder, maybe, or the lingering remnants of a nearby dumpster fire.

Officers mill about with that particular brand of tension that comes from knowing the FBI has been called in, half-relieved, half-defensive.

You take it all in quickly, the details slotting into place in your mind like a well-practiced routine. The weight of your badge clipped to your belt, the holster pressing against your hip—everything is familiar, grounding. But then she appears.

Detective Elena Foster is sharp-jawed and self-assured, the kind of woman who wears authority like a second skin. Her strides are long, purposeful, the confidence in her posture making it abundantly clear that she knows exactly how competent she is.

And she’s looking at Spencer like he’s fascinating.

You stand slightly off to the side as introductions are exchanged, arms crossed over your chest, expression unreadable. You’re practiced at this—at keeping your face neutral, your tone cool, your presence sharp enough to command respect without ever needing to raise your voice.

It’s always been easy. But right now, as Foster’s hand lingers just a little too long in Spencer’s when she shakes it, something tightens in your chest.

“Dr. Reid,” she says, eyes flicking over him with open appreciation. “I read your paper on statistical anomalies in serial offender data last year—brilliant work,”

Spencer, to his credit, looks momentarily startled. “Oh—thank you,” he says, blinking. “That was actually an extension of some previous research on—”

“That’s impressive,” she interrupts, flashing him a smile. “I’d love to pick your brain about it later, if you’ve got time,”

You watch as her fingers graze his forearm in a way that is entirely unnecessary.

He doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with processing the compliment, his mind already spinning with whatever information he had been about to share. You, on the other hand, notice everything. The deliberate lean-in, the way her voice dips just slightly when she speaks to him, the way her eyes linger.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what irritates you. Not the fact that her attention is singularly fixed on him, or that he’s being flirted with in the middle of a crime scene. Certainly not that she’s touching him when she doesn’t need to be.

It’s the principle of the matter. This is an active investigation, and Foster should be focused on the case, not Spencer’s academic credentials and whatever else has caught her interest.

Your jaw tightens as you glance toward Hotch, who doesn’t seem to care about the interaction as long as it doesn’t interfere with the briefing. Morgan, beside you, exhales a quiet chuckle under his breath, like he’s picked up on something amusing. You ignore it.

“I assume we have a body to look at?” you say, voice even.

Foster blinks at you, as if only just remembering your presence. You don’t react, don’t shift under her assessing gaze, don’t give her anything to work with. Eventually, she nods.

“Of course,” she says smoothly. “Right this way,”

She turns, and Spencer follows, already mid-sentence about some statistical deviation he had noticed in the case file. And you?

You stay exactly where you are for half a second longer than necessary, exhaling slowly through your nose before following after them.

—

You follow the team through the cordoned-off area, past uniformed officers and the murmuring press lingering at the edges, searching for scraps of information. The crime scene is up ahead—an abandoned warehouse, dimly lit and rank with the scent of stagnant water and decay. It should have your full attention.

But instead, you feel your focus splintering.

Just behind you, Spencer is still speaking, his voice carrying that familiar, eager cadence he gets when discussing something intellectually stimulating. “It’s interesting—well, not interesting in the traditional sense, given the context, but rather statistically significant—that the unsub’s victim selection aligns with a pattern previously seen in—”

“Oh, I love that you talk like that,” Foster’s voice is warm, teasing, admiring. “Most people dumb things down, but you don’t. That’s rare,”

You stiffen.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what you tell yourself as you watch the way she tilts her head slightly when he speaks, as if absorbing every syllable. As if he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. She leans in a fraction closer—just enough to make it noticeable, just enough to make your stomach twist.

It’s unprofessional, you think again, but the words don’t sit quite right in your mind anymore.

Because the truth is, you shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t be noticing the way Foster looks at him. You shouldn’t be hyper-aware of the way her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve again, so light it could almost be accidental. You shouldn’t be waiting for him to pull back, to shake off the attention like he does when social interaction becomes too much.

Except he doesn’t. He just lets it happen.

And that irritates you.

So you do what you always do when something threatens to knock you off balance—you shut it down.

“Reid.”

Your voice cuts through the air, sharper than you intended. The team stops, turning toward you. Even Foster straightens slightly, blinking at the sudden shift in tone. Spencer glances over, his expression a mixture of mild confusion and concern.

You exhale, tightening your grip on the case file in your hands. “We’re here to solve a murder,” you say, your voice even but firm. “Not to make friends.”

Foster’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t comment. Morgan, who had been watching the interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, makes a low sound in his throat—something close to a chuckle. You ignore it.

“I wasn’t aware discussing case patterns was off-limits,” Spencer says, tilting his head. His tone is neutral, but there’s a hint of something else there.

You meet his gaze, keeping your own unreadable. “It’s not,” you say. “Just keep it relevant.”

It’s not a lie. You are focused on the case. You do want to keep things professional. That’s all this is. That’s the only reason your patience is stretched thin.

Except.

Except you can still feel the ghost of Foster’s laugh curling around Spencer’s words. Except your shoulders haven’t relaxed since the moment she touched him. Except your own thoughts are turning against you, pressing in like a vice, asking the question you really don’t want to answer—

If you’re so unaffected, why do you have to convince yourself of it?

—

The investigation continues with the same steady pace, but your attention keeps wandering.

Every time you glance toward Spencer and Foster, you find her leaning in a little too close, her voice a little too sweet as she asks him to clarify some trivial detail. She’s careful—always careful—never quite crossing a line, but the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him, it grates at you.

The word “unprofessional” loops endlessly in your mind, but each time you tell yourself that, something inside you pushes back.

You’re not jealous. You just want her to focus. This is a case, for God’s sake.

But the more she smiles at him, the more he just stands there, absorbed in the conversation, oblivious to the subtle dance she’s performing, the more that uncomfortable twist in your stomach tightens. Every laugh, every overly familiar gesture, stirs something inside you that you can’t quite name.

You can feel your teeth grinding as they talk, your gaze hardening on the two of them. You’re trying to focus on the case, you’re trying to ignore the nagging irritation building in your chest, but the more they interact, the more annoyed you become.

She’s practically flirting, and Spencer isn’t doing anything about it. Or, if he is noticing, he’s pretending it doesn’t bother him.

But it bothers you. Why does it bother you?

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the evidence bag in your hand, and before you know it, you’re standing too close to them, watching as Foster tries to steer Spencer away from the group to discuss something you know is irrelevant to the case.

It’s not urgent. You know it’s not urgent. But when you hear the soft cadence of her voice inviting Spencer to join her for a “quick chat” away from the others, the words explode out of you.

“Reid.” you say sharply, the sound of his name a snap. The words feel harsh even to your own ears.

Spencer’s head jerks around, blinking at you in surprise. His lips part, but you cut him off again, your voice colder than you intended. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Foster stops mid-sentence, blinking in confusion at the sudden interruption. Her eyes flick to Spencer, and then back to you. The tension in the air thickens, but you don’t care.

You don’t care.

Except you do. And that makes it worse.

Spencer’s gaze softens as he turns back to you, the furrow in his brow deepening, something akin to concern flashing across his face. It only makes you more frustrated.

“I’m not finished yet,” Spencer protests quietly, but there’s a careful note in his voice, the kind that suggests he’s trying to be diplomatic, to avoid upsetting you.

You blink, realising you’ve taken another step too far. Your heart skips a beat at the softness in his voice, and for just a moment, you feel guilty. He’s just trying to help, trying to be professional. And yet, the only thing you can focus on is her.

You don’t let the guilt linger long. “Then stop getting distracted.” you snap, then force yourself to look away, eyes darting back to the scene as if it somehow holds your attention now. You’re already backing off, leaving the words hanging in the air.

Spencer stares at you for a beat longer than necessary, confusion and concern still flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t press it. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t question you further. Instead, he shifts back toward the group, muttering something to Morgan about a pattern in the evidence, and you hear the subtle shift in his voice—he’s letting it go.

But you don’t feel relieved.

The knot in your chest tightens again. Why did you say that? Why did you let her get to you?

You tell yourself it’s about professionalism. It’s about the case. You don’t have time for distractions, not when the clock is ticking. And you definitely don’t have time to unravel this feeling that’s spreading through you like an infection.

Spencer doesn’t argue. He doesn’t snap back at you, doesn’t give you the defensive posture that you might expect from anyone else. Instead, he does something that immediately pulls the rug out from under you.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

For a moment, the world around you blurs, the noise of the crime scene and the murmurs of the team fading into the background. It’s just Spencer’s eyes, filled with something you can’t quite place—concern, maybe, or confusion, maybe a little of both. But it’s soft. Too soft.

Your pulse spikes, and for a split second, it feels like the floor is tipping beneath you. It’s so disarming, the quiet concern in his gaze, and it makes the frustration building inside you flare even higher.

“Are you okay?”

The question is simple, unassuming, and it cracks something inside you. It’s not a challenge, not a reprimand—it’s genuine, and that’s what makes it harder to brush off.

No. You’re not okay.

You’re furious, but you can’t explain why. You’re hurt, but you can’t pinpoint the cause. You’re jealous, and the idea of admitting that to yourself is enough to send your thoughts spiraling. And all the while, Spencer’s standing there, oblivious to the storm building inside you, just waiting for your response.

You can’t look at him anymore.

“I’m fine,” you mutter quickly, not meeting his eyes. You swallow, forcing your chest to loosen, fighting the sudden weight that presses down on your shoulders.

Your words come out stiff, rehearsed, and even to your own ears, they sound like a lie. But you say them anyway. Because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn abruptly, your boots echoing on the concrete floor as you walk away, away from Spencer and away from the nagging feeling that he might see through you if you stay.

But you’re not running. You’re not hiding. You’re just… focused.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

As you round the corner, your mind keeps racing, fighting to keep everything in order. You tell yourself you don’t care about the detective’s attention.

You tell yourself it’s unprofessional, it’s inappropriate. And you tell yourself that you’ve seen it all before, that Spencer’s just being Spencer—oblivious to the subtle ways people gravitate toward him.

But none of that feels convincing anymore.

By the time you’ve reached the far side of the warehouse, your hands are trembling slightly. You push them into your pockets, trying to centre yourself. You feel the familiar coldness wrapping around you again, your professional mask sliding back into place like armour. It’s easier this way.

A sharp breath escapes your lips as you lean against the wall, your head pressed back, eyes closed for a moment. Focus.

You force yourself to take another breath. You’re here for the case. That’s all.

But as the minutes pass, the tight knot in your chest refuses to loosen, and all you can think about is the way Spencer’s face looked when he asked you that question. Are you okay?

And, just for a fleeting second, you wonder if he knows more than you think.

—

The rest of the case proceeds, but something has shifted.

There’s an undeniable tension now—both around you and within you. As you walk through the newest crime scene, examining evidence and speaking with witnesses, Spencer doesn’t give you the space you’d expected.

He stays close, hovering just behind you, always near enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence even when you’re too busy to glance at him.

He’s speaking to you more than usual, asking for your input first, even in situations where it’s clear he already has the answers. It’s as if he’s checking in with you constantly, gauging your reaction before making any decisions of his own.

The subtle shift doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Foster, who had been so eager to claim his attention earlier, is starting to back off, visibly frustrated by his sudden disinterest in her suggestions. She tries a few more times to pull him away for a “quick chat,” but Spencer doesn’t respond to her advances the way he did before.

Instead, he looks to you.

“Hey, I think we might need a second look at the victim’s phone records,” he says, voice casual but with an edge of expectation, like he already knows you’ll agree. “What do you think?”

You pause, the request startling you slightly. Spencer doesn’t usually ask for your opinion on the more technical aspects of a case, but you don’t have time to process it. The words come automatically.

“Yeah, definitely. It might give us a window into the unsub’s next move.”

Spencer nods in approval, his face softening slightly as he absorbs your response. But there’s something else there, something unspoken—a quiet acknowledgment.

He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stay close as the investigation progresses, as if he’s subtly keeping his distance from Foster without even addressing it.

You’re still frustrated—at him, at the detective, at yourself—but there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in your chest. That small part of you that feels like you’ve been seen. That he noticed.

Every time Foster attempts to direct him away from the group, Spencer brushes her off with a polite but clear, “I’ll be right with you,” his eyes flicking to you before he moves to stand closer. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you even want to acknowledge it. But it’s there—an undercurrent you can’t ignore.

Your mind still races with frustration. You can’t shake the gnawing feeling that something’s off, and you can’t decide if it’s the case, the detective, or yourself. But every time Spencer looks to you for direction, every time he positions himself just a little too close, your frustration starts to dull, replaced by something else.

He’s noticing you. He’s listening.

When the team breaks for a quick huddle to discuss their next steps, Spencer stands beside you. Not next to Morgan or Hotch, not pulling away to talk to Foster. He’s deliberately close, his shoulder just grazing yours as he flips through his notes.

“You alright?” he asks again, in that soft, concerned tone that makes you almost uncomfortable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to admit something, like he already knows there’s something you’re not saying.

You want to brush him off, to tell him to stop worrying about you, but the question catches you off guard. For a brief moment, the irritation—toward him, toward Foster, toward everything—subsides, and you're left with something unspoken hanging between you two.

"I’m fine," you mutter again, a little more convincingly this time, even though it’s not true. But you can’t find the words to explain it. Not when you’re still trying to convince yourself that none of this should matter.

Spencer doesn’t push. He just nods, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before he pulls away to engage with the team, but he keeps an eye on you, always just a little more attentive than usual.

You try to shake off the feeling that this—whatever this is—matters, but it’s hard to deny. The connection between you two is there, unspoken, and for some unknown reason you’re feeling a lot more vulnerable than usual.

And that, more than anything, is what frustrates you the most.

[toxicanonymity]

Some Landlord ! Billy smut would be Perfect, if you have time. Thanks Tox 🥺

murderbait

BILLY LOOMIS x f!READER | 2k words | The Leak WARNINGS: 18+ AU where Billy lives and is acquitted of the murders. He's now your sleazy landlord. Gratuitous slutty descriptions. masturbation in public, detailed PIV fantasy, degradation, praise, banter and bickering, light enemies to lovers dynamic, manhandling, dom Billy vibes, sexual tension, pet names, "protective" Billy. NOTES: Sure, nonnie. I offer this sleaze with love. 🖤🖤

In the middle of the night, you wake up sweaty despite being completely naked and using no covers. Without putting on any clothes, you walk to your kitchen to get a cold cup of water, only to see a stack of filled ice trays next to the sink because you forgot to put them in the freezer. Ugh.

You get a glass of water and stand in front of the fridge with the door open. The air conditioner in your window feels weaker every day. It’s so stuffy in your trailer, you wonder if you’d be better off with the window open. Still naked, you go to the kitchen window and slide it open. No matter how hard you push upward, it won’t click and stay. 

“Piece of shit,” you mutter. But the fresh air does feel good. 

Standing in the window with your arms raised, tits blazing, skin glistening…. something moves in the corner of your eye. There’s a fake security camera mounted on the shed you’re looking at. At least you always assumed it was fake, since the owners are such deadbeats. You give it the middle finger just in case, then use a pitcher to hold the window up. 

You go back to bed for a while longer, then get up and rifle through your unfolded laundry, looking for a swimsuit. You find a bikini that appears to have shrunk, but it has adjustable strings so you put it on anyway. Next door, there’s an extended stay hotel that has a pool. It has a cracked and faded slide, no longer in use, and half the rungs are dangling from the pool ladders. It won’t be the first time you’ve snuck in there. No one seems to care, and no one’s going to be out at this hour anyway. 

The pool water is normally warm by sunset, but in the middle of the night, it’s cooled off enough. A weakly-inflated flamingo pool float sits atop the water, and a couple of pool noodles hug the wall. Half the pool lights are working. There’s no way this would pass an inspection, but sometimes it feels like barely anyone outside the area knows it exists.

You sit on the side of the pool, and as you lower yourself into the water, you look down to see your hard nipples barely contained by the shrunken, unlined triangle top, with some areola showing on one breast. The sight of your own slutty fit turns you on, and you don’t fix it. 

Kicking your legs out in front of you, you imagine Billy joining you. Billy and his dirty wifebeaters and trucker hats and jeans that fit too well. Billy and his slutty fucking selfies that you can’t stop looking at every night. Billy, and that look in his eyes like he could eat you up, if only he were hungry. 

He’d be hungry right now, you bet. You turn to your side and use both feet to grab a pool noodle, letting yourself off the wall as you mount it. Straddling the  pool noodle, you turn toward the wall and rest your forearms on the side and squeeze your thighs together. 

Closing your eyes and resting your head, you fantasize about him. He’s a low-life and a sleaze, and god he makes it hot. The way he moves, it shouldn’t be hot at all, but you’ve been watching him closer ever since he sent those selfies, and when scratches his lower belly, lifting up his tank top, exposing his happy trail, at this point it drives you fucking crazy. Like that’s where you need your forehead. You tilt your hips for more pressure from the foam between your legs. 

There’s not a single thing about him that says he’s a better guy than you thought, but maybe he is. Or more likely, you don’t care. Or, perhaps most likely, you kinda like him bad. 

He’s not the kind of man you’d want in your life, but in your bed? 

It’s so easy to picture his silhouette at the foot of your bed, scratching himself, then lewdly grabbing the massive bulge in his jeans. 

Your hips begin to move on their own, seeking friction with the foam noodle. 

You can see him kneeling onto your mattress, prowling toward you, arms flexing, chains hanging down from his neck, dangling in the air–god if you could feel those hit your skin. You can feel him grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand, while he unbuttons his jeans with the other. 

You reach down and slide the pool noodle against your front, grinding your hips. 

He’d probably lean in real close, say something cocky like, “you ready for this?”  Ugh, his voice. With his dick in his hand. “Think ya can take it?”  Yes, yes, please. He drops his thick meat heavily against your mound. Yes, please. God, please, you’d be squirming under him, wrists pinned by his hand, lifting your hips desperately.  “Sure ya can handle this big cock?”

Fuck. It’s so clear, you can practically smell him. Your whole cunt throbs and you’re gushing in your bikini bottoms. “Mm,” you quietly hum as you get closer. 

He’d shove himself into you, you’d arch your back and moan. He’d chuckle darkly, then his free hand would come to your jaw, dwarfing your face as he uses just two fingers and a thumb to squeeze your mouth open. The smell of cigarettes intensifies as his face hovers over yours, then he spits in your mouth. And he stays there, bottomed out, and you’ve never felt so full but you need the friction, you need him to move so bad, you need him to fuck you, you beg him to fuck you, really fuck you. “Yeah? Need me to fuck you?” God, yes. 

“Mm,” your face screws up. You're so wet, and your clit twitches as you rub the front of your swimsuit with the foam cylinder you're straddling.

You can practically hear him say, “Poor baby.” He’s got half a smile, amused and in control. “Yeah I'll give it to ya,” he begins to slowly retreat, pauses with his cock half-withdrawn and lowers his pitch. “Who’s your daddy?”

The tension snaps and your lips part as you see stars. 

Squeezing your thighs tight around the pool noodle, you ride it out, cumming to the thought of his girth stretching you with his gold chains dangling over you, hips beginning to move, jeans sitting loosely around his hips. 

You weren’t planning on doing that, but, there you are, coming down off that high in the motel pool, in your shrunken bikini, skin buzzing, so tired and peaceful you could fall asleep. 

And then metal scrapes against concrete, stirring you from your blissed out state. 

A shadow moves.

His deep voice at a low volume, with that edge of condescension: "All done?”

Your stomach drops. You almost don’t want to look up, but you do. It’s his silhouette, manspreading in a worn-out chair, with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. The shadow of his stupid trucker hat hides his face. You let go of the pool noodle and try to subtly push it away, obviously too late. Frozen, heart racing, you’re standing with your chest above water. 

“What are you doing here?” you demand. 

“Don’t worry, I’m on my way out.” He stands up and stretches, revealing his happy trail. He twists in another stretch and god, his silhouette - his jeans bulging, clearly aroused. “An' so are you, c’mon.” 

“I’m still cooling off,” you protest. 

“I’ll bet.”  He drops his cigarette into his can of beer and carries it with him as he approaches the pool with his face still in the shadow of his hat. Light reflects off his gold chains. 

You make a fake effort to adjust your top and can’t take your eyes off his jeans. He adjusts himself and stands there giving you a moment. 

Then he loses patience and says, “Alright, sugartits. Let’s go.” 

He squats down and grabs you by the arm. 

“Hey,” you protest as he starts to manhandle you toward the shallow stairs. “Alright, alright. Damn”

When you’re out of the pool, he looks you up and down. You feel like covering yourself up, but you defiantly stand with your hands on your hips. 

“Tryin’ to turn tricks out here?” He slowly steps toward you and his eyes are glued to your chest. “Good place to do it….prolly make a few hooker friends too.” 

“How many of’em have you fucked?” you retort. 

He ignores the question and reaches for your chest. 

Without blocking his hand, you look down and part of your nipple is showing again. He “fixes” your suit, tugging it over and thumbing your nipple while he’s at it. It covers your areola but leaves underboob. 

“There ya go.” 

He puts a toothpick in his mouth and motions for you to lead the way. 

As you exit the pool area dripping wet, you mention, “If you’re gonna spy on me, you could bring me a towel next time.” 

“Yeah, okay,” He mumbles with the toothpick at the corner of his mouth. “Just lookin’ out for ya’s all.” 

“I don’t remember asking you to.”

He pulls the tab off his beer can and it replaces the cigarette that had been between his fingers. He throws the can into a bush.

As you reach the trailer park property line, he throws his toothpick into the shrubs and lowers his voice. “Listen sugar, there’s some shady fuckin’ characters over there.” 

You scoff. “Apparently so.” you shoot him a look and can’t help but check him out while you’re at it. A harsh floodlight highlights the freckles on his big, tan shoulders. 

He keeps on, “You tryin’ to get stabbed?” 

“What?”

“Dumb as hell, sneakin’ over there, middle’a the night.” 

Somehow, this makes you feel stupid. Like if he’s calling someone dumb... Damn. 

You walk the rest of the way to your trailer in silence with him following slightly behind you. 

“Lemme guess, ya left it unlocked, too,” he mutters, then opens your door himself. “Fuckin’ murderbait over here,” he grumbles.

He stands with his back to the open door and waits, making your body brush his as you walk in. 

Full body goosebumps. 

He stands there looking at you, and you eye his pants. Slowly, he steps into your personal space, and you back up almost to the nearest wall, but not against it. There, you stop. Letting him close. With his hand on the wall, he effectively traps you, blocking you from going any further into your trailer.

The smell of Newports fills your nostrils. He wets his lips and looks from your eyes to your chest, then  your mouth. 

He brings his nose to your neck and barely grazes you as he takes a long sniff. His nose brushes your cheek, and his lips follow. Just above a whisper, he warns, “Don’t do it again.” 

When you don’t answer, he pulls back and his hand comes to your neck. He’s gentle, not applying any pressure, but the presence of his large, strong hand is enough to feel like a threat. One that makes you more turned on than scared. “Got it?” he asks, looking at your mouth. Can’t be sure if he’s talking about going over there alone or leaving your trailer unlocked, and it doesn’t really matter. His eyes are wild, and it’s like he’s inspecting you, marveling at your face. 

You whisper, “Yes sir,” and await his next move. 

He takes his hand from your neck and cups your cheek to whisper, “Good girl.” 

You could actually melt.

He gives your chest another look and drops his hand, incidentally brushing his wrist against your breast before he pulls up his jeans. He bites the aluminum tab and turns to leave without another word. As he walks away, your eyes are drawn to a glock sticking out of the back of his pants. 

He looks back at you and winks before shutting the door behind himself.  

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Thank you for reading! I appreciate your interest and engagement with him so much.

Please take care of yourselves ♥️